Chapter 9: Alone in the Wilderness
The forest loomed around Hayyan like a living entity, its towering trees and thick underbrush pressing in on him from all sides. The once-familiar woods now felt foreign and oppressive. Each step he took was labored, his muscles aching, his stomach hollow with hunger. The adrenaline that had fueled his escape was gone, leaving only exhaustion and a gnawing emptiness that threatened to overwhelm him.
As he trudged through the undergrowth, the weight of the past few days bore down on him like a heavy cloak. His mother's face flickered in his mind, her gentle smile, the warmth of her embrace. He missed her so deeply it felt like a physical pain in his chest. She had been his world, his comfort, and now she was gone—taken by illness, by worry for him, for the secret she knew he carried. And his father… the betrayal still stung like a fresh wound. The memory of the knights storming into their home, his father's silent complicity, was seared into his mind.
"How could he?" Hayyan whispered to himself, his voice barely audible in the vastness of the forest.
The silence was deafening. Only the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind or the distant call of a bird broke the oppressive stillness. He had spent the last two days running, constantly looking over his shoulder, terrified that the knights would appear at any moment, that they would drag him back to face the fate he feared most. But now, the chase had ended, and he was left with nothing but his thoughts.
His legs trembled beneath him as he came to a stop by a narrow stream, kneeling by the water's edge to drink. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat, but it did little to ease the ache in his belly. He had tried to find food, foraging for berries, roots—anything that could sustain him—but the forest had been unforgiving. What little he had found was either inedible or too sparse to satisfy his growing hunger.
The sun had set on the fourth day since his escape, and as he lay on the cold ground that night, curled up beneath the cover of dense trees, Hayyan felt truly alone for the first time in his life. There was no comfort here. No warm fire, no stories told in his mother's soft voice. There was only the vast expanse of wilderness and the ache of loss that threatened to consume him.
He stared up at the canopy of leaves overhead, watching as the stars peeked through the gaps. His mind wandered back to the nights he had spent in his mother's arms, listening to her talk about the world, about kings and knights, about honor and duty. She had never told him that the world could be this cruel.
"I'm sorry, mother," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. He didn't even know why he was apologizing. Perhaps for surviving when she hadn't. Perhaps for being the reason her final days were spent in fear.
Tears slid down his dirt-streaked cheeks, but he made no effort to wipe them away. They mingled with the soil and the sweat on his face, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.
---
By the fifth day, Hayyan's steps had become slow, sluggish. His once sharp awareness of the world around him had dulled, his mind consumed by the primal need to survive. His body screamed for food, for rest, but he knew he couldn't stop. He had to find shelter, had to find something—anything—that would keep him alive.
As the sun began to dip low on the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees, he finally saw it—a break in the forest. Beyond the trees, he could make out the faint outline of a village, its thatched-roof cottages clustered together like an oasis in the vast wilderness.
Relief flooded him, but it was quickly followed by a wave of anxiety. What if the people there knew? What if they recognized him or somehow discovered his secret? Would they turn him in, like his father had? Or would they be as cruel as the knights, hunting down anyone they suspected of magic?
Hayyan's steps faltered as he stood at the edge of the village, the cool evening breeze brushing against his skin. His stomach twisted painfully, reminding him of how long it had been since he had eaten anything substantial. He was weak, and he knew he wouldn't last much longer without food.
But the fear of rejection, of being seen as a monster, kept him rooted in place. He stared at the distant figures of villagers moving about their evening routines—people carrying bundles of firewood, tending to animals, preparing their homes for the night. It looked so peaceful, so normal.
For a moment, he wished he could walk among them, unnoticed, just another boy in the crowd. He longed for the comfort of a home, the warmth of a hearth, the simple joy of a meal shared with family. But that life was gone now. His mother was gone. His father had abandoned him. And he was no longer just a boy.
As Hayyan watched the village from the shadows, the realization hit him with the weight of a collapsing wall—he was truly alone. The comfort of his mother's embrace, the warmth of his home, and even the safety of his village were all memories now. He was on the run, but it wasn't the knights or the forest that scared him most—it was the solitude. He had no one by his side.
He needed someone, not just anyone, but someone who could understand him, who wouldn't fear what he was. His powers, though a gift, made him a danger in the eyes of most people. He couldn't afford to trust easily, not when betrayal could mean the difference between life and death. But as he sat there, gnawing on the stale bread he'd scavenged, the desire for companionship became undeniable.
He could survive in the forest, maybe even thrive with enough time. Magic had granted him control over the elements, and with that, he could hunt, build shelter, and create what he needed. But none of that filled the hollow space inside him. He needed more than just survival—he needed a companion. Someone who would stand by him, knowing what he truly was: a wizard.
As the thoughts spun in his mind, an idea began to form. If he couldn't trust anyone outright, perhaps he could craft a new identity. It wouldn't be safe to simply walk into the village as himself, not when people might ask questions. The risk of being discovered was too great. But if he could pass as someone else, someone harmless, maybe he could blend in and gather the trust of a few.
He would need a trade, something simple yet valuable enough to earn him a place in the village, at least for a while. His gaze wandered over the darkened village, and his eyes settled on the plumes of smoke rising from one of the distant chimneys. It hit him then—charcoal.
In a place like this, where wood was plentiful but coal and fuel were not always easy to come by, charcoal would be a highly valuable resource. The process of making it required skill, but with his magic, he could do in hours what others might take days to accomplish.
Hayyan stood, feeling the familiar hum of mana deep within his chest. He could feel the connection to the earth beneath him, the raw power that flowed through the soil and into his core. It was a strange comfort, knowing that in a world where he was hunted, the very elements could still bend to his will.
---
The next day, he set to work deep in the forest, far from the village's watchful eyes. He found a clearing, surrounded by tall trees, and began gathering branches, leaves, and twigs—anything he could find to fuel the fire. As he worked, he muttered quietly to himself, his mind replaying his mother's stories, the tales of knights and kingdoms that had once comforted him. Now, those same stories felt distant and unreachable.
He knelt in the clearing and took a deep breath, drawing on the mana around him, feeling it surge through his veins like a warm current. He focused on the wood he had gathered, letting his mind envision the transformation he needed. With a whisper of concentration, a small spark ignited at the base of the pile.
The fire crackled to life, but this was no ordinary flame. Hayyan manipulated the heat with precision, controlling the temperature, making sure the wood burned slowly and steadily, just enough to char the logs without turning them to ash. He concentrated deeply, guiding the process as mana flowed through his body. The flames responded to his will, bending and shifting to create the perfect conditions for making charcoal.
Hours passed as the fire smoldered under his careful control, and by the time the sun had dipped low in the sky, he had his first batch of charcoal. He reached into the pile, pulling out a blackened piece, feeling its lightness, knowing it was well-made. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
This would be enough to gain him entry into the village.
---
As dusk settled over the forest, Hayyan wrapped the charcoal in a simple cloth bundle and set off toward the village. He knew he would need to be cautious. He couldn't let anyone suspect him of using magic. But as a traveling merchant, he could stay under the radar, offer his wares, and slowly learn more about the people in the village.
As he neared the village's edge, his heart pounded in his chest. He hadn't spoken to anyone since he fled his home, and now he would have to weave a lie, create a new identity. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.
"I can do this," he whispered under his breath.
He had no other choice.
Approaching one of the cottages, he spotted a man stacking wood outside his home. The man looked up, his brow furrowing as he saw Hayyan approach.
"Evening," Hayyan called, his voice steady, though his nerves trembled beneath the surface. "I'm a traveling merchant. I've come with some fresh charcoal, if you'd be interested."
The man's eyes shifted to the bundle in Hayyan's arms. "Charcoal, eh? Not many travelers come through these parts. You sure you're not lost, boy?"
Hayyan shook his head, keeping his smile calm. "Not lost. Just trying to make an honest living."
The man grunted, wiping his hands on his shirt. "Well, I could use some. Winter's not far off, and we'll need the fuel. How much?"
Hayyan named a price—reasonable, but not too low. The man inspected the charcoal, nodding in approval before pulling out a small pouch of coins. As Hayyan accepted the payment, he felt a rush of relief wash over him. This could work. He could survive like this.
"Where are you from, little merchant?" the man asked, his voice casual but curious.
Hayyan hesitated, but only for a moment.e to the north. I move around a lot, selling where I can."
The man nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "Well, welcome to our village, then. Might be good to have you around for a while."
Hayyan gave a polite nod and turned to leave, his heart still racing. He had done it. He had entered the village unnoticed, just as he had planned. But as he walked away, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.