Alec spent the next week moving carefully, testing how his injuries were healing. Each morning he pressed his fingers into the bruised flesh along his ribs and side, measuring the pain. It still hurt, but it no longer was hard to breathe. He could bend and walk without stopping every few steps. That was enough.
By the end of the week, the vegetables he had scavenged were gone. Roots, greens, anything soft enough to chew without wasting strength. There was nothing left. He would have to try hunting rabbits again, or finally go back to what remained of Hillburn.
He put on the torn shirt stiff with dried blood and took up the short sword. The leather-wrapped hilt was worn smooth where his hand gripped it. He checked the edge with his thumb, then turned away from the cave and headed toward the village.
He stayed in the dense forest as long as he could, moving slowly as the broken outlines of buildings came into view through the trees. There were no sounds of work. No ringing hammer. No voices. Only birds and insects, with small gusts of wind through the trees.
When he reached the dirt road that led into town, he lowered himself to the ground and crept forward until he could see clearly.
Hillburn was black and broken.
Collapsed buildings lined the road, their beams charred and sagging. Corpses lay where they had fallen, some half-buried in ash, others fully exposed. Flies crawled thickly over them. Birds hopped and pecked, tearing at the rotting tissue. The smell hit him even from a distance.
Alec's eyes went to the center of town. Three buildings still stood. The jail. The blacksmith. The small shop that sold tools and goods.
Everything else had collapsed. Homes. The mayor's office. Roofs crushed inward and walls burned black.
He moved forward, stepping carefully between piles of burned wood. He pulled his shirt up over his nose and mouth, breathing through cloth as he passed the bodies. He did not look at faces if he could help it.
The jail door had been kicked in.
Alec stopped at the entrance, listening. There was no movement, no sound from inside. He stepped through slowly, sword held low. The air inside was cooler, darker.
The floor creaked beneath his feet.
Something moved below.
Alec froze.
There was a scraping sound, claws on wood. A low growl rolled up through the floorboards. He moved quickly, ducking behind the wooden counter near the wall, heart pounding hard enough that he couldn't hear anything.
He lowered himself and pressed his face close to the floor, peering through the gaps between the boards.
Below him were the cells.
Bones lay scattered across the stone floor, arms, ribs, skulls cracked open. What was left of several people. Inside one of the cells, two large black wolves paced in tight circles. Their shoulders brushed the bars as they moved. Their coats were thick and dark, their bodies heavier and taller than the wolves that had attacked him in the forest.
It looked like they had been locked inside with the townsfolk.
Alec pulled back slowly, careful not to make a sound. He rose to his feet and ran for the door, pain flaring in his side as he moved. He did not slow down until he was clear of the building.
He did not want to fight those wolves. Not now. Maybe not ever.
He crossed the open space to the blacksmith, keeping his eyes on the ground and listening for any other sounds as his heartbeat calmed down. Most of the building had burned, the roof partially collapsed, but the anvil still stood. A pile of metal lay nearby, pans, tools, warped shapes fused together by heat.
Between the blacksmith and the shop sat a small wooden cart, one wheel cracked but still holding. Alec dragged it over and began sorting through the pile.
He found a small knife. A wood-cutting axe. Three iron pots and a pan. The rest was scrap or melted beyond use. The knife's edge was chipped. The axe handle was worn and loose. They would work.
Inside the smithy, the racks and shelves were empty. No swords. No armor. Whoever had come through had taken everything worth carrying.
Alec searched anyway.
In the back corner, half-buried in ash, he found a spear. The wooden shaft was burned through near the middle. He picked it up, braced it against the ground, and snapped off the charred section with his foot. What remained was short but solid, about a meter of wood, with a long iron blade fixed to the end.
He set it in the cart.
The shop was next. The front porch and door had collapsed inward, blocking entry. Alec climbed around to the back and found a gap where the wall had caved in. He dropped inside.
The smell was better here. Dust had begun covering everything inside.
Shelves still stood. The food was gone, vegetables reduced to sludge, sacks split open but clothing remained. Hunting supplies. Things made of leather and iron.
Alec worked quickly.
He took pants, shirts, jackets, gloves. He found a cloth sack on the counter and filled it, then opened a side window and dropped it outside. He went back and found another knife, several metal traps, and a bundle of arrowheads.
On the lower shelves were boots of different sizes. He took them all. He found a worn leather armor and bracers. The leather was cracked and stiff, too large for him, but intact.
He put the armor on. It hung loose on his shoulders but covered his chest. He tightened the straps as much as he could. It would have to do.
When he moved the shelving unit near the broken ceiling, he saw them, hung above the main counter.
A bow. A quiver of arrows.
Alec climbed carefully, pain flaring as he reached. He took them down and dropped them out the window with the rest of the goods.
When he was finished, he loaded the cart and pulled it out of town the way he had come, stopping often to rest. He did not look back at Hillburn once he reached the trees.
It took him most of the day to get the cart back to the cave.
The next morning, he trained.
He did not swing hard at first. He practiced grip, stance, balance. The way Owen had shown him. He practiced drawing the sword, holding it steady, putting it back. Over and over.
His side hurt. His ribs stung every twist. When the pain grew sharp, he stopped. When it dulled, he started again.
The days passed slowly.
He trained with the sword. He practiced with the short spear, learning its weight, the way the tip pulled forward. He strung the bow and tested the draw, careful not to strain himself. He set traps near the tree line and checked them each morning.
It took another week before he could move without pain.
By then, the routine was set.
Wake. Check traps. Eat. Train. Rest.
Alec did not think about Hillburn while he worked.
He focused on the next swing. The next breath and the next day.