They stumbled out of the forest at last, tripping over roots and each other, and landed on a dirt pathway. And—oh, look at that, a village just happened to be sitting right there in plain view. Convenient, isn't it?
Now, technically, it took them four days to get here. Four days of trudging through endless trees, camping on damp ground, and arguing over who got the driest blanket. Four days of Bran insisting he knew the way, Tomas swearing the map was upside down, and Sylvie threatening to throw the map into the fire if they didn't stop bickering. But let's be honest,who wants to hear about nine kids dragging their feet through the woods for four days straight? Not me. Too dull. So yes, four days happened. Let's all nod politely, shrug, and move on.
Anyway, back to the good part.
The village stood ahead, roofs of timber and stone leaning together like gossiping neighbors. But it was strangely silent no chatter, no singing, no laughter spilling from doorways. Chickens strutted in the distance, and somewhere a dog barked, but the sound only made the quiet heavier. To the children, though, it was paradise. After days of mist and pine needles, the sight of cottages and houses felt like stumbling into a dream.
Corin, the youngest, was the first to react. With honey‑brown eyes, equally brown hair, and skin as dark and beautiful as the night sky, he stood at a proud four‑foot‑two. He let out a dramatic sigh, clutching his chest as though he'd just survived a war. "My legs!" he whined, collapsing onto the dirt path like a tragic hero in a play no one asked to see.
The others groaned. Elara muttered that he was "worse than the mosquitoes," Liora nudged him with her foot, and Mika snorted, because honestly, Corin's theatrics were the only entertainment they'd had in days. Josh just shook his head, too tired to argue, while Ryan lingered at the back, his eyes still scanning the treeline as if the forest might reach out and drag them back.
Relief flickered in their eyes all the same. A village meant food, shelter, maybe even a bed. And for nine ragged children who had lived too long in the shadows of the forest, that was enough to make the world feel brighter.
Now wait a minute. Bran? Tomas? Sylvie? Who are these random people suddenly popping up like mushrooms after rain? And what about Josh or even Mikado, what do they look like? I know, I know, I should've described them earlier. My mistake. But hey, better late than never, right?
Ryan was the oldest fifteen, tall and lean, with dark hair that insisted on falling into his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. The ruby necklace at his chest caught the light, as much a part of him as his wary gaze. Protective, reluctant, but everyone looked to him anyway.
Josh came next at fourteen. Broad‑shouldered but still boyish, sandy hair sticking up like he'd just lost a fight with the wind, freckles scattered across his nose. He was the steady one, the worrier, the kind of kid who tried to keep everyone alive even when he was bone‑tired himself.
Mikado or Mika to the rest,had just turned twelve few days ago . Slim, wiry, sharp black hair, and a scar at his eyebrow that he wore like a badge of honor. His grin said he was always planning something, and honestly, he probably was. Stubborn, mischievous, but hopeful in a way that kept the others going.
Bran was ten, wiry and restless, hair permanently messy and a grin permanently suspicious. Curious to a fault, impulsive enough to ask the questions no one else dared,usually at the worst possible time.
Tomas, eleven, was stocky, cropped hair, and a scowl that hid a soft heart. Stubborn and brave, forever trying to act older than he was, which mostly just made him bossy and occasionally ridiculous.
Sylvie was eight, pale and quiet, with wide eyes that noticed everything. She hid half her face behind her sleeve, shy as can be, but sharp as a blade when it counted. She was the one who spotted danger before anyone else did.
Elara, ten, was sharp‑eyed and thoughtful, her long dark braid swinging behind her. Her memory was like steel,she remembered details everyone else forgot, and she never let you forget that she remembered them.
Liora, nine, was gentle and warm, with soft brown eyes and a habit of clinging to scraps or trinkets like treasures. Protective and nurturing, she was the quiet comfort of the group, the one who made survival feel a little less harsh.
And finally, Corin. Seven years old, honey‑brown eyes, equally brown hair, and skin dark as the night sky. Dramatic, theatrical, the youngest spark of life and the one who collapsed in the dirt just for attention.
Now, back to the village.