The forest settled back into silence.
The old man stood at the edge of the clearing, looking down at the unconscious boy. For a moment, he said nothing—just watched, as if deciding whether the situation in front of him was worth the inconvenience.
Then he glanced aside and bent down, picking up the small device he had dropped earlier.
The screen flickered faintly when he tapped it.
Paused.
Mid-scene.
He stared at it for a second, then exhaled through his nose.
"…Didn't even get to see if he managed to help her out of that situation."
A pause.
"…Troublesome."
With a small flick of his thumb, he turned it off and slipped it back into his robe.
His attention returned to the boy.
Unmoving.
Thin. Covered in dirt and dried blood. Wrapped in torn cloth and crude hides. His chest rose faintly—barely noticeable.
The old man watched him for another moment.
Then sighed.
"…Troublesome."
He crouched and pressed two fingers into the boy's shoulder.
No response.
He pressed harder.
Still nothing.
"…Alive."
A pause.
"…That's more troublesome."
He straightened and glanced toward the forest line. Nothing stirred. No predators drawn by the scent of blood. No scavengers bold enough to approach.
Too quiet.
"…Tch."
He turned.
Took a step.
Stopped.
Behind him, the boy did not move.
Did not call.
Did not shift.
Just lay there—like something already abandoned.
The old man exhaled slowly.
"…Too young."
Silence lingered.
"…Troublesome."
He turned back.
With a quiet grunt, he lifted the boy over his shoulder. Light. Too light.
"…You'd be less trouble if you were dead," he muttered.
But he carried him anyway.
---
The forest dimmed as night slowly took hold.
He walked without urgency, following a path that wasn't visible but clearly known to him. Eventually, the trees thinned just enough to open into a small rocky outcrop.
He dropped the boy onto the ground without ceremony.
"…Stay alive or don't," he muttered.
"…Same difference."
Dry wood was gathered. A fire sparked to life.
Flames rose.
Night settled.
---
The fire crackled softly.
The old man sat beside it, turning a strip of meat over the flames.
"…Still breathing," he muttered.
A pause.
"…Troublesome."
Time passed.
The forest watched from beyond the light.
Then—
A shift.
Small.
The boy's fingers twitched.
The old man didn't look up.
"Awake?"
Silence.
But the boy's eyes opened.
Sharp.
Alert.
Empty.
He didn't move immediately.
Only watched.
The fire.
The surroundings.
Then—
The old man.
Everything in him tightened.
The old man lifted a piece of roasted meat and extended it slightly.
"Eat."
No warmth.
No threat.
Just an offer.
The boy didn't move.
His eyes shifted—measuring distance, angles, the staff resting nearby, the shadows beyond the firelight.
Exits.
Always exits.
The old man sighed.
"If I wanted to kill you," he said, "you'd already be dead."
A beat.
"…You're not worth the trouble."
Silence.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Where'd you come from?"
No answer.
Not even a flicker.
"…Can't talk?"
Nothing.
"…Or won't."
He clicked his tongue.
"…Troublesome."
His gaze lingered longer now—studying the boy's posture, the way his body remained coiled even while sitting.
Wrong.
Not how a child should move.
"…Fine," he said.
"If you won't say it, I'll just guess."
The boy didn't react.
Didn't care.
The old man leaned back slightly.
"Closest village is south," he muttered. "Half a day if you walk properly. More if you don't."
A pause.
"There are a few scattered settlements beyond that. Small ones."
Another.
"…Boundary's farther."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…No one comes out of there."
The thought lingered for a moment.
Then he dismissed it.
"…Not alive."
Silence.
The fire crackled.
"…So you're not from there."
Another pause.
"…More likely just another unwanted one."
The boy's eyes flickered—just once.
Subtle.
The old man caught it.
"Parents leave their kids in the forest sometimes," he said. "Too many mouths."
A pause.
"…Or too much trouble."
Another.
"Some tribes think the forest listens," he added. "Offer something, get something back."
He turned the meat slowly.
"…Kids are easy offerings."
Silence stretched.
The boy didn't respond.
Didn't deny it.
Didn't confirm it.
Just watched.
The old man shrugged faintly.
"…Doesn't matter."
He lowered the meat slightly.
"If you're going to sit there and stare, I need something to call you."
A beat.
"…Squag."
The word settled between them.
"The things chasing you earlier," he added. "Same eyes."
A pause.
"…Fits."
The boy's grip tightened slightly against the ground.
But he said nothing.
Didn't accept it.
Didn't reject it.
The old man nodded once.
"Eat, Squag."
This time, the boy moved.
Quick.
He grabbed the meat and pulled back immediately.
No resistance.
He ate.
Fast.
Then slower.
Still watching.
Always watching.
---
The fire burned lower.
The night deepened.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then—
"There's a village south of here," the old man said.
The boy didn't look at him.
"Food. Work."
A pause.
"You carry things. Do what you're told."
Another.
"I feed you."
Simple.
Clear.
The boy listened.
But gave nothing back.
The old man exhaled.
"…Or go back into the forest," he added. "See how long you last."
Silence.
"…Either way, don't make it troublesome for me."
The fire cracked softly.
The forest pressed in.
The boy remained where he was—inside the light, but not part of it.
Guarded.
Aloof.
Uncertain.
But he didn't leave.
---
The old man leaned back slightly, closing his eyes halfway.
"…We head south tomorrow," he said.
A pause.
"To the village."
No response came.
But he didn't expect one.
"…Try not to die before then," he muttered.
"…That would be troublesome."
---