Chapter 13: Among the Forgotten

Terfen, Vesmere 19th, AE 1928, Dolyadiree, The Wyldhart

A year had passed since the Council’s judgment, since the hammer fell, since the door slammed shut on everything Voron had ever known. Over three hundred and sixty days of survival that felt more like slow drowning than living. The Sylvarinian Wilds—those silver-canopied halls where he had once walked as nobility—were now forbidden to him, a paradise lost behind an invisible wall of shame. So he had drifted westward through the Thanian forests, as her father had suggested, until he reached the Wyldhart.

The Wyldhart was not the grand capital its name might suggest to outsiders. It was a smaller nation, one of dozens scattered throughout the Eastern Thanian territories of the Imperial Union, where the forest began to thin and give way to rolling farmland. Here, the trees were not silver but ordinary oak and elm, their leaves a common green that held no magic, no memory. The buildings were timber and stone rather than the living wood architecture of the Sylvarinian Wilds, and the people—mostly Aundairian, with a scattering of other races—moved through their days with a practical indifference that was both alienating and, in its own way, merciful.

No one here knew who he had been. No one recognized the particular style of his mutilation or understood the specific runes carved into his antler stumps. To them, he was simply another unfortunate, another body among the poor and displaced who gathered in the city's lower quarters. And perhaps that anonymity should have been a comfort.

It wasn't.

The pain had not diminished with time. If anything, it had calcified, becoming a permanent weight he carried in his chest, in his shoulders, in the phantom ache where his antlers once crowned him. Every morning, he woke to the same disorienting moment of forgetting, followed by the crushing remembrance. Every reflective surface became an enemy, showing him the truth he could never escape: the jagged stumps, the clipped ears, the runes that named him thief in the old Sylvarin script.

He had survived this year through a patchwork of desperate measures. In the beginning, he had foraged in the wilds as his people had taught him—identifying edible roots, tracking small game, finding clean water. The skills that had once been gentleman's knowledge, the refined understanding of nature that marked Sylvarin nobility, had become the thin thread keeping him from starvation. But foraging could only sustain him so far, especially as autumn turned to winter, and winter to spring, and spring to summer again.

The commonfolk had occasionally taken pity on him. A baker's wife who left day-old bread on her back step where he might find it. A farmer who allowed him to sleep in his barn during a particularly vicious storm, asking no questions about the broken antlers or mutilated ears. A tavern keeper who sometimes set aside scraps from the kitchen, bones with a bit of meat still clinging to them, vegetable peelings that hadn't quite gone bad. These small mercies had kept him alive, but they had also taught him a bitter lesson about charity: it was always conditional, always temporary, always given with the understanding that he would move along soon and not become anyone's permanent problem.

He had tried to find work, of course. In those first months, before hunger had hollowed his cheeks and desperation had dulled his eyes, he had approached merchants and craftsmen, offering his labor. But the clipped ears and broken antlers told a story that needed no words, and the runes—even to those who couldn't read them—clearly marked him as someone who had been judged and found wanting by his own people. Why would an Aundairian merchant trust someone the Sylvarin themselves had cast out? Why would a craftsman take on an apprentice who bore the physical marks of dishonor?

The rejections had been swift and often cruel. Some had simply turned him away with a shake of the head. Others had been more explicit in their disgust, calling him "marked one" or "ruined" or, most cutting of all, "thief"—because even those who couldn't read Sylvarin runes could recognize the symbol for theft when they saw it burned into bone.

So he had learned to make himself small, to move through the city like a ghost, to take up as little space as possible. He slept in alleys and abandoned buildings, always moving before he could be rousted by the city guard. He learned which merchants were careless with their goods, which market stalls had blind spots, which taverns threw out food that was still edible. He learned the rhythms of the city, the patterns of its people, the invisible rules that governed life at the bottom.

And he learned to hate himself a little more each day.

Because the worst part—the part that gnawed at him in the dark hours before dawn—was that he was innocent. He had not committed the theft they accused him of. He had not betrayed his people's trust. The evidence had been fabricated, the witnesses either mistaken or malicious, the Council's judgment rushed and politically motivated. He had tried to defend himself, had pleaded his case, had begged them to investigate further. But the decision had already been made before he was dragged before them. Someone had wanted him destroyed, and they had succeeded.

He didn't know who. He didn't know why. And that ignorance was its own special torture.

Sana's face haunted him. Not the warm, loving face he had known in their courtship, but that final cold stare from the stairs, the way her eyes had traced his mutilation with something that looked almost like satisfaction. Had she known? Had she been part of it? Or had her love simply been so shallow that it couldn't survive the loss of his status? He would never know, and not knowing was a wound that wouldn't heal.

The summer heat had settled over the Wyldhart like a heavy blanket, making the lower quarters—always rank with the smell of too many people living too close together—nearly unbearable. Voron had been moving through the market district as the afternoon sun began its descent, his stomach a tight knot of hunger. He hadn't eaten in two days, not since a sympathetic cook had given him half a meat pie that was starting to turn. The hunger was a constant companion now, a gnawing presence that made it hard to think clearly, hard to remember why he kept going.

He found himself standing outside a clothier's shop, staring through the wavy glass at the goods displayed within. Fine fabrics, well-made garments, the kind of quality that spoke of wealth and status. The kind of things he had once worn without thought, when he was someone who mattered. The shop was busy, the proprietor and his assistant occupied with customers, their attention focused inward.

And there, just inside the doorway, was a small display of leather goods—belts, pouches, small accessories. The kind of items that could be easily sold, that would fetch enough coin for a proper meal, maybe even a room for the night. The kind of items that a desperate person might take if they were hungry enough, if they had been pushed far enough, if they had nothing left to lose.

Voron's hand moved toward the door handle almost of its own accord. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming shallow and quick. It would be so easy. Just slip inside during the commotion, palm one of the smaller pouches, walk out as if he belonged there. He had watched enough thieves work the market to know the basic techniques. And what did he have to fear? He was already marked as a thief. He was already ruined. What was one more crime added to a false accusation?

His fingers touched the cool metal of the door handle.

And then he caught sight of his reflection in the glass.

The figure staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. Gaunt cheeks, hollow eyes, clothes that were little more than rags. But it was the antlers—the broken, jagged stumps—that drew his gaze and held it. And there, carved into the bone with cruel precision, the runes that named him thief. The symbols seemed to burn in the afternoon light, a permanent accusation, a prophecy he was about to fulfill.

They called you a thief when you were innocent, a voice whispered in his mind. Will you prove them right now? Will you become what they named you?

His hand fell away from the door handle as if it had burned him.

He staggered backward, nearly colliding with a passing merchant, and pressed himself against the wall of the adjacent building. His breath came in ragged gasps, his whole body trembling with the nearness of the thing he had almost done. The hunger was still there, the desperation still clawed at him, but something else had risen up to meet it—a stubborn, aching refusal to surrender the last shred of who he had been.

They had taken his antlers, his ears, his status, his home, his betrothed, his future. They had taken everything except the truth of his innocence. And if he stole now, if he became what they had falsely named him, then they would have taken that too. They would have won completely.

"I am not a thief," he whispered to himself, the words barely audible over the noise of the market. "I am not what they say I am."

It was a small defiance, a tiny rebellion against the weight of the runes burned into his bone. But it was all he had left.

He didn't notice the figure watching him from across the street.

The man stood in the shadow of an awning, his features obscured by a deep hood despite the summer heat. He had been there for some time, observing with the patient stillness of a predator studying potential prey. He had watched Voron approach the shop, had seen the hunger and desperation in every line of his body, had recognized the moment of decision. And he had seen the moment of refusal, the way the young Sylvarin had pulled back from the edge, had chosen honor over survival.

Interesting.

The hooded figure melted back into the crowd, but he did not leave. He simply repositioned himself, finding new vantage points from which to observe. Because this broken, starving boy with the mutilated antlers and the carved runes had just done something unexpected. He had chosen principle over pragmatism. And that was either the mark of a fool or something far more valuable.

The man intended to find out which.

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For three days, Voron felt the weight of eyes upon him.

It was a subtle thing at first, easy to dismiss as paranoia born of hunger and exhaustion. A prickling at the back of his neck as he moved through the market. A sense of presence that vanished whenever he turned to look. The feeling of being studied, assessed, measured against some unknown standard.

By the second day, he was certain. Someone was following him.

His Sylvarin senses, dulled by malnutrition and despair, still retained enough of their natural acuity to detect the pattern. The same hooded figure, always at a distance, always careful to remain in his peripheral vision rather than direct line of sight. Whoever it was, they were skilled at surveillance, moving with a practiced ease that spoke of experience. But they weren't trying very hard to remain completely hidden, which suggested they didn't particularly care if Voron knew he was being watched.

The question was why.

Voron's first instinct was fear. Had the Council sent someone to finish what they'd started? Were they not content with exile and mutilation—did they want him dead as well? But that made no sense. If they wanted him killed, they would have done it a year ago. And besides, this didn't feel like an assassin's surveillance. There was something almost... curious about it, as if the watcher were trying to understand him rather than simply waiting for the right moment to strike.

On the third day, as the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the narrow streets of the lower quarter, Voron made a decision. He was tired of being watched, tired of the uncertainty, tired of feeling like prey. If someone wanted something from him, they could damn well ask directly.

He had been making his way toward one of his usual spots—an alley behind a tavern where the kitchen staff sometimes left scraps—when he stopped abruptly and turned to face the direction he knew the watcher would be. For a moment, there was nothing, just the normal flow of people going about their business. Then the crowd parted slightly, and the hooded figure stepped forward, no longer bothering to conceal his presence.

They stood there for a long moment, separated by perhaps twenty steps of dusty street, studying each other. Voron's hand instinctively moved to where his antlers once were, a defensive gesture he'd developed over the past year. The hooded figure remained still, patient, waiting.

Finally, the figure moved. With deliberate slowness, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

The man revealed was perhaps in his mid-forties, though he carried himself with the vigor of someone younger. What struck Voron immediately was his coloring—bright red hair, almost flame-like in the afternoon sun, and deep blue eyes that seemed to hold both intelligence and something harder, more calculating. These were the typical features of Obroians, those from the Far Southern Imperial Obros at the southern part of the Aundrossar Continent. Voron had seen few Obroians in his life; they rarely traveled this far north, and their empire was known more through reputation than direct contact.

The man's face was weathered but handsome, with the kind of lines that suggested a life of both laughter and hardship. He wore clothes that were well-made but not ostentatious, the kind that allowed him to move through different social circles without drawing undue attention. There was a sword at his hip, worn with the casual ease of someone who knew how to use it, and his hands—when he clasped them in front of him—bore the calluses of a man familiar with violence.

But it was his eyes that held Voron's attention. They were assessing, yes, but not cruel. There was a sharpness there, an intelligence that seemed to be constantly calculating, but also something that might have been sympathy. Or perhaps just professional interest.

The man smiled, and when he spoke, his voice carried the melodic accent of the southern empire, each word precisely enunciated in a way that marked him as educated despite the roughness of his appearance.

"Hey, boy?" he said, his tone almost conversational. "Are you tired of eating garbage and scraps?"

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The question was so direct, so casually brutal in its honesty, that Voron actually flinched. For a moment, he couldn't find words. This stranger had been watching him for three days, had seen him at his lowest, had witnessed his desperate scavenging and his near-theft and his daily humiliation. And now he stood there, smiling slightly, as if they were old acquaintances meeting for a drink rather than a broken exile and his mysterious stalker.

"Who are you?" Voron managed finally, his voice rough from disuse. He didn't speak much these days; there was rarely anyone to speak to.

The man's smile widened slightly. "Ah, forgive my rudeness. Introductions are in order, I suppose." He executed a small, almost mocking bow. "Milo Duval de Passe de Creux, at your service. Though most simply call me Milo, as the full name tends to be rather a mouthful for northerners."

The name meant nothing to Voron, but the elaborate construction of it suggested nobility or at least high status in Obroian society. The "de Passe de Creux" indicated a family of some standing from the Imperial Capital known to the northerns as Hollowpass, Possibly a landed gentry or minor aristocrat. But what was an Obroian nobleman doing in a backwater country like the Wyldhart, watching a disgraced Sylvarin scavenge for food?

"You've been following me," Voron said, stating the obvious because he didn't know what else to say.

"I have," Milo agreed without a hint of shame. "For three days now. You're an interesting specimen, boy. Not many in your position would have walked away from that clothier's shop. Most would have taken what they needed and justified it with their circumstances. But you didn't. You looked at those runes on your antlers and you chose differently." He tilted his head, studying Voron with those sharp blue eyes. "Why?"

Voron's hand moved again to his broken antlers, a gesture that was becoming unconscious. "Because I'm not a thief," he said quietly. "No matter what they carved into my bones."

"Ah," Milo said, and there was something like satisfaction in his voice. "Yes. That's what I thought." He took a step closer, and Voron tensed, but the man made no threatening moves. "Tell me, boy—what's your name?"

"Voron." It came out as barely more than a whisper. He hadn't said his own name aloud in months.

"Voron," Milo repeated, as if testing the weight of it. "A good Sylvarin name. Strong. Noble, even." His eyes flickered to the broken antlers, the clipped ears. "Though I suspect you're no longer welcome among your people, are you? Those marks tell quite a story."

Shame burned in Voron's chest, hot and familiar. "If you're here to mock me—"

"Mock you?" Milo interrupted, and he actually sounded offended. "No, no, boy. Quite the opposite. I'm here to offer you something. An opportunity, if you will."

Voron stared at him, suspicion warring with desperate hope. "What kind of opportunity?"

Milo glanced around the street, noting the people passing by, the potential for eavesdroppers. "Perhaps not the best place for this conversation. There's a tavern two streets over—the Broken Wheel. Meet me there just before dusk. I'll buy you a proper meal, and we can discuss business." He started to turn away, then paused. "Oh, and Voron? Don't run. You won't get far, and besides..." He gestured vaguely at Voron's emaciated frame. "Where would you go? What would you do? At least hear what I have to say. What have you got to lose?"

With that, he pulled his hood back up and melted into the crowd, leaving Voron standing alone in the street, his mind reeling.

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Just before dusk, Voron pushed open the door of the Broken Wheel tavern, his heart hammering with a mixture of fear and anticipation. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread hit him like a physical force, making his empty stomach clench painfully. How long had it been since he'd eaten a real meal? Weeks? Months?

The tavern was moderately busy, filled with the kind of working-class patrons who came for cheap ale and cheaper food after a long day's labor. No one looked up as Voron entered; he was just another poor soul seeking shelter from the world. He spotted Milo immediately, sitting at a corner table with a clear view of both the door and the rest of the room. The Obroian had positioned himself like a man accustomed to watching his back.

Milo gestured to the empty chair across from him, and Voron approached slowly, every instinct screaming that this was a trap, that nothing good could come from a mysterious stranger offering help. But the smell of food was overwhelming, and Milo's question echoed in his mind: What have you got to lose?

He sat.

"Good," Milo said approvingly. "I wasn't entirely certain you'd come. Some people are too proud to accept help, even when they're starving." He raised a hand, and a serving girl appeared almost immediately. "Two of whatever's hot, and ale for me. Water for the boy—he needs to rehydrate before he can handle alcohol."

The girl nodded and disappeared, and Voron found himself staring at Milo with a mixture of confusion and wariness. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Buying you a meal?" Milo leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert. "Call it an investment. I'm interested in recruiting you for a job, and I've found that people negotiate better on a full stomach."

"A job," Voron repeated flatly. "What kind of job?"

"The kind that pays well," Milo said with a slight smile. "But we'll get to the details. First, tell me—how did you end up like this? Those runes, that mutilation... that's not standard punishment for petty crimes. Someone wanted to make an example of you."

Voron's jaw tightened. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Fair enough," Milo said easily. "Though I'll note that a man who won't discuss his past is usually either guilty or traumatized. Given that you walked away from an easy theft three days ago, I'm inclined to believe the latter." He paused as the serving girl returned with two steaming plates of stew and bread, along with their drinks. "Eat," he commanded. "We'll talk after."

Voron didn't need to be told twice. He fell on the food with a desperation that would have shamed him if he'd had any shame left to spare. The stew was simple—chunks of meat and vegetables in a thick broth—but it tasted like the finest cuisine he'd ever eaten. He forced himself to slow down after the first few bites, knowing that eating too quickly after prolonged hunger could make him sick, but it took every ounce of willpower he possessed.

Milo watched him eat with an expression that might have been pity, though it was hard to tell. The Obroian sipped his ale and waited patiently, not speaking until Voron had finished the entire bowl and most of the bread.

Finally, when Voron sat back with a sigh that was almost painful in its relief, Milo set down his mug and leaned forward.

"Better?" he asked.

Voron nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Good. Now, let's talk business." Milo's tone shifted, becoming more serious, more focused. "I'm looking for someone to assist me with a particular task. It's work of an... unsavory nature, shall we say. Not strictly legal, though not entirely illegal either. It exists in that gray area where the law becomes flexible depending on who's paying and who's being paid."

"You want me to help you commit crimes," Voron said bluntly.

"I want you to help me complete a contract," Milo corrected. "There's a difference, though I'll grant it's a subtle one." He studied Voron's face. "You're wondering why I would choose you. A broken, starving boy with no skills, no connections, no resources. Yes?"

Voron nodded slowly.

"Because you have nothing to lose," Milo said simply. "And that makes you perfect. A man with nothing to lose is a man who can take risks that others won't. A man with nothing to lose is a man who can be molded, trained, shaped into something useful. And most importantly..." He gestured at the broken antlers. "A man who's already been marked as a criminal has very little reason to fear becoming one."

The words hit Voron like a slap. "I'm not a criminal."

"No," Milo agreed. "Not yet. But look at yourself, boy. Look at what they've done to you. Those runes on your antlers—do you know what they mean to the world? They mean you're a thief, regardless of the truth. They mean no honest work will ever be available to you. They mean you'll spend the rest of your life scavenging and starving and sleeping in alleys, until eventually you die of disease or exposure or simple despair." He leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "Or you can accept that the world has already judged you, and you can use that judgment to your advantage. You can become what they fear you are, but on your own terms. You can take control of your own story."

"What kind of work?" Voron asked again, his voice barely above a whisper.

Milo smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "The unsavory type, as I said. We'll be working for nobles, primarily. Recovering things they've lost, delivering messages they don't want traced, occasionally applying pressure to people who need... convincing. Nothing too violent, at least not at first. You're not ready for that yet."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then you walk out of here with a full belly and we never speak again," Milo said with a shrug. "I'll find someone else. There's always someone desperate enough. But I think you're smarter than that, Voron. I think you understand that this is probably the only real opportunity you're going to get. Because let's be honest—what are your other options? You can't go back to your people. You can't find legitimate work with those marks. You can't even steal successfully because you're too damn honorable." He said the last word with a mixture of admiration and exasperation. "So what's left? Slow starvation? Eventual suicide? Or you can take my hand and at least try to build something from the ruins of your life."

Voron stared at him, his mind churning. Everything Milo said was true, and that was what made it so terrible. He had been clinging to some vague hope that things would get better, that somehow he would find a way to survive with his integrity intact. But a year of suffering had taught him the harsh reality: integrity didn't fill an empty stomach. Honor didn't keep you warm at night. And the world didn't care about the truth of your innocence when lies had been carved into your very bones.

"Why me?" he asked again, but this time the question was different. "You said I have nothing to lose, but there must be hundreds of desperate people in this city. Why follow me specifically for three days?"

Milo's expression softened slightly. "Because you walked away from that shop. Because when you looked at those runes, you chose to remain innocent despite everything they'd done to you. That tells me you have principles, Voron. And a man with principles can be trusted, even when he's doing untrustworthy things. A man with principles has lines he won't cross, and that makes him predictable. Reliable." He paused. "And because I saw something of myself in you, if I'm being honest. I know what it's like to be cast out, to be marked as something you're not, to have to rebuild yourself from nothing. I know that particular kind of pain."

There was something in his voice, a note of genuine empathy, that made Voron believe him. This wasn't just a recruitment pitch. Milo had lived through something similar, had walked a path that paralleled Voron's own suffering.

"What would I have to do?" Voron asked quietly.

"First, you'd need training," Milo said, his tone becoming businesslike again. "You're in no condition to be useful to anyone right now. You need to regain your strength, learn some practical skills, understand how to move in the shadows without being seen. That will take time—months, probably. I'll provide food, shelter, and instruction. In return, you'll work for me. You'll assist me with my contracts, and you'll help me with a particular personal matter."

"What personal matter?"

Milo's expression hardened, and for the first time, Voron saw something dangerous in those blue eyes. "Twenty-two years ago, a woman escaped from Obros. A woman with red hair and blue eyes, like mine. Her name is Fleur Duval, and she's family—though the exact relationship is complicated. She took something that didn't belong to her when she fled, and she's been hiding ever since. I've been searching for her for a very long time, and I'm getting close. Once you're trained, once you're ready, you'll help me find her and recover what was stolen."

"And then what?" Voron asked. "What happens to her?"

"That depends on her," Milo said coldly. "If she returns what she took and comes back willingly, then perhaps mercy is possible. If not..." He left the sentence unfinished, but the implication was clear.

Voron felt a chill run down his spine. This was more than just unsavory work. This was a blood hunt, a family vendetta that had been simmering for more than two decades. And Milo wanted him to be part of it.

But what choice did he have?

He looked down at his hands, thin and scarred from a year of hardship. He thought about the broken antlers, the clipped ears, the runes that named him thief. He thought about Sana's cold stare, her father's disgust, the Council's judgment. He thought about the year of suffering, the endless hunger, the slow erosion of everything he had once been.

And he thought about Milo's words: You can become what they fear you are, but on your own terms.

Maybe that was the only real choice left to him. Maybe the only way forward was to embrace the darkness they had thrust upon him, to become something new from the ashes of who he had been. Not a thief, perhaps, but something else. Something harder. Something that could survive in a world that had no place for broken, honorable fools.

He looked up and met Milo's eyes.

"I'll do it," he said quietly. "I'll work for you."

Milo's smile was genuine this time, reaching his eyes and transforming his face. "Excellent. I had a feeling you'd make the right choice." He raised his mug in a mock toast. "Welcome to your new life, Voron. I promise you, it won't be easy. But it will be better than eating garbage and sleeping in alleys."

"When do we start?" Voron asked.

"Tomorrow," Milo said. "Tonight, you'll sleep in a real bed for the first time in awhile. I have rooms at an inn on the edge of the city. Tomorrow, we begin your training. And Voron?" He leaned forward, his expression serious. "Once we start this, there's no going back. You understand that, yes? You'll be crossing a line, and once crossed, it can't be uncrossed. You'll be committing yourself to a path that most would call criminal, immoral, wrong. Are you certain this is what you want?"

Voron thought about it for a long moment. Was he certain? No. He wasn't certain of anything anymore. But he was tired—so desperately tired—of suffering, of starving, of being nothing and no one. And if the world had already judged him guilty, if his own people had already marked him as a criminal, then what did it matter if he actually became one?

At least this way, he would be choosing his own fate rather than having it chosen for him.

"I'm certain," he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it.

Milo nodded, satisfied. "Then drink up, boy. Tomorrow, your real education begins."

They sat in the tavern for another hour, Milo asking careful questions about Voron's skills and background, Voron answering with increasing honesty as the food settled in his stomach and the reality of his new situation began to sink in. The Obroian was a good listener, asking follow-up questions that showed he was genuinely interested in understanding Voron's capabilities and limitations.

As the evening deepened and the tavern grew more crowded, Milo finally stood and gestured for Voron to follow. They left the Broken Wheel and walked through the darkening streets toward the eastern edge of the city, where the buildings were slightly better maintained and the clientele slightly more respectable. The inn Milo led him to was called the Silver Mare, a modest establishment that catered to traveling merchants and minor functionaries.

Milo had two rooms on the second floor, and he showed Voron to the smaller one with a casualness that suggested this was all perfectly normal. The room was simple but clean, with a real bed, a washbasin, and a window that looked out over the street. To Voron, who had been sleeping in alleys and abandoned buildings for a year, it looked like paradise.

"Get some rest," Milo said from the doorway. "Tomorrow will be difficult. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in." He paused, then added more gently, "And Voron? Welcome aboard. I think we're going to do well together."

Then he was gone, closing the door behind him and leaving Voron alone in the room.