Randall startled awake, breath catching sharply in his throat as unfamiliar voices drifted through the forest. For a heartbeat, he thought death had finally come for him in the form of angels or spirits. His body stiffened, muscles coiled tight with fear, before confusion slowly replaced panic.
Who would be singing so harmoniously in the forest?
He pushed himself up from the damp ground, blinking as pale sunlight filtered through the leaves above. The night's cold still clung to his skin, and his clothes,torn, dirty, stiff with dried mud,scraped against him as he moved. His eyes darted around instinctively, searching for the glowing creature from the night before.
Nothing.
No light. No voice. No sarcastic remarks. No glowing eyes watching him with amused disappointment.
For a brief, terrifying moment, he wondered if the entire encounter had been a dream born of hunger and exhaustion.
But then he saw them.
The berries.
A small pile rested near where he had slept, just as he remembered. His chest loosened slightly. He exhaled, slow and shaky.
So it had been real.
The singing grew clearer.
"Oh hey, we come
We come, not by troubles
We come, we come not by fighting
Oh hey, we come in the name of the spirits."
The voices were many, woven together in a way that felt practiced,deep and light tones rising and falling in harmony. The sound flowed through the trees like water, gentle and unafraid.
Randall rose to his feet carefully, stepping closer to the sound while keeping himself hidden behind the trunk of a broad oak.
"The forest says to me, come be bold
The water says to me, come and drink
But the spirit,oh the spirits,
The spirits say to me, "Child, come to rest."
The words settled over him like a blanket.
He had never heard a song like this before.
It was not the rowdy drinking songs of soldiers or the polished performances of court musicians. This song felt… old. Like it belonged to the earth itself. It carried no fear, no urgency,only calm certainty.
For the first time since fleeing Glandow, Randall felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest.
Comfort.
He crouched low, peering through the bushes.
There they were.
About twenty men stood in a loose formation, moving through the forest as if it welcomed them. Each of them had their head clean-shaven, their skin marked with faint symbols painted in ash and clay. Their clothing was simple but strange,long tunics belted at the waist, leather sandals worn thin with travel.
Each carried a weapon.
Swords. Spears. Some had bows slung across their backs.
Yet their posture was relaxed. Unthreatening.
The singing stopped abruptly.
"Who goes there?"
The voice thundered through the trees, sharp and commanding.
"Who hides among the bushes?"
"Show yourself."
Fear slammed into Randall like a physical blow.
His heart raced as his thoughts spiraled wildly.
What if they were sent by the queen?
What if this was another search party?
What if they were killers?
Or worse—slave traders?
He had heard stories. Men taken from forests and roads, bound and dragged across the great sea, sold to strangers who worked them until their bodies broke.
"We can see you, boy," another voice called. "Come out."
Randall's breath came shallow and fast. His hands trembled.
The creature's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
Be brave, warrior.
It had abandoned him… hadn't it?
Or maybe this was the test.
He swallowed hard.
With a shaky breath, Randall climbed down from the tree where he had hidden himself and stepped into the clearing. He stood as tall as he could, though fear clung to him like his filthy clothes.
Every eye turned to him.
They were even stranger up close.
Some were young, others old. Their faces were weathered but calm. No one rushed him. No one raised a weapon.
The man who had spoken first stepped forward.
He was elderly, his skin lined deeply by age and laughter alike. His face was… amusing. Kind, even. His eyes were sharp but warm, and notable,he carried no weapon.
"Well, boy," the man said mildly, tilting his head, "tell me—where are you coming from, and which way are you going?"
Randall opened his mouth.
No sound came out.
"Hmmm?" the old man prompted.
"Cat got your tongue?" one of the younger men asked, grinning.
Randall clenched his fists, trying to remember the lessons the creature had barked at him through the night.
Stand. Breathe. Endure.
He prayed,not to wet himself.
"No, no, Vamal," the old man said with a soft chuckle. "Do not scare the young lad so."
He gestured toward Randall gently.
"Look at him," the man continued. "Trying to stand bold when he's clearly already been kicked by the world. No need to add to it."
The group murmured quietly.
The old man took a step closer,but not too close.
"Come, boy," he said kindly. "We mean no harm. You have nothing to fear from us."
Randall studied their faces.
He saw curiousity, amusement and concern.
Not cruelty.
"We'll help you," the man continued. "You look like you haven't eaten properly in days. We have food,good food. Clean water. And spirits willing, we can find you clothes that don't look like they've lost a war."
A few men chuckled softly.
"Come," the old man said again. "Sit with us."
Randall's chest tightened painfully.
No one had ever offered him help like this before.
No one had ever noticed his hunger. Or his torn clothes. Or the way exhaustion bent him inward.
He didn't know what to think.
The kindness felt foreign and suspicious.
What if it was a trap?
His gaze flicked to their weapons and to their numbers.
To the fact that he was alone.
But staying in the forest meant waiting.
Waiting for hunger, waiting for guards and waiting for death.
The creature was gone.
And he was tired of running.
He'd go with them and hope to the spirits that it isn't a trap, and if it was,then gods be merciful, let his death be quick.