The first blush of dawn had not yet fully penetrated the thick forest canopy, leaving the small, secluded spring bathed in a cool, emerald gloom. A narrow beam of sunlight, like a focused spear, occasionally pierced the leaves, illuminating motes of dust and moisture that danced above the water.
Dorian, still thick with the dust and grit of a grueling journey, waded into the spring. The water, fed by subterranean ice melt, delivered a brutal shock that stole his breath, but he welcomed the numbing cold. He needed to feel clean again—to strip away the physical evidence of the hardship he'd endured since leaving velmora via sewerage duct.
He set his clothes—a finely woven, though now travel-stained, linen tunic, sturdy breeches, and a worn leather belt—on a large, flat slab of granite near the water's edge. His black leather boots were still stiff and unyielding, showing their quality, sat beside them.
Dorian plunged his head under, resurfacing with a gasp. He retrieved a small, hard cake of scented soap—a ridiculous luxury to carry on a dangerous road, yet one he couldn't bear to leave behind—and began the scrubbing process. He rubbed his skin with a fierce, almost punishing intensity, determined to eradicate every speck of human and animal waste . The rhythmic, splashing sound of his vigorous cleansing filled the silent clearing.
It was this single-minded focus—the nobleman's fastidious obsession with hygiene overriding his instincts for caution—that caused him to miss the subtle signs. He failed to notice the near-imperceptible rustle of the surrounding ferns, the unnatural stillness of the birds, or the light footfalls that weren't the crunch of his own heavy boots.
A figure emerged from the dense tangle of hazel and elderwood bordering the spring. It was a boy, small and wiry, perhaps ten or eleven years old, his skin the color of dried earth and his eyes wide and quick like a startled deer. The child moved with the fluid, silent grace of a seasoned scavenger.
The boy crept up to the rock where Dorian's garments lay. His small hands, surprisingly deft, bundled the expensive, water-heavy fabrics into a messy, awkward sack.
It was the faintest whisper of movement, a shallow draft of air hitting his bare back, that finally snapped Dorian out of his cleaning trance. He spun around, scattering water droplets like diamonds.
"Hey!" Dorian shouted, but the word was already too late.
The boy, clutching the stolen bundle, didn't hesitate. He shot toward the tree line, a blur of brown and gray against the dappled light. He was astonishingly quick, his slight frame allowing him to dart between the massive, moss-covered oaks and vanish into the undergrowth in the time it took Dorian's brain to register the disaster. It was as if the forest had simply swallowed him whole.
"Come back here, you little thief!"
Panic, hot and immediate, flooded Dorian's chest. His clothes! Everything he owned was in that bundle: his meager supply of coins, his identification papers—the very last threads of his social standing and protection.
He scrambled, leaping out of the spring. The polished, mossy stones beneath his feet offered no traction, and he slipped, his knees slamming painfully against the granite. He ignored the burning pain, adrenaline surging. He burst into a clumsy, half-naked run toward the spot where the boy had disappeared.
His feet, accustomed to fine leather and carpets, were scraped and tender on the rough forest floor. He was a nobleman suddenly reduced to a comical, desperate fugitive. The sight of himself, a man of six-foot-three, slick with water and chasing after a child in nothing but his sodden linen undergarments, only amplified his mortification.
He followed the faint, broken trail of leaves for perhaps fifty yards, then stopped abruptly, panting. The path had simply dissolved. The boy had either scaled a tree or ducked into a burrow—there was no broken branch, no footprint, no discernible sign of passage. The air hummed with the indifference of the woods.
Frustration was a physical knot in his throat. Dorian turned slowly, scanning the trees, half-expecting the imp to pop out and mock him. Silence. Only the gentle, persistent drip of water from the leaves.
Defeated, Dorian returned to the spring. He found the same granite slab and sat down, pulling his long, lean legs up to his chest. His heart hammered not from exertion, but from the sudden, profound sense of helplessness.
This is how it begins, he thought, the shame a hotter wash than the spring water had been cold. The journey that was supposed to redefine me,my journey to revenge , has started with me being outsmarted and stripped bare by a ten-year-old beggar.
He was Dorian Vexhall. He was supposed to be clever, resourceful, and destined for greatness. Yet here he was, shivering on a cold rock, clad in nothing but wet drawers, miles from civilization. Was this a sign? A cruel omen that luck—the most important currency in any great venture—had abandoned him?
He sat there for a long time. The morning crawled by. The sun, finally breaking through the high canopy, became warm and insistent on his skin. He couldn't move. The sheer risk of walking onto a public road, exposed and vulnerable, was unthinkable. Any traveler would assume he was a lunatic, a runaway servant, or worse, a vagrant.
The silence of the woods, initially restful, now felt oppressive and judgmental. He needed to think, but his thoughts were a frantic, circular panic: What if the boy sells the garments? What if I catch a chill? What if a wolf—or a worse kind of magical beast—wanders by?
It was a couple of hours past noon when the silence was finally broken. A distinct, dry rustle of leaves, heavier than the wind or a foraging animal, pulled Dorian's attention taut. Then, the definite snap of a dead branch under a heavy tread.
Instinct, sharpened by fear and a sudden rush of self-preservation, took over. Dorian sprang from the rock, abandoning his contemplation. He dashed, low and quick, behind the massive, ancient trunk of a colossal black oak—a tree so wide his body was easily swallowed by its shadow. He held his breath, straining to hear over the rapid thump of his own pulse.
From the tree line, near the opposite side of the spring, emerged a young man.
He was undeniably a traveler, and a tough one at that. He was younger than Dorian, maybe nineteen or barely into his twenties. His physique was lean but tightly strung, built not for showy strength but for endurance and quick, explosive action—the muscles refined and visible beneath the fabric of his clothes. His hair was a dirt-blonde, cut short and practical, framing a clean-shaven, rugged face that looked like it had seen more seasons than his years suggested.
He was dressed for function: a simple, dusty gray shirt, black leather pants that looked well-worn but meticulously maintained, and practical, lace-up black boots. Slung across his back was a substantial, shapeless pack, suggesting he was carrying supplies, perhaps a fortnight's worth.
The man walked straight to the stream's edge. Without pausing to scan the perimeter—a fact Dorian noted with a rising suspicion—he crouched, producing a battered metal canteen from his belt. He focused intently on filling it, the slight gurgle of the water the only sound.
Dorian realized this was his one chance. The man was alone, and he was momentarily distracted. He could not afford to let this opportunity for clothes and a guide pass.
"Hello," Dorian announced, stepping out abruptly from behind the tree.
The reaction was instantaneous and terrifying.
Whoosh!
The stranger didn't rise. He didn't turn his head. His right arm simply moved with the devastating efficiency of a striking viper. A dagger—a broad-bladed fighting knife with a dark, non-reflective hilt—appeared from a concealed sheath in his belt, the blade aimed low, directly at Dorian's midsection. He rose from his crouch in a single, fluid motion, his feet shoulder-width apart, his body a coiled spring in a perfect, lethal battle stance. His eyes, a cool, pale gray, were hard and devoid of emotion, fixed solely on Dorian.
"Whoa, hold on! I mean you no harm," Dorian yelped, raising his hands in a gesture of absolute surrender. His voice, usually smooth and authoritative, was thin with fear. He instinctively shuffled backward, stumbling slightly over a root.
The dagger did not waver. "What do you want?" the man's voice was low, gravelly, and entirely without inflection. It sounded like the kind of voice that offered only one warning.
"I… I just need your help," Dorian managed, the admission of need bitter on his tongue.
The man studied him. He took in the bare chest, the expensive but wet undergarments, the panicked and undignified posture. He was clearly not an armed bandit, nor was he the kind of man who traveled this road to steal. A flicker of something—not pity, but perhaps simple, weary comprehension—crossed the stranger's face. He slowly lowered the dagger, though he kept it held firmly at his side, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. He did not sheath it. The stance remained one of battle readiness.
"My clothes were stolen," Dorian confessed, the humiliation of the truth causing a rush of crimson to his cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. "By a small boy. A little thief. Everything I had."
"Why should I help a half-naked fool who can't watch his own gear?" the man asked, his skepticism clear, his eyes narrowed.
Dorian knew this was the critical moment. His fate rested on the next few sentences. He needed more than sympathy; he needed leverage. His noble lineage, usually a burden, was now his only weapon. His mind went into overdrive, weaving a tale that was just plausible enough to overcome the man's caution.
"My name is Dorian Vexhall, of the Vexhall family," he stated, trying to infuse his voice with the authority he'd learned in the drawing rooms of the capital. He made sure to stress the name, knowing its import in the regional trade guilds. "I was on a study trip with two of my family guards when we were attached by bandits just two days' ride from here. They… they sacrificed their lives to ensure my escape. I came through the woods, barely escaping with my life, and this morning, I was set upon by a child."
He paused, letting the fabricated loss of the guards settle in—a noble house would certainly pay for that.
"If you help me reach Tide's Reach," he continued, naming the port city near the Sylvandor border, "you will be rewarded. Handsomely. My family will reward you with so much gold that you won't need to work or travel again. You won't know what to do with it all." He used the hyperbole deliberately, hoping to appeal to any underlying greed or desperation.
The man didn't respond immediately. Instead, he subjected Dorian to a slow, methodical appraisal, a professional inventory.
His eyes lingered on Dorian's upper body—the soft, pale skin that had clearly never been exposed to prolonged labor, the absence of hardened muscles, save for the slight, cultivated definition of a man who fenced indoors. Then, Kael's gaze dropped to Dorian's hands. They were smooth, the fingers long and slender, utterly devoid of the blisters, callouses, or scars that marked a man who had labored a day in the field, sailed a ship, or even handled a real weapon for long. Finally, he looked at Dorian's face: delicate features, a high, intellectual brow, and the refined appearance of someone who had spent most of his life indoors, sheltered from the elements.
The story of the Vexhall family was true, or at least the part about being from a noble family. The truth was written all over Dorian's pampered skin and terrified demeanor. He was an untrained lamb lost in the wilderness.
A low, reluctant sigh escaped the man's lips. He finally sheathed the dagger, the snick of the metal a chilling sound in the quiet woods.
Without a single word, the man shifted his heavy pack off his shoulders and set it on the ground. He knelt and rummaged inside, eventually pulling out a bundle of clothes. They were practical, but clean: a pair of well-worn, sturdy brown leather breeches, a long-sleeved shirt dyed a deep, plain blue, and a pair of black leather boots, identical in style to his own, but clearly a spare set.
He stood up and wordlessly handed the clothing to Dorian. "Put them on," he ordered, his eyes flickering briefly to the surrounding woods as if to ensure no other children were lurking. "You'll owe me for the trouble. And the gear."
Dorian was too relieved to argue. The clothes were a salvation. He quickly stripped off his wet undergarments and pulled on the dry, if slightly coarse, garments. The relief was immediate. The stranger had been right; they were near the same height, and at six-foot-three, the fit was surprisingly good—the long sleeves reaching his wrists, the pants settling comfortably around his waist. He stamped his feet into the boots, feeling solid and secure for the first time that day. The simple act of being clothed restored a vital layer of dignity.
"Thank you," Dorian said, feeling the weight of the debt instantly. He cleared his throat, pushing his recent humiliation aside. "And what might be your name?"
"Kael," the man answered, his gray eyes cold and assessing as he watched Dorian's every move. He did not offer a surname, nor did he offer a hand. He simply waited, his posture indicating he had done his part and expected Dorian to quickly do his.
"Kael," Dorian repeated, allowing himself a small, nervous smile. "Well, Kael, I believe we have an arrangement. Tide's Reach is where we're headed. Do you know the way?"
Kael picked up his heavy pack and swung it onto his back with effortless ease. He glanced back at the spring, then into the direction they would travel.
"Follow me then," Kael said flatly. "But we move now. The road from here to Tide's Reach is faster than these woods, but it's not empty, especially this close to the border. And you'll need to learn to walk faster than you talk, Vexhall."
He didn't wait for a response, simply turning and walking toward the northern bank of the spring, heading deeper into the trees to avoid the main road for now. Dorian, feeling clumsy and out of place in the rugged leather, hurried to follow the man who had just saved his journey, knowing their alliance was born purely out of pragmatism and that the reward promised to Kael would have to be very, very large indeed.