Eric knows he is not alone before he ever sees the man.

  The knowledge settles into him like grit under the skin, irritating, undeniable. The roadless stretch beyond the capital’s outer farms is quiet in a way that feels staged. Birds flit, insects hum, but nothing larger moves. No careless rustle. No distant footfall. Just the sense of being measured.

  He keeps walking anyway.

  The morning is pale and damp, the sun a weak smear behind thin cloud. Eric does not look back. He remembers too well how predators behave when they think their prey is nervous. Instead, he adjusts his grip on the cracked dagger at his belt and lets his shoulders slump, letting exhaustion show.

  If someone followed him out the gate, they think he is weak.

  They are not wrong, but they are not right either.

  He walks until his legs burn, until the fields give way to scrub and broken stone. Only when he stops to drink from his pitiful canteen does the truth confirm itself. A shadow shifts where no shadow should move. A footprint overlaps his own from earlier that morning.

  Someone stalks him with ease.

  Eric exhales slowly through his nose. “Of course,” he mutters to no one.

  He does not run.

  That decision surprises even him.

  The night before taught him something important: panic wastes energy. Shivering through darkness with nothing but his own thoughts had carved that lesson deep. He had lived through that by staying still, by listening, by enduring.

  So he does the same now.

  He walks until the sun thins the shadows, then chooses a rise of ground broken by old stones and sparse brush. If he’s going to be attacked, he wants space to see it coming. He loosens his shoulders, rolls his neck, and tells himself a lie he almost believes.

  I can handle this.

  The attack comes at dawn, exactly as predators prefer.

  Eric hears the scrape of a foot against stone an instant before pain blooms along his side. The dagger flashes in his peripheral vision, too close, too fast. He twists on instinct, not skill, and the blade skids across his ribs instead of burying itself between them.

  He screams, not in fear, but in shock and anger.

  The rogue swears and springs back, already resetting, already calculating. He’s lean, dark-haired, face half-hidden beneath a hood. His movements are fluid in a way Eric’s are not.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Should’ve stayed in the city, boy,” the rogue says lightly. “Would’ve been easier.”

  Eric clamps a hand over his bleeding side and bares his teeth. “You followed me.”

  “Contract’s a contract.”

  That’s all the warning Eric gets.

  The rogue darts in again, blade flicking toward Eric’s thigh. Eric jerks back, too slow, and the knife bites shallow but hot. Blood stains his trousers. His breath comes fast, ragged.

  This is not a duel. This is not training. This is messy and ugly and terrifying.

  Eric swings his dagger wildly. The rogue laughs and dances away.

  “No class. No skills,” the rogue says. “You don’t belong out here.”

  The words land harder than the blade.

  Something old stirs in Eric’s chest, memories of fists in hallways, of being cornered and laughed at, of teachers looking away. His grip tightens. His breathing steadies, not because he is calm, but because he has been here before.

  Bullies bleed too, a younger version of himself whispers.

  The rogue comes in low, feinting left and cutting right. Eric feels another slash across his arm and grunts, stumbling. Pain flares bright and sharp, but it does not drop him.

  He does not stop.

  He charges.

  The rogue did not expect that.

  Eric barrels forward with his shoulder, ignoring the blade scraping his ribs again, and they crash together. The impact knocks the air from both of them. The rogue snarls, tries to twist free, but Eric clings like a drowning man.

  They hit the dirt hard.

  Eric’s world reduces to heat, breath, and the weight of another body struggling beneath him. The rogue’s knee drives into his stomach. Eric nearly blacks out but slams his forehead down in answer.

  Bone cracks.

  The rogue screams.

  Eric stabs.

  It is not clean. It is not precise. The dagger slides between ribs more by luck than aim, sinking deep into the rogue’s chest. The man gasps, eyes wide with shock more than pain.

  For a heartbeat, they stare at each other.

  Then the rogue goes still.

  Eric does not move. He kneels there, panting, blood dripping from his fingers into the dirt. His arms shake violently. His wounds throb in ugly chorus with his heartbeat.

  “I… I won,” he whispers, unsure why he says it out loud.

  There is no answer.

  The warmth comes quietly.

  At first he thinks it’s adrenaline, or shock finally breaking. Then he realizes it’s spreading, from his chest, from somewhere deep inside him. His breathing eases. The pain dulls from sharp to aching.

  He looks down in disbelief as the bleeding slows.

  “What…?” His voice cracks.

  No prompt appears. No fanfare. Just the subtle sense of something noticing him for the first time.

  Eric swallows hard.

  It takes several long minutes before he dares to search the body.

  His hands tremble as he rolls the rogue onto his back. The man’s eyes stare blankly at the sky. Eric flinches and looks away, then forces himself to continue.

  “You tried to kill me,” he mutters, as if that settles something.

  The rogue’s pack is better than his own, sturdy leather, patched but cared for. Inside are folded clothes, thicker than Eric’s rags, and a handful of copper coins that clink softly together. Two daggers one in a sheath the other clenched in a dead fist covered in Eric’s own blood, both in better shape than the cracked thing Eric still clutches.

  He takes them all.

  His stomach twists, but not enough to stop him.

  When he finishes, Eric steps back and leaves the body where it lies. No burial. No prayer. Just dirt and silence.

  He walks until the adrenaline fades and exhaustion crashes in. Only then does he notice how stiff his side feels, how the cuts have closed more than they should have.

  He does not question it.

  Instead, he adjusts the new pack on his shoulders, tighter now, heavier with possibility. His steps are slower, more careful.

  He knows his limits better now.

  And he knows the world will not wait for him to find comfort before it teaches him again.