He walked in silence behind his adoptive father, or at least that’s how he had begun to think of him. It had been two years since Basilius had taken him from his real father and home. Back then, he was eight years old and had cried—something he now felt ashamed of. He shouldn’t have cried. He remembered the disappointed look on his real father’s face when the first tear fell—a look that made him ashamed of himself.
But Basilius had taken him in as one would a wounded animal. He allowed him to sit in the front seat of the ship, watching the long journey to the Western Lands until they reached the Craters—the capital city.
They had been walking for hours, and the darkness spread around them like a heavy blanket. Arendor felt the cold seeping into his bones. Each step brought pain to muscles strained by the effort.
He struggled to breathe, his throat dry and heart pounding hard. “Why aren’t we taking the ship?” he had asked at the start, but Basilius insisted that he needed to know the way, to feel it.
Sauthen's breathing was labored beside him. The little boy, just seven years old, looked on the verge of fainting. His pale face and dry lips indicated he needed a break, water, food.
Arendor looked up at the darkening sky. The first sun had set not long ago, and the second sun left a fading orange light in patches across the sky. Heavy clouds and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves above, giving the forest an ominous feel. He took a deep breath, trying to overcome the growing fear within him. “Sir, we need to stop,” he said in a steady voice, despite his wildly pounding heart.
“We can’t stop here—we need to find a shelter for the night,” Basilius continued to look ahead, barely acknowledging him.
“There is no shelter!” Arendor said through gritted teeth, his voice echoing back like waves through the wet leaves of the trees around them. A voice inside pleaded—don’t say that.
No one wanted to come to this part of Indea, neither child nor adult—not even the Sortelige. Even after the gate was sealed, the dampness of the darkness seeped into their world, polluting them. The silence deepened around them, becoming tangible, and Sauthen gasped, his breath catching halfway. He turned and pulled the boy closer.
Without words, Basilius raised two fingers and gestured for them to keep moving—don’t stop, as if he said. In moments like these, Arendor hated him. There were other times... when he almost thanked him for taking him, but not in moments like these—not on their treks.
The first time Basilius had taken him to the West, where he spent almost half a year in fieldwork. Basilius made sure he worked hard—harder than a child should work. He ensured he felt the lack of food, the lack of fertilizer, the lack of shelter—everything that was missing, he felt.
“Whose responsibility is this?” he had refused to answer in the first week, and even in the second. But when he saw a five-year-old boy crying and holding his stomach in hunger, he answered: “The king’s.” He hated himself for it—he felt he was betraying his real father and everything he was supposed to be loyal to, but deep down, he knew it was true. His father neglected large parts of the kingdom—everything that didn’t produce direct taxes for him, everything that didn’t interest him. And Basilius made sure he felt that pain.
The sound of dry leaves cracking underfoot made Basilius slow down. Arendor breathed a sigh of relief. He would give anything to leave this place, to return to the Craters, to his bed—to the journal he left open. He had started drawing the sunset over the factories... he just needed more red...
“Arendor—lift the soil, tell me if it’s a good place to sleep,” Basilius’s deep voice cut through his thoughts.
He hesitated a moment before moving, thinking of protesting out of sheer anger, but he was too tired, and when he turned to look at Sauthen again, the boy looked on the verge of collapse. He knelt to the ground—the rotting smell rose to his nose, and he didn’t want to touch it. To feel the poison flowing through it. He surveyed his surroundings, as if searching for the bridge—as if he could see it. The ground was hard and dry, but as he dug through the top layer, scraping painfully with his fingers, he found dampness and moisture. White worms glistened under the spreading darkness, sending a shiver down his spine, and the cold air made his hair stand on end.
He brought the soil to his nose, trying to sniff it, finding no smell of iron or copper, no metal filled it—unlike the Craters. It was also different from the soil he knew from the Western Lands—fertile and soft, inviting. This soil was both dry and wet at the same time—as if all life that could exist in it had been eaten by the worms, but he didn’t know if that meant they could sleep there—would it get better? They were getting closer to the bridge... his heart raced; he didn’t plan to be near the bridge, right? he thought in fear.
“Yes,” he blurted out quickly, “the soil is good.” Basilius studied him at length; he thought he had failed... that the answer was different. “Okay, you know best,” he said briefly and took off his heavy backpack. Arendor widened his eyes in astonishment, shaking his head side to side, trying to shake off the oppressive feeling. He never knew Basilius's motives. He and Dela were always in sync—but never shared anything with him or Sauthen.