The muffled chatter of the market slowly faded away as Viktor and Arelos ventured deeper into the quieter recesses of the city. Their path led them into a secluded side street, where the ambiance of distant laughter and sporadic footsteps dwindled into a serene stillness. The road here was narrow and lined by the slumbering façades of small shops, their windows darkened, save for a persistent flicker of lantern light that danced with the shadows.
Arelos guided Viktor to a small alcove nestled between two old brick buildings. It became clear that this would be their temporary refuge—a pocket of calm amid the city’s tireless embrace. Once cosseted by the muted surroundings, Arelos gave a slight nod of approval, signaling that they had arrived at a suitable spot to take pause.
“This should suffice for now,” Arelos announced, his voice subdued but certain, the veteran undertones of his quiet command echoing slightly against the hard surfaces around them.
Viktor, breathless after the night’s explorations and drawn by a hunger that gnawed sharp and relentless at his insides, immediately moved to unwrap the small loaf of bread. The mere act of unlocking its aroma sparked an eager anticipation, his pulse quickening at the imminent promise of sustenance.
Just as Viktor brought the bread to his lips, Arelos’ firm voice interceded, arresting the momentary respite Viktor so desperately sought.
“Wait,” Arelos instructed, his tone laced with a gentle urgency that didn’t escape Viktor’s attention.
Viktor blinked, his senses dulled by the weariness and hunger that fogged his mind. “What is it?” he managed, the question straining through his mounting impatience.
Arelos surveyed him for a moment, his dark eyes appraising Viktor’s condition with the unflinching inspection of someone who had weathered hardship’s storms. “When’s the last time you ate?” Arelos asked, grounding his question in the stark reality of survival.
The inquiry slashed through Viktor’s haze, imprinting it with a clarity of thought momentarily lost to him. His brow furrowed as he struggled to recall—a timeline blurred by exhaustion and emotional upheaval. “I’m… not sure,” he confessed finally, his words hanging limpid in the air. “Except for the apple from before… it could’ve been four? Maybe five days ago?”
Arelos seemed unsurprised by Viktor’s admission, a knowing glint reflected in his eyes that spoke of experience borne from lived encounters. The acknowledgment prompted Arelos to offer a piece of measured advice—lessons distilled from his very own bouts of deprivation.
“Listen, take small bites,” Arelos urged, his voice an odd blend of instructive authority and understated camaraderie. “Eat slowly. Save some for later. Your stomach won’t handle a feast after starving. I learned the hard way.”
Viktor absorbed the guidance, understanding that while the thought of pacing himself seemed almost cruel at the zenith of his hunger, the pragmatic wisdom in Arelos’ words offered a refuge from physical rebellion.
Reluctantly, Viktor complied, tearing a meager portion from the loaf and savoring it slowly. As the saved portion faded, the richness of its taste unfurled within his mouth—a brief solace that eclipsed his earlier anxieties, permitting a moment’s relief.
The evening air was gentle, carrying soft, whispering melodies. Arelos started walking slowly, prompting Viktor to follow, their steps in rhythm as Viktor took modest bites of bread.
They moved as two shadows batting between the cityscape’s gradual enfolding, a stillness painting their passage deeper into the cobblestone veins of Lycona. The night enveloped them like an intricate tableau, offering a nocturnal embrace that whisked away the city’s prior chaos.
----------------------------------------
As the cool evening air settled over the city, Viktor and Arelos continued their trek through the winding streets. Viktor felt the hearty warmth of the bread slowly ebbing his earlier discomfort, though Arelos’ earlier advice lingered in his mind. With deliberate resolve, Viktor tore off small chunks, savoring the bread’s flavor and resisting the urge to devour it too quickly. The act of restraint required a willpower that felt foreign yet essential.
Arelos, having finished his portion, moved with ease beside Viktor, the boy’s steps steady and purposeful as they navigated past the fading pulse of Lycona’s nocturnal life. Despite the fatigue that clung to Viktor’s every movement, he found solace in the even cadence of their journey, a melancholy symphony composed of silence and occasional echoes.
“Save some for later,” Arelos advised quietly, breaking the silence with a pragmatic reminder. “Your stomach’ll thank you tomorrow.” Viktor nodded in response, acknowledging the wisdom in those words. The gnawing hunger was momentarily placated by the reprieve of sustenance, yet they both understood the necessity of preparation against tomorrow’s uncertainties.
The further they walked, the more the city transformed around them. The bustling energy of Lycona gradually faded into the hushed whispers of residential areas. Here, the streets were narrower, flanked by brick homes that carried an unspoken history etched into their façades. The buildings were ordinary, though shadows played languidly across their features, lending them an air of mystery.
The quiet deepened as they moved deeper into these neighborhoods, the city’s rhythm shifting from the vivacity of movement to a more tranquil, contemplative pace. Viktor noticed the absence of life in numerous houses they passed—many stood darkened, their windows tightly shuttered as if in permanent slumber.
Curiosity piqued, Viktor took in the hollowed-out shells of homes, a disquieting sight of abandonment that contrasted sharply with the city’s more vibrant quarters. Arelos must have sensed his contemplation because he soon offered an explanation.
“The Withering,” Arelos stated, his voice even and devoid of sentiment. “It blew through here last winter. Whole families wiped out. Houses have been empty since.” His words carried the weight of shared human experience, yet delivered with the clinical detachment that marked his understanding of the world.
Viktor absorbed this revelation, the stark reality settling over him like a mantle. There was a solemnness in Arelos’ explanation that danced on the edge of coldness, a truth simply stated with no adornment, devoid of empathy. Viktor recognized the pragmatism necessary for survival yet couldn’t help but feel a pang of discomfort at the matter-of-fact delivery.
As they walked deeper into the quiet streets, Viktor broke the silence, his voice hesitant. “The Withering… have you ever seen it up close? I’ve heard it’s… terrible.”
Arelos didn’t glance over, his gaze fixed ahead. “Yes.”
The answer came short, clipped, but carried a weight that settled uneasily in Viktor’s chest. After a pause, Arelos added, his voice quieter, “It’s not something you forget. I’ve seen it up close… too close.”
Viktor hesitated, studying Arelos’ face in the dim light. “What’s it like?” he asked cautiously, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Arelos sighed, his tone grim and measured, as if picking his words carefully. “It’s slow at first. A cough, a fever—just enough to hope it’s nothing. But then…” He paused, his gaze hardening as if the memory lingered before his eyes. “Then it takes everything.”
Viktor felt the weight of those words settle uncomfortably in his chest. He could tell there was more, something deeper in Arelos’ tone, but it wasn’t his place to dig. After a moment, he shifted the conversation, his voice quiet. “What’ll happen to the houses? The ones left empty?”
Arelos shrugged, the ghost of a bemused smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Not sure,” he replied, the cryptic answer leaving Viktor with more questions than answers. “But for now, their misfortune is our fortune,” Arelos concluded, sparing a glance at Viktor. There was no malice in his words, simply the stark acceptance of opportunity born from the ruins of others’ tragedies.
The notion sat heavily with Viktor, the juxtaposition of his survival against the backdrop of loss pressing into his thoughts. It was a sentiment Arelos vocalized so straightforwardly, yet Viktor understood its implication—the delicate balance between adaptation and compassion in a world that demanded resilience.
They continued in silence for some time, the cobbled streets guiding them through the quiet district. Viktor’s steps grew heavier, eyelids drooping from the exhaustion that seeped into his bones.
Eventually, Arelos paused, glancing around before leading Viktor down a narrow lane that ended in an abandoned cul-de-sac. The homes here were weary and worn, their façades whispering stories of the lives they had once contained.
“This way,” Arelos murmured, gesturing towards a nondescript house at the end of the lane.
----------------------------------------
The last vestiges of sunlight had long disappeared, leaving the sky a deep, inky black, dotted with a smattering of stars that blinked through the velvety darkness. The air had grown colder, and Viktor could feel the chill seeping through his thin clothes, a stark reminder of the necessity of finding shelter.
Instead of approaching the front door, Arelos veered around to the back of the house, where a wooden ladder leaned precariously against the wall, reaching up toward a window in the attic. “Up here,” Arelos added, starting his climb with practiced ease. He moved with a nimbleness born of familiarity, each step assured as he ascended to the window.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Viktor hesitated for a brief moment, glancing up at the ladder and then back at the empty street. The day's events weighed heavily on his tired body, but the lure of a secure place to rest spurred him into action. Gripping the ladder, he followed Arelos’ lead, the rickety steps creaking under his weight as he made his way up.
Inside the attic, the air was tinged with dust and age, the scent of disuse mingling with the muted warmth of the summer evening. Arelos had already slipped inside and was waiting for Viktor, standing among the scant belongings scattered across the floor.
The room was spare and held a transient quality about it. A blanket lay crumpled in one corner, and a couple of nondescript items—what Viktor recognized as a small knife and an old satchel—littered the floor. The moonlight filtering through the window cast silvery shadows, illuminating the space in stark relief.
Viktor took it all in, recognizing the makings of a humble refuge—this was where Arelos laid his head to rest each night, an oasis amid the harsh realities of the world outside. His eyes wandered over the sparse belongings, and it struck him that there were no bed rolls or actual beds. This was not the comfort of an inn, certainly, but a shelter nonetheless.
Reading the thoughts etched on Viktor’s face, Arelos shrugged, offering a frank explanation. “Look, it’s no royal inn or anything, alright?” he said, his tone carrying the weight of candid realism. “But it beats sleeping out in the cold.”
Viktor nodded, acknowledging how this attic bore its own form of relief. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed having a roof overhead. The floor was infinitely preferable to the cave’s cold embrace.
Arelos moved with purpose, spreading out the blanket in the middle of the room and gesturing Viktor to join him. He wasted little time establishing a firm yet simple set of ground rules. “We share this space now,” Arelos declared, his tone steady but infused with the authority of experience.
“Your things are your things, and my things are mine. You don’t touch my stuff, I won’t touch yours.” There was clarity in his conditions, rooted in survival’s logic rather than mistrust. “There’s an outhouse of sorts at the back. Use it or whatever, but I don’t want to step in any filth.”
The terms were simple yet comprehensible, underscored by the foundation of mutual respect. Viktor nodded in agreement, fully aware of the necessity of boundaries within shared walls. “Of course,” Viktor agreed readily. “Thank you, Arelos, for this.”
Arelos acknowledged Viktor’s gratitude with a brief nod, tempered by the reminder of their shared bargain. “You still have your end to hold up,” Arelos warned, his voice holding a note of measured expectation.
“I’ll keep my promise,” Viktor reassured, his earlier vow still resonant in his thoughts. “I’ll help you read, and whatever else I can manage to teach.”
Content with the confirmation, Arelos settled onto his part of the blanket, unfurling it with practiced movements. Viktor followed suit, the exhaustion finally catching up with him as he sank into the minimal warmth the fabric offered.
----------------------------------------
As Viktor settled onto the thin blanket, the exhaustion of the past days tugging at him, he couldn't help but notice a closed door in the corner of the attic. Curiosity piqued, Viktor gestured toward it, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between him and Arelos.
"What's behind that door?" Viktor asked, his gaze lingering on the thick wood and imagining what secrets might lie beyond.
Arelos looked up from his place on the blanket, his expression unchanged by Viktor's inquiry. He followed Viktor's gaze to the door and shrugged nonchalantly. "No idea," he replied in his characteristically indifferent tone. "It's always been locked since I found this place."
The notion surprised Viktor. "How long have you been staying here?" Viktor pressed, curiosity simmering beneath his calm demeanor.
Arelos considered the question, his gaze drifting back to the door, tracing its smooth surface with a speculative eye. "Found this beauty about nine months ago," Arelos replied, casting a sweeping glance around the attic. "Helped me get through the worst of last year's winter."
Viktor nodded thoughtfully, the room's sparse warmth now holding a sense of safety he hadn't felt since leaving the estate. He allowed himself to relax against the blanket. "Nine months," Viktor mused aloud, the question slipping out before he could hold it back. "And you haven't bothered trying to get through the door?"
Arelos turned to Viktor, his gaze flat and unimpressed, as though Viktor had just asked if the sky was blue. "Do I look like I have an axe?" he said, the sarcasm cutting through his deadpan tone. "That's a thick oak door. You're not breaking through that thing by blowing at it."
Viktor chuckled lightly in response, recognizing a streak of practicality running deep in Arelos' response. "True," Viktor agreed, letting the subject drop as he leaned back against the rough wood. "I guess it doesn't hurt to wonder, though."
Arelos snorted softly, his amusement more muted but present nevertheless. "Rather keep my energy focused on something worthwhile," Arelos replied, his tone shifting into an even cadence, sharp as flint. "Might end up about as useful as knocking my head against that door," he added as a final jest.
Conversation dwindled into further quietude, the two boys each lost to their thoughts amid the sanctuary of shared silence. Gradually, the robust scent of dust mingled with the floral undertones of the cool night air, whispered through the open window and settled around them in comforting familiarity.
From his place on the blanket, Viktor let his eyes rove idly around the attic, taking in the simple trappings of Arelos' life here. Despite the austerity, Viktor appreciated the sparse beauty of it, the small solace it offered within its confined space. His thoughts danced across fragments of memory—tales his mother once told him of explorers and adventurers, mysteries hidden behind impassable doors, and the joy of discovery.
He turned toward Arelos once more, studying the boy's profile in the dim moonlight that filtered through the dusty window. He was a study of composure—lean, with a face tanned by sun and toughened by life’s relentless lessons. Though just a shade younger, Arelos bore the poise of someone well beyond his years, each gaze and movement weighted with deliberation.
Viktor finally broached the silence, his voice a gentle query to rouse Arelos’ focus. "How did you find this place?"
Arelos shifted slightly, his eyes remaining on the ceiling. "Just stumbled upon it," Arelos replied after a pause, his tone carrying the weight of dull recollection. "Was looking for a place out of the cold one night and tried my luck getting into one of these houses. Most were already claimed, but this one... I suppose they missed the back window.” He gave a casual nod toward the point of entry, a non-event that had defined his winter shelter.
“Why did you choose the attic?” Viktor inquired further, curious about Arelos’ logic in choosing such a space over others.
"The height," Arelos explained simply, turning to glimpse Viktor with a level gaze. "Gives me some distance if things get rough. No one thinks to look in attics first anyway. Works well if I've got to hunker down quickly."
Viktor studied Arelos’ reasoning, a practicality evident in his understated confidence. “Smart,” Viktor admitted, no trace of mockery in his voice—only genuine admiration for the insight born from necessity.
Silence wrapped around them once more, cradling the warmth borne of fresh familiarity and burgeoning respect. Viktor allowed his thoughts to meander along a path once more free from grief’s all-encompassing embrace.
"Do you ever think about leaving?" Viktor ventured quietly, his voice a soft note in the hush of the attic—the question masking a hint of his own internal ponderances.
Arelos remained contemplative, a subtle stillness guiding his response. "Sometimes," he finally conceded, no more weight in his tone than the weight of shadows lengthened along the walls. "But I have everything I need right now." His remark, though unadorned, suggested an acceptance and comfort within his isolated domain.
"And you?" Arelos redirected, meeting Viktor's gaze steadily, as if testing the resolve behind Viktor's thoughts.
Viktor hesitated, his expression clouding for a moment before he looked away. "I’m not sure," he admitted quietly, the words weighted with the turmoil of the past days. "I guess I haven’t thought that far ahead."
A relenting pause stretched between them, filled only with the quiet hum of their shared company. Viktor found solace in the knowledge that he wasn't alone—perhaps a frail shelter against the world’s cruelty but comforting nonetheless.
Eventually, Viktor yielded to the drowsiness blanketing him like a gentle balm. "Goodnight, Arelos," Viktor murmured sleepily, settling into the blanket’s coarse embrace.
Arelos' response came as a soft mumble, already drowsy himself—a sign of unspoken companionship eased by mutual fatigue. "Night."
----------------------------------------
As Viktor settled into the makeshift bed in the attic, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. Yet, despite his tiredness, sleep eluded him. He lay on his back staring at the wooden beams above, trying to find some comfort in this unfamiliar place.
The space felt strange yet welcoming all at once. Having not spent a night in a proper shelter since departing from his ruined home, an overwhelming complexity of emotions swirled within him. Perhaps it was Arelos—quietly taking up space on the other side—that hampered his ability to rest. Viktor was unaccustomed to a companion sharing his rest, a foreign notion that brought both a sense of warmth and a ripple of caution.
He closed his eyes, hoping the day's fatigue would overpower his restless mind. But instead of drifting into slumber, thoughts began to pour in, unbidden and demanding, swirling in the quiet with possessive grace.
At first, it was the trivialities—the murmurings of the day's events, the soft echoes of their shared plans, and the resounding gratitude for the loaf of bread, which still filled his stomach with a comforting heaviness. These thoughts curiously lingered, holding him on the jagged cusp of sleep.
But as minutes stretched on, those fleeting recollections gave way to darker memories—ones shrouded in heavy shadows and choked by emotion. His family's faces danced across his mind, vivid and filled with life, as he remembered them in vibrant hues of happier times.
Viktor squeezed his eyes shut tighter, desperate to force away the flood of grief threatening to consume him. Alone in the depths of his mind, unguarded beneath the complacent mask he wore before Arelos. It began with innocent moments, remembered laughter during shared meals, evenings spent enthralled by tales of heroic ancestors recounting noble deeds.
But those gentle whispers were soon drowned by the crushing weight of reality, a sharp pain that reminded him of all he had lost. Memory brought back moments that cut like daggers.
His throat tightened as he recalled his sister, Alara, her lively spirit, and her sparkling eyes now forever dimmed by the shadow of that wretched day. Silent tears streaked down Viktor’s face, slick against his skin like the ghosts of what once was. Grief exploded within him, dousing his resolve, and for a moment, Viktor let the sadness take him.
His surroundings blurred, swallowed by an anguished longing for a life rewound—a past that mingled with the dreams of a future he had eagerly anticipated. Tears turned to stillness, and with it came the churning ache of unresolved dealings. But caught within the tug-of-war was a will he could not ignore, tethering him to hope and survival, lest despair unseat him completely.
In a decisive breath, Viktor wrestled the memories back, pushing them to the corners of his thoughts where they settled like coiled serpents—waiting but momentarily disarmed.
Taking deep, slow breaths, he replaced his focus on the gentle sounds of night, a melody stitched together by the softened creak of rafters above and the late chorus of crickets crooning outside. They offered a familiar comfort in its cadence—a constant in a world swayed by unwelcome change.
Gradually, Viktor's anguish ebbed, his breathing slower and more even, luring him toward the comforting grip of sleep.
As his conscious world dimmed and sleep’s tendrils wrapped around him, Viktor whispered a silent vow, a promise steeped in determination. He wouldn't succumb; he would find a way forward, find his own path amidst shadows of grief, guided by the resolve to reclaim something he might one day call 'home.'
The promises sunk beneath the surface as sleep embraced him, granting Viktor a reprieve from the waking world’s thorny grips. With dreams tethered on the horizon, his body succumbed, each heartbeat an echo of unsung potential as he drifted into the realm of dreams, guarded by the gentle presence of companionship whose depths he had only just begun to discover. And in that truce of quiet solace came a moment's peace, shared between two souls who sailed their own paths within a sea of uncertainties.