The air in the dormitory was cold enough to see your breath. It smelled of damp wool and the stale, crowded sleep of twenty children. Leo was awake. Not from discipline, but from the familiar, gnawing emptiness in his stomach. It was an ache that always came before the dawn.
Through the doorway, a single candle flame flickered in the main room, a lonely light against the oppressive dark. He swung his legs off the thin mattress, the rough blanket scraping against his skin, and followed it.
Matron Elara was hunched over the communal table. Her back was to him, a wiry silhouette against the candlelight. She wasn't praying. She was working. Her hands, chapped and raw, moved a small pile of copper coins. She arranged them into neat stacks of five, then swept them back into one pile and began again.
Next to the coins, a worn ledger lay open. The list of expenses ran down the entire page, a long column of debts and needs. At the bottom, a single number had been circled twice, pressed so hard the ink had torn the page. Three coppers short.
The firewood bin in the corner was almost empty, holding only a few desperate splinters. A small, brown glass medicine jar sat on the table beside the ledger. It was nearly empty, too.
Leo didn't need to know how to read the numbers. The picture was clear enough. The math didn't work. It never did.
A cough echoed from the sleeping quarters. It was weak, dry, and persistent—the sound of a sickness that wouldn't go away without medicine.
Elara's shoulders tightened for a fraction of a second. Her hand stilled over the coins. The sound was a physical weight in the room, a reminder of the empty jar on the table.
She looked up then, her eyes finding him in the doorway. There was no pity in them. No softness. Just a shared, grim exhaustion that acknowledged he was old enough to see the truth. He wasn't a child to be protected from this; he was a partner in their survival.
His gaze dropped from her face to the coins, then to the medicine jar. He heard the lingering echo of the cough. The entire equation clicked into place in his mind. He gave a short, sharp nod. It wasn't a promise of victory. It was a promise to try.
Her eyes fell back to the coins. For a moment, a flicker of something dark and ugly crossed her face—a tightening of her jaw, a brief, pained closing of her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the same tired resolve. She pushed the thought away, whatever it was, and returned to her impossible math.
Leo turned and walked back to the dormitory without a word. He pulled on his worn boots, the leather cracked and thin. He didn't look back at Elara.
The image of the empty medicine jar was burned into his mind. He wasn't just going to work. He was going to hunt for coin, and he knew his body would be the currency.
The cold morning air hit him as he stepped outside. It was a shock, but his focus was colder. He needed more than his usual pay today. He needed a risk.
The forest waited—and it was never kind to the weak.
By midday, the rope had bitten so deep into Leo's hands they felt like someone else's. He hauled the bundle of saplings, his muscles screaming a protest that the cold wind stole away. He watched a younger boy, maybe fourteen, carry a similar load. The kid wasn't a cultivator, but he was chi-born. His movements were easy, his breath steady. The load settled on his shoulders without crushing him.
He hated how easy it looked. Hated the kid for it. Then hated himself for that.
A voice cut through the air, smooth and bored. "Still trying, cripple? The trees are winning."
Leo didn't look up. He knew that voice. Marcus Renfell, the Lord's second son, strolled past with two militia members, all of them clean and clad in boiled leather armor that didn't have a single scuff. They weren't working; they were observing. Judging.
The chatter from the work crew died. A man nearby suddenly found his boot strap fascinating. Another started re-tying a bundle that was already secure. No one met Leo's eyes. That was the real humiliation. Not the insult, but the silence that followed it.
Leo's hands tightened on the rope until the fibers cut deeper. He swallowed, his throat dry and tasting of dust.
A shadow fell over him. "You." The voice was like rocks grinding together. Bron Axehand, the foreman. He gestured with his chin toward the treeline, a hundred meters away. "Got brush needs clearing. Closer to the wood. More risk."
He pointed at a faint, dark smear on the ground. "Ember Wolf passed through last night. Left an ash trail. No one wants the job."
Leo waited. Bron wasn't offering this out of kindness.
Bron grunted. "Three coppers more."
The words hit Leo like a physical blow. Three coppers. The exact amount Elara had been short. Enough for the medicine. Maybe.
Leo straightened, ignoring the protest from his back. "I'll do it."
Bron's eyes narrowed, searching Leo's face for a flicker of doubt. He found none. "You take this, you don't scream later."
"I won't," Leo said. The words were quiet, but they held the weight of a promise. He dropped his current bundle and picked up a heavy-bladed brush axe. The other workers watched him go, their faces a mixture of pity and relief.
The air grew colder as he approached the forest's edge. The noise of the work crew faded behind him, replaced by the low hum of the Ironwood. He set to work, swinging the axe with a grim rhythm. The thorns tore at his clothes and skin, but he ignored the stinging cuts. He focused on the cough he'd heard that morning, on the empty medicine jar.
Then, the humming stopped.
Not just the insects. The birdsong died. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Leo froze mid-swing, his heart pounding in his ears. Vex had said it once, loud enough for everyone to hear: "When the forest goes quiet, you already messed up."
His hand tightened on the axe handle. His breathing was the only sound in the world.
The smell hit him first.
Burned fur. Hot ash. The grass near the treeline curled in on itself, edges blackened as if kissed by a slow-moving flame. Heat rippled through the air, warping the light.
It stepped from the undergrowth as if from a shadow.
An Ember Wolf.
Charcoal fur smoldered with red highlights, and a faint shimmer of heat distorted the air around it. It moved with a predator's silent grace, leaving a thin trail of ash on the grass.
It ignored him.
Its burning eyes were fixed on a smaller target. A boy, no older than twelve, from the orphanage. He'd been chasing a rabbit and had wandered too far. Now, he was frozen, a statue of pure terror.
The wolf was between the boy and the village.
Yelling won't work. Not fast enough.
Leo's mind went cold and clear. He couldn't fight it. A Level 1 cultivator would be a challenge for a lone Ember Wolf. He was nothing. The smart move was to stay quiet, hidden in the brush. Let the wolf take its meal. Live to work another day.
The image of the empty medicine jar flashed in his mind. The sound of the child's weak cough.
Damn it.
He scanned the ground, his eyes landing on a fist-sized rock. He didn't charge. He didn't shout. He moved with a slow, deliberate motion, grabbing the stone. His overworked shoulder protested as he drew his arm back.
He didn't aim for the wolf. He aimed for a thick ironwood trunk ten meters to its left.
He threw.
The rock hit the tree with a sharp crack that echoed in the predatory silence.
The boy jolted as if waking from a nightmare. He stumbled, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the village without looking back.
The Ember Wolf's head snapped toward the sound. It saw its meal escaping. Then its burning, intelligent eyes swiveled and locked onto Leo. It wasn't hungry anymore.
It was annoyed.
Adrenaline hit Leo like a physical blow. His hands started to shake, but he planted his feet, raising the brush axe. A useless gesture. A final defiance.
The wolf didn't lunge. It let out a low growl, a rumble that felt like it came from the earth itself. A wave of heat rolled off its body, like opening a furnace door.
It wasn't an attack. It was a warning.
But for Leo, it was enough.
The heat washed over him, and his world dissolved into white-hot agony. The exposed skin on his face and hands tightened, blistering instantly, the pain biting deep enough that he knew it wouldn't fade cleanly. His eyes watered, blinding him. He gasped, but the superheated air scorched his lungs.
I should've let it take the kid.
The thought was a venomous whisper in the back of his mind, ugly and raw. Bile rose in his throat. He hated himself for it, but the burns didn't care about his shame.
He stumbled backward, tripping over a root he hadn't seen. He hit the ground hard, his head connecting with stone. The world spun, sound smearing into a dull roar. The sky above fractured into light and shadow as his strength bled away.
Just as the darkness started to close in, a whistle cut through the air—sharp, practiced, and full of authority.
The wolf's head jerked up. It saw the new figures emerging from the treeline. Vex Tracker, flanked by two militia members with spears. The wolf did its own math. It snarled once, a final expression of irritation, and melted back into the Ironwood. It hadn't been hunting him. He was just an inconvenience.
Vex Tracker stood over him, his face an unreadable mask of dirt and scars. He looked at Leo, then at the axe lying in the dirt. He kicked it. The handle slid across the ground, stopping by Leo's trembling hand.
"Get up," Vex said, his voice as cold as the forest floor. "The forest doesn't care if you're a hero. It just cares if you're dead."
The clinic smelled of boiled leaves and old blood. Leo stared at a crack in the ceiling, trying to breathe through the stinging pain as Old Maren finished wrapping his hands in clean, white linen. The salve burned worse than the fire had.
"That's the best I can do," Maren said, his voice gentle but tired. The old healer looked at the bandages, then at Leo's face. "These will scar. Without chi to help the skin knit properly, the damage is too deep. You'll be lucky if you don't lose the feeling in your fingertips."
The words landed like stones. Permanent. Another mark of what he was—or wasn't. Leo just nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
The clinic door opened. A man and a woman rushed in, their faces pale with residual fear. The parents of the boy he'd saved. They saw Leo, and for a moment, their eyes met his. There was no gratitude there. Only fear, and something colder—resentment. They grabbed their son from where he was waiting, pulling him close as if Leo himself were the source of the danger. They left without a single word.
He wasn't a hero. He was just a reminder that the monsters were close.
A shadow fell over him. Bron, the logging foreman, stood there, his face grim. He held out a hand. A few copper coins glinted in the dim light.
"For the morning's work," Bron grunted, dropping the coins into Leo's good hand. The weight felt wrong. Too light. "The afternoon was a loss. You can't work with those burns. Don't come back until you can hold an axe."
It wasn't cruel. It was just business. A damaged tool was a useless tool.
The walk back to the orphanage felt longer than usual. The few coppers in his pocket felt heavier with every step. He had failed.
Matron Elara was in the common room, mending a small shirt by candlelight. She looked up as he entered, her gaze immediately falling to his bandaged hands. He held out the coins.
She took them without a word, her fingers brushing his. Her eyes moved from the coins in her palm to his burns, then to the nearly empty food shelves behind him. The silence was a physical weight, pressing down on him, suffocating him. It was worse than any scolding. He had brought back nothing but more problems.
He turned away, unable to meet her gaze, and retreated to the dormitory. A few of the younger orphans were still awake, whispering. They stared at his bandages, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. One of them tugged another closer, the whispers cutting off as he passed.
They think I'm a hero, he thought, a hot flash of rage cutting through the pain. I'm just the fool who got burned for nothing.
Later, long after the last candle was out, Leo lay awake in his cot. The pain in his hands was a throbbing, relentless fire. He stared into the darkness, listening to the soft breathing of the other children. The few coins Bron had given him sat on the small crate beside his bed.
He didn't feel despair. He didn't feel self-pity. The pain burned everything else away, leaving only a cold, hard certainty. The problem wasn't the wolf. It wasn't the foreman or the parents or the world.
The problem was him. He was weak.
He reached out, his bandaged fingers clumsy, and closed his fist around the coins. The rough edges dug into his burned palm, sending a fresh spike of agony through him.
Good.
This pain wouldn't fade. It would stay with him, just like the scars.
Tomorrow, he would go back to the forest. Not for work. Not for money.
He was going back to the places people warned you not to go—until he found something that would never let him be this helpless again.