Large gray boulders stretched like a crooked fence along the outskirts of the village. Over the years, the rains had ground down every jutting edge; now the heavy stones hung over the ground, ready to collapse at any moment. Thirsty moss clung to them—the only green spot amid the drab gray. With each passing day of hunger, that moss looked more and more appetizing: my starving mind even began to wonder if it might serve as food, should things become truly desperate.
Living here had become harder and harder. Five years ago the decline began: people drifted away in all directions, abandoning their homes. Two years ago the local Hall of Teleportation—a magical portal through which one could still escape to civilization—broke down. That was when the last great exodus happened. Only the desperate and fugitives like my father and me remained.
My father had once fled the rule of Emperor Nikkela Manio Pia the Third. Ten years ago, he, still strong and full of hope, brought us to this land forgotten by the gods. I was five then and did not understand what we were escaping from. Now I am fifteen, but my father is still just as silent. Whenever I try to ask him about the past—about those provinces or border fiefs we come from—he just looks through me bitterly, as if I didn't exist.
Now, however, there was no time to think about the past: my face was nearly being dunked into the mud. I lay on my stomach by a puddle, covering my head with my hands. My reflection quivered in the murky water. My name is Edric. I have no surname. It's ironic; the name means "rich ruler"… What kind of ruler am I, lying face-first in the dirt under the boots of the village bullies?
"Oh-ho, there it is, my reflection…" I muttered in a low voice, smirking at my own wretched figure. "Edric the Nameless. Very fitting, isn't it…"
"What are you mumbling there, Bedrik?" came a rasping voice from above, mocking me.
A heavy heel immediately pressed down on the back of my head, forcing my face deeper into the puddle. It was Almer. His cronies snorted happily: they call me "Bedrik" – mocking me as a pathetic beggar. I hear that name more often than my real one. And I suppose it's not without reason, considering how pitiful I look right now.
And why do I keep taking all this? Beatings have long since become commonplace—for me and everyone around here. Father… he doesn't care anymore. One can endure the pain; one can swallow back the tears. But the worst of it is the hurt pride. Each time it burns, not so much from the dirt or the bruises, but from my father's indifference. He knows I'm being beaten, but he says nothing, pretending nothing is happening. As if he doesn't care about me, or even himself. He lives like a shadow, dragging out his pitiful existence from day to day.
Once, long ago, Father tried to teach me – reading, swordplay, even hunting. We have only one valuable thing in our home – a book in a multicolored binding with a blue stone on the cover. Father read it to me when I was six. It vividly described legends of the first barbarians who crossed the ocean and chronicled all the forms of sword fighting, magic, and the monsters and beasts they encountered. But a year after that, it was as if he burned out. That spring, cold and rainy, was the last time Father smiled at me. For the next seven years, he neither opened that book – indeed, he stopped taking interest in anything at all.
"Stop gawking at the puddle and drink up!" Almer croaked. He pressed even harder on the back of my skull with his boot. "This big guy – he's not very tall, but with his pig's snout he always acts like he's the lord of the village. Sweaty, red-faced—look how his chubby piggy face is glowing with delight right now."
He really was trying to make me drink from the puddle: he gripped my hair in his fist, forcing my head down into the dirty water. For a moment, the pain distracted me: I pictured how it must look from the outside, and I smirked.
"Haven't you heard the tale?" I croaked, twisting my head as best I could. "Whoever drinks from a puddle becomes a fool. I don't envy you, Almer… You've probably drained more than one puddle by now."
"What?!" he grunted, blushing even deeper. "Kick him, boys, harder!"
A boot slammed into my side, then another into my thigh. They had already been kicking me, but the moment I snapped back, they started beating me twice as fiercely. Blows rained down on my back and legs, and Almer, enraged by my words, shifted his target from the back of my head to my ribs. It hurt, of course, but it was bearable. Not the first time. Previous attempts at fighting back had led to a starving day – they'd take all the food I'd brought home.
For a second, anger boiled up inside me. I wanted to grab those swine by the scruffs and drown their faces in their puddle. But not now – a bad idea. It was nearly evening, with another two hours of trail left in the woods. Getting stuck there in the twilight, with bruises to boot, would be worse. Especially since I'd never hold out against three of them for long, even if Almer himself was the weakest.
I clenched my teeth and took the beating. Mud stuck to my face, and the murky water stung my eyes. Almer leaned his full weight on me, still trying to dunk my nose into the puddle. Rage pulsed in my temples, mixed with pain. Why such hatred? For years there's been no answer. Adults recoil from Father and me, driving us out of their yards as if we were lepers. Peers beat me at every opportunity. And not even for any reason… What has a fifteen-year-old boy, living by hunting and foraging, done to them? What have they done to my father, who doesn't talk to anyone at all?
I bit my lip and gritted my teeth, enduring the beating. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable. "Besides," I thought, "Almer isn't really that strong. One-on-one, I could have taken him long ago. But he's never alone, not when the whole district always stands behind him." My nose nearly touched the slick surface of the puddle as the pressure increased. The water was already gurgling at my nostrils.
I decided that was enough for today. I wouldn't let them finish me off that easily. My body twisted, and my hands grabbed the leg of one of Almer's companions – the very one who had just booted me in the side. With a sudden heave toward me, the big thug lost his balance and toppled backward, dragging the second one down with him. He let out a cry and also crashed into the mud.
The grip on my head loosened just for an instant – enough. I managed to slip out from under Almer's foot and roll aside, greedily gasping for air.
"You bastard! We'll get you…!" Almer bellowed, choking on his fury and spitting out clods of clay.
I leaped to my feet and stepped back a couple of paces, quickly looking around. Three figures in the mud were stirring, snorting and spitting – they looked even worse than I did. Almer was out first: he grunted, shaking his mud-smeared head, and somehow managed to stand. His face was plastered with dirt, his clothing a solid lump of mud. Seeing this sight, the corner of my mouth twitched, but I quickly forced myself to appear stern.
Wincing slightly from the pain in my side, I backed another step. They were coming to their senses now, and trouble was brewing.
Already the foul curses were flying after me – the trio, spitting out dirt, began to rise to their feet. But at this crossroads, I had neither the desire nor the reason to continue the fight. I refused to listen to any more of their throat-slurred trash talk – I turned and limped away. Ahead there was only one path anyway – the one leading into the forest and back to the village, passing our house on the outskirts. Almer and his buddies knew that if they tried to chase me now, on the way home they'd have to pass by our place in the dark or take a detour through all the thickets and nettles. I doubted they had the nerve for that. Bullies, after all, are a tender sort.
Once their shouts died down in the distance, I could finally catch my breath. My side throbbed, my legs did too, and bruises would surely bloom in the morning. But overall, the damage was tolerable. The main thing was that I was alive.
I wiped the dirt off my cheeks with my sleeve, then spat out the unpleasant taste again. What a day… and it wasn't even over yet.
I was neither a born warrior nor a trained mage with spells up my sleeve. Just a fifteen-year-old boy making do, getting food as best he can. Not a hero of legends, just an ordinary kid. And where was there to be any heroism when day by day you're dragged down by the unbearable weight of your father? No—he's not crippled or old; a strapping fellow, truly. He once wielded a sword and bow, and magic too. In his youth, he was strong, and though now his muscles have sagged a bit with age, he still has more strength than any other man in our village. But of what use… That heroic strength fell to a man with dead eyes. So much power, and yet no spark of life inside.
Occasionally a foolish dream would catch me: what if Father snapped out of it, set things right, at least with those who bully his son? It would be nothing for him: one stern word, a couple of spells, and they'd all scatter. But no. He preferred not to notice problems. Or perhaps… he really doesn't care.
Even today, I knew for sure he wouldn't come out to ask how I was, why my clothes were dirty and my face bruised. And asking would be pointless anyway. It was better to spend the rest of the day on what really mattered: bringing home food. No one willingly ventures into our rundown shack, which means there's simply no one but me to provide.
Soon I was making my way along the soggy forest path. Old pine needles, rotten leaves, and wet sand crunched underfoot. The wind carried the damp, resinous scent of the forest. Somewhere deep in the woods, a branch creaked – either a bird took flight or a small animal scurried by. With each step my home village receded, dissolving behind me. Around me I heard only my footsteps and the distant barking of dogs on the far side of the forest.
Hunting rabbits in these parts is my daily work. The locals, however, are far from normal rabbits. An excess of magic that has seeped into the earth over the ages has warped nature here. The beasts grow much larger and fiercer than normal. A hare here will hop around and probably tear you apart rather than the other way if you let your guard down. My homemade spears of sharpened branches are barely enough to handle them.
And that's not all – at home we have almost no weapons. Only an old hunting knife and a couple of kitchen cleavers. You might think it would be much more convenient to hunt with the knife, but the moment I reach for the blade – father lets out such a heavy sigh that my hand just drops. His reproachful sigh completely beats me of any desire to touch metal. But he doesn't mind me sharpening stakes. He might as well be saying, "Be quiet, and then I won't have to beg."
Occasionally I get angry: why not let me use the knife? What would happen if I went out with it? But arguing with Father is pointless – I've tried. He sighs in annoyance and then doesn't help me with the fireplace. So time and time again I make wooden spears and hope they will be enough to get the game. One day, they certainly won't suffice… The creatures grow meaner every year. The meat of these mana-mutants is like a boot sole – tough and difficult to cook. If you swing a stick at them, you risk coming back with no dinner and no teeth.
At least for an ordinary rabbit, a stick is enough. I know their habits: track them, chase them, and then it's just a matter of technique. Today's hunt went surprisingly well. I was lucky to quickly pick up the trail of a well-fed rabbit. Ten minutes later, the prey was in my hands. I didn't kill it immediately; I just stunned it and twisted its legs. I dashed back to the village like an arrow, hurrying to bring the rabbit home alive. Why alive? Because the local wildlife comes with a surprise: once the creature dies, its meat immediately turns rock-hard, soaked in a mana crust, and becomes inedible. If you want juicy meat, bring your game home warm. The extra risk paid off with better nourishment.
With the heavy, panting rabbit under my arm, I returned to the outskirts of the village right at sunset. The sun had nearly slipped behind the distant mountains, and above the gray roofs the first flickers of torchlight were coming on one by one. Shadows stretched out, and the alleys grew darker faster than I would have liked. Winding towards home through the narrow gaps between leaning fences, I began to hope the day would end without new surprises. And then, at that very moment, a familiar group blocked my path.
They were standing by the well – Almer himself and two of his buddies. All of them were smeared with mud and looking glum; apparently, their fall into the mud had spoiled their mood. At Almer's feet lay a pile of feathers – either from chickens or some small bird. Apparently they had been hunting too and hadn't had much success.
"Look who's back," one of his pals grumbled, noticing me.
Almer snapped his head up. I stopped a few steps away from them, eyes scanning – I didn't want to fight again, but they were blocking the way.
"And what?" I threw back at them darkly, squeezing the struggling rabbit harder against my side. It hurt to move – my ribs ached from the kicks.
"We're not afraid of your beasts!" Almer snarled, seeing that I was in no rush to lower my eyes. But his voice wavered.
In response, I quietly held out my arm, still holding my captured rabbit. It was coming around, struggling in my palm, releasing a bubble of saliva and snapping its teeth. The rabbit was large – twice the size of a village cat, with a patchy pelt and red, rabid eyes. Yes, this was no domestic bunny but a local mutant.
Hearing the beast's low growl and hiss, the big guys in front of me reflexively took a step back. Almer, taken by surprise, dropped his catch and the bag he held; the bloody chicken entrails fell onto the dust with a flop.
"That's right," I smirked.
Frowning, the three of them stepped back another pace. They clearly had no desire to press the matter. Almer, trying not to meet my eyes, bent over to pick up his bag and muttered under his breath, "Let's get out of here…"
His friends were only too happy to oblige. As soon as the way was clear, I continued on, barely restraining the urge to laugh after them. It felt good, in a way, to put the tormentors in their place, even if it was in this manner. Cowards, afraid of mana-mutants.
A couple of minutes later I rounded the last corner, and ahead I could see home. The crooked shack stood at the very edge of the village, where the dilapidated houses gave way to old ruins. The roof leaked in several places, the porch boards had faded and cracked, and the windows were covered with rags instead of glass. A dump, in short – but home.
Father, as always, was sitting on the porch with his elbows on his knees. Hearing my footsteps, he raised his eyes. Wordlessly I closed the distance, and the rabbit carcass thumped to the ground at his feet.
He looked at the catch and… only sighed wearily. As if before him lay not food but another burden. Dissatisfied again. That made me wince inwardly.
"Heard that?" I grumbled at him, stepping past him into the house.
Along the way I dropped the bundle of firewood from my shoulder – I had picked up a few branches back in the forest. I tossed them into the hearth and flopped onto the wobbly stool.
"Stoke it," I ordered curtly.
Without a word, Father reached toward the hearth. An instant later, a thin azure ray of mana shot from between his fingers – ssszh! — and suddenly a crimson flame burst forth, roaring into the logs and filling the room with the scent of heated iron. Father, as usual, used his magic instead of flint and tinder. Well, at least it was some use.
A thicker log went onto the fire, and then I had to hurry back to the porch for the catch – the rabbit, now fully awake, was trying to crawl away. Not on my watch. The creature was grabbed by the ears, yanked out from under Father's feet, and with one decisive strike of the knife its skull was crushed. The rabbit twitched once and stopped.
There was no time to waste: meat soaked in magic quickly turns to stone after death. The trophy was already forming a hard crust – if I had delayed even a bit longer, it would have turned to rock. Now that it was dead, there was nothing left but to use it immediately.
Within minutes, after the carcass had been gutted, the rabbit meat was roasting over the fire. The smell of juicy stew drifted through the house, driving out the damp mustiness. Father caught the appetizing aroma and silently stepped up to the hearth. Without a word, I handed him a clay plate with steaming chunks of meat. He took it just as silently, sank on the old creaking bench, and without looking my way, began to eat.
As almost always, we ate in deathly silence. Only the crackling fire and the squeak of the chair disturbed the quiet. Evenings like this always made me thoughtful. There was plenty to think about: here I was, a youth who'd been hunting for food at the risk of his life since childhood. And then there was my father – once a skilled mage and warrior, now spending out his days as a recluse.
There were days when nobody would go hunting – then father would set out himself, usually after a day of fasting. We had never gone hunting together. For some reason he never took me along, and he never explained why. He just went off and returned with game.
His hunting methods remained a mystery, and he never felt the need to share them. Yet from small clues it was clear: the way he wields magic was clearly beyond what someone from these parts could do. An ordinary village hermit couldn't pull that off. Who was he really? What life had he lived before all this? Occasionally I tried to guess… but it was useless.
And now, again: Father suddenly raised his head and looked intently at me. I was startled – in his eyes I saw a flicker of the old strength, as if he was about to say something. My heart skipped – could it be? But the next second the spark in his eyes died out, as if it had never been there, and he turned away. Silently he pushed the half-eaten plate aside and stood up.
Not a word about the food, no thanks, no "it was delicious." Nothing. With heavy steps, Father walked into the dark corner, collapsed onto the bed, and turned to face the wall. To sleep. The conversation had ended, as always, without words.
I swallowed. I cleared the dishes and went out into the yard to wash up. My face ached – bruises were already swelling on my cheek and chin. The cold well water eased the pain a bit. I stayed sitting on the porch, watching the moon rise in the sky. It was especially bright and cold tonight. Its silver light spilled over the yard, as if promising peace. A deceptive feeling… At night, in the silence, it always seems that all troubles have gone away. But the moment I remembered what tomorrow would bring, I felt my chest tighten again.
If I change nothing, I'll just rot here in this godforsaken hole, chasing rabbits and gathering roots. That thought pounded in my head especially strongly. Yes, the prospect was, to put it mildly, terrible.
"Why the hell am I even doing this…" I whispered to myself and sighed as I got up.
The night was restless. Falling asleep proved almost impossible. I tossed and turned on the sunken mattress for a long time. Meanwhile, Father lay silently on his cot in the corner and… played with magic. Without even lifting himself, he conjured flickering sparks above his palm: blue, crimson, green – tossing them between his fingers. Each flash was accompanied by a quiet chirp, like a buzzing mosquito. Needless to say, this did nothing to help my insomnia.
I thought of stuffing a rag in my ears, but I didn't have the strength for a fight. Eventually, despite everything, fatigue took over and consciousness slipped into sleep.
I could have slept in until noon if it weren't for the commotion outside. A child's cry by the yard woke me. Rubbing my eyes groggily, I managed to throw on a second shirt – the morning was chilly. Stepping onto the porch, I saw a curious scene.
A crowd of village children had gathered at our broken gate. They were shouting over each other, stretching out their arms as if trying to push the stranger away from the yard. Yes, a stranger: in the midst of the crowd stood an unfamiliar woman of about twenty, in a neat travel dress. A leather satchel hung over her shoulder, and in her hand she held a stack of papers – either letters or announcements. The woman had dark wavy hair to her shoulders and a somewhat puzzled expression on her face.
"Ma'am, you can't stand here! Leave!" yelled the boys, waving their arms. "This place is bad, we're telling you! Go away quickly!"
"Quiet, kids… it's all right," the girl tried to calm them in a soft, confident voice, though it was clear she didn't dare step forward toward our house.
No sooner had I appeared on the porch than the children all backed up a step or two. Some darted behind the fence, showing only their noses. Of course, this is Jeron the Plagued's yard, the cursed place,as they whisper to each other. Right, run away.
Seeing me, the girl immediately brightened. She gave me a tentative but polite smile – like someone who's had to explain herself to strangers many times before. Then she stepped decisively up to our gate.
"Hello," she greeted me politely. "My name is Tali Karow. I represent the branch of the Tallores Academy of Ir… Aloni in the capital city."
I silently raised an eyebrow. Neither the name Tallores nor anything else sounded familiar to me. And her purpose was unclear. My side still throbbed, and my mood was worse than ever after yesterday. So, frowning, I asked curtly, "And?"
Tali winced at my tone but immediately pulled out one of the sheets from her stack and cleared her throat. "There is an annual enrollment of young people from your village for training," she began in an official tone, as if reading a statement. "This year our caravan is passing through the northern territories of the Empire, and your village is on the list. The Academy offers you food, lodging, and education: combat training, lectures under experienced mentors, and access to knowledge and technology. All that is required from you is your consent and a promise to complete the full course of training."
I listened to her speech, but in my head one thought was spinning: What does she want from me? She speaks smoothly, as if reading from a script, but it all sounds vague. Enrollment, training… Me? Our backwater – and suddenly the Academy needs me?
"So?" I asked dryly, not quite getting the point.
Tali furrowed her brow at my tone but repeated more directly, "We are inviting you," she emphasized, "to join the Academy as a cadet." You will be provided with housing, uniforms, training grounds, and everything necessary until you complete the training. All that will be required from you is one signature and later — a written oath to finish the course."
Well, she could have said that earlier. Still, my mind raced: could it be true? Free food and lodging for someone like me? It sounded like a trap or a cruel joke. I narrowed my eyes suspiciously.
For a moment everything around us fell quiet – even the children went silent, listening to her smooth words. And then a harsh croaking voice sounded from the side: "Don't you dare fill that boy's head with nonsense, girl!"
About five paces away by the neighbor's fence stood a broad-shouldered man, apparently drawn by the commotion. I recognized him: Uncle Rodin, the local troublemaker. He pointed a finger at the girl and hoarsely shouted, "Kid, don't you dare agree to this nonsense! Common folk are lured into those academies for appearance's sake, supposedly to learn reading and writing… But in reality the noble offspring cripple them for fun! Good luck returning alive – or you might find it's a short walk from death, and they might not even let you come back!"
"That's an exaggeration," Tali snapped back frowning, but Rodin just snorted and waved his hand. He didn't argue further – discontentedly spitting into the dust, he stomped away behind the nearest shed.
The visitor clearly bristled at my indecision. She opened her mouth to say something back to him, but at the last moment held herself back. Instead, she locked eyes with me. And I remained silent, still turning over what I had heard. The words settled slowly, heavily in my mind, unwilling to fit together at once.
Honestly, the whole idea of the Academy seemed strange. Yet something inside me had already jumped… Of course, Rodin was a fearmonger, but maybe he had a point? And this recruiter, as nice as she seemed, was a stranger here.
Just in case, I decided to bring her back down to earth: "Honestly, I don't give a damn about your offer," I snapped, trying to sound as indifferent as possible, looking her in the brown eyes.
The girl squinted displeasedly. Apparently she didn't hear that sort of answer often.
I turned away, pretending to be completely indifferent. But inside my head, thoughts were racing: What if…?
Leave home… abandon the hunting, the berries, our ramshackle shack. Dream or folly? How many nights have I fallen asleep staring at the rotten ceiling, thinking about this! With each thought the desire to escape grew like a snowball. But one thing always stopped me: what would happen to Father? Running away without saying goodbye – that would be cowardly. And could he manage on his own? He hardly eats without me… Though sporadically he does go hunting, I know that.
I frowned, noticing from the corner of my eye that Ms. Karow was watching my expression carefully. It seemed she sensed my inner struggle. After a minute of awkward silence, she spoke again, this time more softly: "You don't have to answer right now. Tomorrow early in the morning, everyone who wishes to go will gather in the center of the village. From there we will send them – that is, you – to the Academy. Just come, and we'll take that as your consent."
Without waiting for a reaction, Tali Karow handed me that same sheet – the invitation, presumably – and hastily walked away. She looked irritated: no one likes to be told "I couldn't care less."
I stood there for a minute looking around. Besides Tali, about a dozen others were walking around the village with invitations in hand, their faces equally tense. I crumpled the paper in my fingers, then carefully tucked it into my pocket. Then I slowly turned my gaze to the house.
Father… He'd heard the entire conversation. Hidden behind the barely cracked door, he hadn't been eavesdropping purposefully, but there was no doubt: not a word had escaped him.
For the first time in a long time, I felt the urge to seek his advice.
I went inside. Father was still sitting on his bed, head down, as if waiting or pretending nothing was happening.
"Should I… go or not?" I asked softly.
It wasn't easy – asking him something like that. We hadn't talked about anything serious in so long… I hardly dared hope for an answer.
But Father suddenly lifted his head. Not through me – he looked straight at me with his dark, tired eyes. My heart leaped: he seemed himself again, maybe even thinking about my question? In his gaze I saw something warm and alive flicker. To be honest, I was stunned – I hadn't seen that look in years.
"I'll manage. Go," he finally whispered, almost in a whisper.
He himself… will manage? I hadn't misheard? Was that really permission?
I wanted to ask again to be certain, but Father had already turned away and lay down facing the wall. The conversation was over, without words, without explanation, as always.
I let out a slow breath. My heart was pounding in my chest, half with joy, half with fear. There it was. A silent blessing. Or was it indifference? No… not at all. He had looked at me like a human being. For the first time in many years. Not like a burden, not like a problem – like a son. So, maybe he did wish for a better future for me after all.
The rest of the day dragged on agonizingly slowly. I didn't leave the house, afraid of running into more well-meaning folks like Rodin who would try to scare me and talk me out of it. I sat by the window, leafing through that family book about the barbarians – but the letters jumped before my eyes. Only one thought swirled in my head: what awaited me tomorrow?
Outside came the familiar sounds: dogs barking, a fire crackling somewhere, and voices calling each other a couple of times in the distance. My attempt at eating was a failure – I could barely swallow a single piece. I reheated the leftover rabbit meat from the morning and forced down a couple of wormy apples. The taste was barely there.
By evening the nervous tremor had eased a bit. Eventually the sky darkened and, once again, the pale moon rose over the now-empty village. Its cold light, piercing through the low clouds, flooded our shabby streets. I watched it through the ragged cloth covering the window and thought, well, the decision is made. Tomorrow everything would change.