“They say he wanders from place to place, doing as he pleases.”

- rumor about a certain sage

Andros froze at the sound of the old man’s voice, the words cutting through the quiet of the night. His first instinct was to bolt, but his body was too tired from the running and the surge of adrenaline that had barely kept him going. His stomach growled at the scent of the stew, and the exhaustion of the past few weeks weighed heavily on him. The old man hadn’t even turned around, his back still to Andros, but somehow, he knew.

“I don’t bite,” the old man added, still not looking up from the fire. “I’d say I’m too old for it, but that wouldn’t be entirely true.”

There was a strange warmth to his voice, though, which made Andros hesitate. Whoever this man was, he seemed calm, unperturbed by Andros’s presence, even though he could have been a potential threat. That calmness, in itself, felt disarming. The fire flickered in front of the man, casting long shadows of the trees around them, adding an eerie contrast to the quietness of the night.

Andros took a deep breath and stepped into the campsite. He kept his hands loose, ready to defend himself if it turned out to be a trap. But he couldn’t ignore the overwhelming fatigue or the gnawing hunger. His eyes darted around the small, simple campsite: a few rolled-up blankets near the fire, a wooden bowl resting beside the man, and the walking stick that looked well-worn but sturdy.

The old man finally turned slightly, revealing a face lined with wrinkles and a beard that reached down to his chest. His eyes glinted in the firelight, sharp and alert despite his age.

“Sit,” the man said, gesturing to a patch of ground near the fire. “It’s been a while since I’ve had company. Makes for a lonely meal when you’ve no one to share it with.”

Andros sat cautiously, keeping a bit of distance between himself and the man. The warmth of the fire seeped into his bones, easing some of the chill he had felt since his escape. His hands shook slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through him.

“What’s your name, lad?” the man asked as he stirred the pot of stew with a wooden spoon.

Andros hesitated, the name “Bartholomew” lingering in the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to lie, but at the same time, he didn’t want to reveal too much. He’d barely made it out of that camp alive, and if this man was somehow connected to the soldiers or the inquisitors, then he needed to be careful.

“Andros,” he finally said, his voice quieter than he intended.

The old man raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. “Andros, is it? Strange name for these parts. Well, no matter.” He leaned forward slightly, ladling some of the stew into the wooden bowl beside him. The rich smell of the broth filled the air, and Andros’s stomach clenched again in hunger.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Here,” the man said, holding the bowl out to Andros. “Eat.”

Andros took the bowl cautiously, half expecting something to be wrong with it, but when he took his first bite, the warmth and flavor filled him with relief. The stew was simple—chunks of vegetables and meat in a thick broth—but it was the first decent meal he’d had in days. He ate quickly, not caring if he looked desperate. The old man watched him with a small smile but said nothing. After a few minutes of silence, the man spoke again, his voice low and almost conversational. “Running from something, are ya?”

Andros stopped mid-bite, his body tensing. His mind raced for a response, but the old man continued before he could say anything.

“I can see it in the way you hold yourself,” he said, leaning back against a nearby tree. “You’re tired, scared, and you’ve been running for a while. You have the look of someone who’s lost more than just their way.”

Andros felt a lump form in his throat. He hadn’t talked to anyone about what had happened—not since the attack, not since he’d woken up in Bartholomew’s body. He hadn’t had the chance to process any of it, and now this strange old man was seeing right through him.

“You’re not from here,” the man continued, his voice calm but knowing. “Not from this world, I’d wager.”

Andros’s heart skipped a beat. “What makes you say that?” he asked cautiously.

The old man chuckled softly. “I’ve lived long enough to recognize the signs. No to mention the mana in your body is quite turbulent.”

“Who are you?” Andros finally asked, his voice more steady than he felt.

The old man’s eyes gleamed in the firelight, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something ancient behind them.

“I’m just an old traveler,” he said with a shrug. “A wanderer who’s seen a bit more of the world than most.”

Andros didn’t believe him, not entirely. There was something about this man that felt off, something deeper that he wasn’t revealing. But for now, he couldn’t afford to push. He needed rest, and he needed to figure out his next move.

The two sat in silence for a while, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them. Andros’s mind was still racing, trying to piece together what was happening. The old man’s words had struck a chord, though. He did feel lost—like he didn’t belong, like he was a stranger in this world. But now that he had escaped, what was next? He couldn’t stay on the run forever.

As if reading his thoughts, the old man spoke again.

“You’ve got a choice ahead of you, lad,” he said, his voice softer this time. “You can keep running, but that won’t get you far. Or you can learn to adapt, to survive in this world.”

“How?” Andros asked, his voice barely a whisper.

The old man smiled faintly, though there was something sad in his expression. “That’s the thing about this world,” he said. “It’s not about how strong you are or how much you know. It’s about how much you’re willing to lose.”

Andros stared into the fire, the flames dancing and casting shadows on the ground. He didn’t know what to say. Everything felt so overwhelming—this new body, this new world, the fact that he’d been thrown into it without warning or explanation.

The old man shifted, getting to his feet slowly, using his walking stick for support.

“Rest for the night,” he said, his voice gentle. “In the morning, we’ll see what can be done.”

Andros watched as the old man shuffled toward his bedroll, his mind still spinning. He didn’t know what to think about any of this, but one thing was clear: he couldn’t keep running. Not forever. As he lay down by the fire, the warmth of the flames lulling him into a state of drowsiness, Andros closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep. Tomorrow, he would have to face whatever came next.