A year had passed since the Council’s judgment, since the hammer fell, since the door slammed shut on everything Voron had ever known. Over three hundred and sixty days of survival that felt more like slow drowning than living. The Sylvarinian Wilds—those silver-canopied halls where he had once walked as nobility—were now forbidden to him, a paradise lost behind an invisible wall of shame. So he had drifted westward through the Thanian forests, as her father had suggested, until he reached the Wyldhart.

The Wyldhart was not the grand capital its name might suggest to outsiders. It was a smaller nation, one of dozens scattered throughout the Eastern Thanian territories of the Imperial Union, where the forest began to thin and give way to rolling farmland. Here, the trees were not silver but ordinary oak and elm, their leaves a common green that held no magic, no memory. The buildings were timber and stone rather than the living wood architecture of the Sylvarinian Wilds, and the people—mostly human, with a scattering of other races—moved through their days with a practical indifference that was both alienating and, in its own way, merciful.

No one here knew who he had been. No one recognized the particular style of his mutilation or understood the specific runes carved into his antler stumps. To them, he was simply another unfortunate, another body among the poor and displaced who gathered in the city's lower quarters. And perhaps that anonymity should have been a comfort.

It wasn't.

The pain had not diminished with time. If anything, it had calcified, becoming a permanent weight he carried in his chest, in his shoulders, in the phantom ache where his antlers once crowned him. Every morning, he woke to the same disorienting moment of forgetting, followed by the crushing remembrance. Every reflective surface became an enemy, showing him the truth he could never escape: the jagged stumps, the clipped ears, the runes that named him thief in the old Sylvarin script.

He had survived this year through a patchwork of desperate measures. In the beginning, he had foraged in the wilds as his people had taught him—identifying edible roots, tracking small game, finding clean water. The skills that had once been gentleman's knowledge, the refined understanding of nature that marked Sylvarin nobility, had become the thin thread keeping him from starvation. But foraging could only sustain him so far, especially as autumn turned to winter, and winter to spring, and spring to summer again.

The commonfolk had occasionally taken pity on him. A baker's wife who left day-old bread on her back step where he might find it. A farmer who allowed him to sleep in his barn during a particularly vicious storm, asking no questions about the broken antlers or mutilated ears. A tavern keeper who sometimes set aside scraps from the kitchen, bones with a bit of meat still clinging to them, vegetable peelings that hadn't quite gone bad. These small mercies had kept him alive, but they had also taught him a bitter lesson about charity: it was always conditional, always temporary, always given with the understanding that he would move along soon and not become anyone's permanent problem.

He had tried to find work, of course. In those first months, before hunger had hollowed his cheeks and desperation had dulled his eyes, he had approached merchants and craftsmen, offering his labor. But the clipped ears and broken antlers told a story that needed no words, and the runes—even to those who couldn't read them—clearly marked him as someone who had been judged and found wanting by his own people. Why would a human merchant trust someone the Sylvarin themselves had cast out? Why would a craftsman take on an apprentice who bore the physical marks of dishonor?

The rejections had been swift and often cruel. Some had simply turned him away with a shake of the head. Others had been more explicit in their disgust, calling him "marked one" or "ruined" or, most cutting of all, "thief"—because even those who couldn't read Sylvarin runes could recognize the symbol for theft when they saw it burned into bone.

So he had learned to make himself small, to move through the city like a ghost, to take up as little space as possible. He slept in alleys and abandoned buildings, always moving before he could be rousted by the city guard. He learned which merchants were careless with their goods, which market stalls had blind spots, which taverns threw out food that was still edible. He learned the rhythms of the city, the patterns of its people, the invisible rules that governed life at the bottom.

And he learned to hate himself a little more each day.

Because the worst part—the part that gnawed at him in the dark hours before dawn—was that he was innocent. He had not committed the theft they accused him of. He had not betrayed his people's trust. The evidence had been fabricated, the witnesses either mistaken or malicious, the Council's judgment rushed and politically motivated. He had tried to defend himself, had pleaded his case, had begged them to investigate further. But the decision had already been made before he was dragged before them. Someone had wanted him destroyed, and they had succeeded.

He didn't know who. He didn't know why. And that ignorance was its own special torture.

Sana's face haunted him. Not the warm, loving face he had known in their courtship, but that final cold stare from the stairs, the way her eyes had traced his mutilation with something that looked almost like satisfaction. Had she known? Had she been part of it? Or had her love simply been so shallow that it couldn't survive the loss of his status? He would never know, and not knowing was a wound that wouldn't heal.

The summer heat had settled over the Wyldhart like a heavy blanket, making the lower quarters—always rank with the smell of too many people living too close together—nearly unbearable. Voron had been moving through the market district as the afternoon sun began its descent, his stomach a tight knot of hunger. He hadn't eaten in two days, not since a sympathetic cook had given him half a meat pie that was starting to turn. The hunger was a constant companion now, a gnawing presence that made it hard to think clearly, hard to remember why he kept going.

He found himself standing outside a clothier's shop, staring through the wavy glass at the goods displayed within. Fine fabrics, well-made garments, the kind of quality that spoke of wealth and status. The kind of things he had once worn without thought, when he was someone who mattered. The shop was busy, the proprietor and his assistant occupied with customers, their attention focused inward.

And there, just inside the doorway, was a small display of leather goods—belts, pouches, small accessories. The kind of items that could be easily sold, that would fetch enough coin for a proper meal, maybe even a room for the night. The kind of items that a desperate person might take if they were hungry enough, if they had been pushed far enough, if they had nothing left to lose.

Voron's hand moved toward the door handle almost of its own accord. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming shallow and quick. It would be so easy. Just slip inside during the commotion, palm one of the smaller pouches, walk out as if he belonged there. He had watched enough thieves work the market to know the basic techniques. And what did he have to fear? He was already marked as a thief. He was already ruined. What was one more crime added to a false accusation?

His fingers touched the cool metal of the door handle.

And then he caught sight of his reflection in the glass.

The figure staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. Gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, clothes that were little more than rags. But it was the antlers—the broken, jagged stumps—that drew his gaze and held it. And there, carved into the bone with cruel precision, the runes that named him thief. The symbols seemed to burn in the afternoon light, a permanent accusation, a prophecy he was about to fulfill.

They called you a thief when you were innocent, a voice whispered in his mind. Will you prove them right now? Will you become what they named you?

His hand fell away from the door handle as if it had burned him.

He staggered backward, nearly colliding with a passing merchant, and pressed himself against the wall of the adjacent building. His breath came in ragged gasps, his whole body trembling with the nearness of the thing he had almost done. The hunger was still there, the desperation still clawed at him, but something else had risen up to meet it—a stubborn, aching refusal to surrender the last shred of who he had been.

They had taken his antlers, his ears, his status, his home, his betrothed, his future. They had taken everything except the truth of his innocence. And if he stole now, if he became what they had falsely named him, then they would have taken that too. They would have won completely.

"I am not a thief," he whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the noise of the market. "I am not what they say I am."

It was a small defiance, a tiny rebellion against the weight of the runes burned into his bone. But it was all he had left.

He didn't notice the figure watching him from across the street.

The man stood in the shadow of an awning, his features obscured by a deep hood despite the summer heat. He had been there for some time, observing with the patient stillness of a predator studying potential prey. He had watched Voron approach the shop, had seen the hunger and desperation in every line of his body, had recognized the moment of decision. And he had seen the moment of refusal, the way the young Sylvarin had pulled back from the edge, had chosen honor over survival.

Interesting.

The hooded figure melted back into the crowd, but he did not leave. He simply repositioned himself, finding new vantage points from which to observe. Because this broken, starving boy with the mutilated antlers and the carved runes had just done something unexpected. He had chosen principle over pragmatism. And that was either the mark of a fool or something far more valuable.

The man intended to find out which.

For three days, Voron felt the weight of eyes upon him.

It was a subtle thing at first, easy to dismiss as paranoia born of hunger and exhaustion. A prickling at the back of his neck as he moved through the market. A sense of presence that vanished whenever he turned to look. The feeling of being studied, assessed, measured against some unknown standard.

By the second day, he was certain. Someone was following him.

His Sylvarin senses, dulled by malnutrition and despair, still retained enough of their natural acuity to detect the pattern. The same hooded figure, always at a distance, always careful to remain in his peripheral vision rather than direct line of sight. Whoever it was, they were skilled at surveillance, moving with a practiced ease that spoke of experience. But they weren't trying very hard to remain completely hidden, which suggested they didn't particularly care if Voron knew he was being watched.

The question was why.

Voron's first instinct was fear. Had the Council sent someone to finish what they'd started? Were they not content with exile and mutilation—did they want him dead as well? But that made no sense. If they wanted him killed, they would have done it a year ago. And besides, this didn't feel like an assassin's surveillance. There was something almost... curious about it, as if the watcher were trying to understand him rather than simply waiting for the right moment to strike.

On the third day, as the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the narrow streets of the lower quarter, Voron made a decision. He was tired of being watched, tired of the uncertainty, tired of feeling like prey. If someone wanted something from him, they could damn well ask directly.

He had been making his way toward one of his usual spots—an alley behind a tavern where the kitchen staff sometimes left scraps—when he stopped abruptly and turned to face the direction he knew the watcher would be. For a moment, there was nothing, just the normal flow of people going about their business. Then the crowd parted slightly, and the hooded figure stepped forward, no longer bothering to conceal his presence.

They stood there for a long moment, separated by perhaps twenty steps of dusty street, studying each other. Voron's hand instinctively moved to where his antlers once were, a defensive gesture he'd developed over the past year. The hooded figure remained still, patient, waiting.

Finally, the figure moved. With deliberate slowness, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

The man revealed was perhaps in his mid-forties, though he carried himself with the vigor of someone younger. What struck Voron immediately was his coloring—bright red hair, almost flame-like in the afternoon sun, and deep blue eyes that seemed to hold both intelligence and something harder, more calculating. These were the typical features of Obroians, those from the Far Southern Imperial Obros at the southern part of the Aundrossar Continent. Voron had seen few Obroians in his life; they rarely traveled this far north, and their empire was known more through reputation than direct contact.

The man's face was weathered but handsome, with the kind of lines that suggested a life of both laughter and hardship. He wore clothes that were well-made but not ostentatious, the kind that allowed him to move through different social circles without drawing undue attention. There was a sword at his hip, worn with the casual ease of someone who knew how to use it, and his hands—when he clasped them in front of him—bore the calluses of a man familiar with violence.

But it was his eyes that held Voron's attention. They were assessing, yes, but not cruel. There was a sharpness there, an intelligence that seemed to be constantly calculating, but also something that might have been sympathy. Or perhaps just professional interest.

The man smiled, and when he spoke, his voice carried the melodic accent of the southern empire, each word precisely enunciated in a way that marked him as educated despite the roughness of his appearance.

"Hey, boy?" he said, his tone almost conversational. "Are you tired of eating garbage and scraps?"

The question was so direct, so casually brutal in its honesty, that Voron actually flinched. For a moment, he couldn't find words. This stranger had been watching him for three days, had seen him at his lowest, had witnessed his desperate scavenging and his near-theft and his daily humiliation. And now he stood there, smiling slightly, as if they were old acquaintances meeting for a drink rather than a broken exile and his mysterious stalker.

"Who are you?" Voron managed finally, his voice rough from disuse. He didn't speak much these days; there was rarely anyone to speak to.