Lucian paused at the edge of a fence, heart pounding as he surveyed the scene. Just beyond the fence lay a tilled field, dotted with weedy patches. Past that, a wagon rested near the barn, and even from this distance, he could hear the muted cluck of chickens. If the occupants caught him trespassing, would they welcome him or chase him off?
Memories of the razed village—corpses, flame-charred ruins—flashed behind his eyes. The brand beneath his shirt answered with a faint, pulsing warmth that spread through his abdomen. It was a reminder that the cult's dark ritual still lingered upon his skin. His stomach knotted. I can't be discovered, he thought, fear warring with desperation. Still, he needed food and rest. This humble farm might be his only chance.
Taking a shaky breath, Lucian ducked down and slipped through a gap in the fence. Dew-soaked grass clung to his ankles, and the crisp morning air smelled of damp earth. He kept low, using the half-grown crops as cover. The barn stood about a hundred paces ahead. If he could reach it quietly, he might find a place to hide or, with luck, scavenge something to eat.
A rooster crowed from somewhere behind the farmhouse, making him flinch. He froze, listening for sounds of movement. Horses stamped and chickens fussed, but no human voices reached his ears. Gritting his teeth, he crept onward, each step sending a spike of ache through his underfed limbs.
At the barn's side, he found a small door hanging ajar. The scent of hay and manure wafted out, oddly comforting compared to the stench of burning he had grown accustomed to in the destroyed village. He slipped inside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
Stacks of hay bales rose along the walls, illuminated by beams of morning light streaming in through gaps in the planks. A few rusted tools leaned against a post, and he could just make out a horse stall at the far end. The barn felt warmer than outside. Lucian's shoulders relaxed fractionally.
"Hello?" came a soft voice from behind him.
Lucian whipped around, heart hammering. Near the entrance stood a teenage girl, freckled and dressed in a simple skirt. She clutched a small basket, eyes wide with surprise. She seemed as startled as he was, though her posture suggested more curiosity than aggression.
He took a step back, hands trembling. "I—I'm sorry," he managed, voice catching in his throat. Perhaps he should run, but his legs felt like lead. The brand flared beneath his shirt, an anxious heat coursing over his skin.
The girl's eyes flicked over his filthy clothes, bruises, and gaunt frame. Her suspicion was evident. "Who are you?" she asked, voice hesitant but not unkind. "You're not from around here."
Lucian opened his mouth, but words refused to form. Exhaustion closed in, and he thought he might collapse on the spot. He steadied himself against a hay bale, trying not to appear threatening. "I—my village…" he began, but could not bring himself to finish. They burned it, he thought. And tried to sacrifice me.
Something in his expression must have conveyed the horror he'd witnessed. The girl's eyes softened. She glanced out the barn door, as though checking if anyone else was around. "You look half-dead," she murmured. "Wait here."
Before he could protest, she turned and slipped out, footsteps soft across the dirt. Anxiety roiled in his stomach. Had she gone to fetch help or call for the farmer, who might chase him off with a pitchfork? The brand pulsed again, fueling the panic building inside him.
He scanned the barn, searching for a hiding spot or an exit. Overhead, the loft might offer concealment, but climbing there on shaky limbs risked a fall. Another pair of doors at the far end looked like they led outside, though the horse stall partially blocked them. Where could he go?
The girl reappeared, cradling a small jug of water and a chunk of bread. She held them toward him with cautious kindness. "Here," she said quietly. "You look like you need this more than we do."
Lucian stared, throat tight. Gratitude and disbelief warred within him. He had expected hostility, not an offer of help. Warily, he reached out, taking the bread first. It felt coarse, possibly stale, but to him it was priceless. He tore off a piece and devoured it. The first bite nearly made him choke, his mouth too dry to swallow easily. Then he accepted the water jug, drinking in quick gulps. Relief flooded him, and for a moment, he closed his eyes to savor the meager sustenance.
"Thank you," he rasped, voice cracking.
She offered a faint smile, though wariness lingered. "Are you running from bandits?"
He shook his head, though it was not entirely untrue. Bandits might be kinder than the cult that had destroyed his life. Summoning a shaky breath, he answered, "My village was… burned. I escaped." A flicker of the robed figures chanting made him shudder.
Her expression grew troubled. "I've heard rumors. Some say there's a group of fanatics or a cult lurking in the region, attacking outlying villages. Pa's been worried." She hesitated, glancing at the barn door again. "If he finds you here, he'll be suspicious. But… you don't look like a threat."
Lucian swallowed, finishing another bite of bread. The brand's tension eased, as though mollified by the small act of kindness. Still, his heart pounded. "I—I'm not," he said. "I just need a place to rest. Maybe some food. Then I'll keep going."
The girl frowned, torn between empathy and caution. "You can't keep wandering. You'll collapse." Her gaze flicked to his bruised arms. "Wait here. I'll see if I can talk to Pa. Maybe we can spare some more food, or… something."
Panic flared again. "If he's angry, I can leave," Lucian said hurriedly. "I don't want trouble."
She shook her head, resolve shining in her eyes. "We're not heartless. Just be quiet. Hide if you hear footsteps." With that, she turned and slipped out again, heading toward the farmhouse.
Lucian's legs nearly gave out. Carefully, he sank onto a nearby hay bale. The barn's dimness felt comforting, though fear gnawed at him—fear of being discovered and thrown out, or worse, linked to the cult. What if they notice the rune? He tugged his shirt down, ensuring the brand was hidden. Then he forced himself to take another bite of bread, chewing slowly to ease the ache in his stomach.
Time dragged. Outside, the morning bustle grew louder: distant voices, a squeaking cart wheel, the lowing of a cow. Twice, he heard footsteps pass near the barn door. His pulse spiked, but no one entered. His thoughts drifted to the hooded figure from the night before. Did that person still track him? Were they watching from some nearby ridge, waiting for an opportunity?
He exhaled, trying to calm his racing mind. The bread and water steadied him somewhat, but exhaustion's grip refused to let go. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit of dried sweat and dirt on his cheeks. If I could just rest without fear, he thought longingly.
Suddenly, the barn door creaked. Lucian tensed, crouching behind the hay bale. The girl's voice floated in, "He's in here, Pa. Don't scare him."
Lucian's heart thundered. She brought her father. Did that mean help or danger? A gruff male voice answered, "You said he's just a lad. Best to see for myself." Heavy footsteps sounded.
Steeling himself, Lucian peered around the hay. A broad-shouldered man in a threadbare shirt entered, features lined with hard years of farm work. The girl hovered behind him. Her eyes met Lucian's, silently urging him to stand. Lucian rose on shaking legs.
The farmer's gaze swept over him. A flicker of compassion touched his expression before suspicion hardened his features. "You're the boy my daughter found?" he asked, crossing his arms.
Lucian nodded. "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, voice small. "I didn't mean to trespass. I just… I didn't know where else to go."
The farmer studied him for a moment. Then he sighed, glancing at his daughter. "You say he's alone, with no food, no belongings?"
She nodded. "He says his village was burned. Could be those rumors we've heard, Pa."
The man pressed his lips together, torn between suspicion and pity. At length, he grunted, "All right. We're no inn. We barely scrape by ourselves. But if you're not lying, I can't just throw out a kid who's starving."
Lucian's chest loosened with a rush of relief. He bowed his head, gratitude surging. "Thank you, sir. I'll leave soon. I just need a little rest, something to eat…"
The farmer held up a hand. "You can eat, maybe wash up, but keep your nose clean. We don't want bandits or worse sniffing around. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," Lucian whispered.
"Name's Cole," the farmer said, offering a begrudging nod. "My daughter's Elin." He gestured around the barn. "We don't have spare beds, but you can rest in the hayloft if you like. Just don't spook the animals."
Elin flashed a relieved smile. "I'll grab more water and see about scraps of food." She paused, eyeing Lucian's bruises. "And a bit of bandage, maybe."
Cole fixed Lucian with a steady look. "You best not be trouble. Keep quiet. If my neighbors see a strange boy lurking, they might call the guards. Understood?"
Lucian swallowed hard. "Yes. I promise."
Cole gave a curt nod, then turned to go. Elin lingered for a beat, offering Lucian a small, reassuring smile before following her father out. The barn door swung shut, leaving Lucian alone again.
He let out a trembling breath, heart still racing. Despite Cole's stern manner, the fact that they had not thrown him out or turned him in to local authorities felt like a blessing. Maybe he could rest for a moment—just enough to gather strength before continuing. The brand remained quiet, as though pacified by this slim promise of safety.
Spotting a ladder leading to the loft, he tested its rungs. They creaked under his slight weight, but he climbed anyway. The loft was dusty, strewn with hay. Golden sunlight spilled through the gaps in the rafters, creating soft patterns on the floor. It was hardly luxurious, but compared to the open road, it felt like a sanctuary.
He settled onto a mound of straw, exhaling shakily. The day's tension ebbed, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He closed his eyes, recalling the terror of the cult's ritual, the endless fleeing, and the near-starvation that gnawed at him. Sleep beckoned, and for once, he did not fight it. Even the brand's silent presence could not rouse him from the overwhelming need to rest.
He drifted in and out of a half-doze, occasionally startled by a stray sound below—perhaps the horse stamping a hoof, or the barn cat mewling. Each time, his body braced for a threat, but none came. Eventually, footsteps on the ladder startled him fully awake. He sat up, pulse pounding.
Elin's head appeared, followed by her shoulders as she climbed into the loft. In her arms, she carried a small bundle of cloth and another jug of water. She approached with cautious steps, placing the items near him.
"Here," she said, voice kept low so as not to disturb the livestock below. "Bread and cheese. And some bandages if you need them."
Lucian's mouth watered at the sight of food. "Thank you," he said, fighting the urge to devour the offering like a wild animal. Instead, he took measured bites, allowing each morsel to calm his ravaged stomach.
Elin watched him quietly, arms folded. After a moment, she spoke. "Pa told me not to pry, but… if your village was attacked, was it really those robed men?"
His throat constricted. Memories of the chanting and the smell of burning flesh threatened to choke him. Slowly, he nodded. "I—I think so," he whispered. "I didn't see their faces. Only the robes… and the fire."
A somber hush fell. Elin lowered her gaze, sympathy warring with unease. "We've heard rumors. I hope the mayor or the town guard does something soon." She offered a hesitant smile. "Anyway, rest if you can. Pa won't chase you off before noon."
Lucian's heart ached with gratitude. He bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Sleep tugged at him again. "Thank you," he repeated. "This is more kindness than I deserve."
Elin shook her head. "No one deserves to lose their home. I just hope you find safety."
With that, she climbed down the ladder, leaving Lucian to the loft's dusty calm. He finished the meager meal, hands still trembling. Then, gingerly, he used the bandages to cover a few of his worst cuts, relieved that the brand remained hidden.
Afterward, he lay back on the hay, exhaustion overwhelming any lingering fear. The brand's warmth remained subdued, as though it too sensed a temporary reprieve. He let his eyelids drift shut, lulled by the barn's quiet. For the first time in days, he found a moment of genuine rest, guarded by the cautious goodwill of a farmer's daughter and her stern father.