The Forest of Saram was the source of many rumors in the village of Saram, located at the western edge of the Empire of the Sun. The forest had naturally received its name in honor of a renowned knight born in that nameless village, giving the village the name Saram and, consequently, naming the surrounding woods.
It was rumored that dangerous and powerful monsters existed deep within the bowels of the Saram Forest, and no one dared to cross it—not even the bravest warriors would venture there alone.
But the greatest rumor of all was about someone who lived within the forest: a demon with the human appearance of a child. No one had actually seen him, but everyone said he was terrifying.
...
Walking through the forest was a boy of short stature; by his appearance and size, it was easy to tell he was young, about seven years old. He wore a brown cloth shirt with dark brown leather pants and brown boots. His hair was a stunning light blue, like a clear sky, matching the color of his eyes.
This boy was Roan... Roan Cromwell, or at least that was the name his grandfather had given him before passing away the previous year.
Roan was still affected by his grandfather's death, who had passed away silently during the night. That day, Roan mourned the loss of his family in silence. He had no parents; his grandfather had found him abandoned in the forest. He didn't know who he was, and he didn't really care to find out.
Roan stopped suddenly, crouching down to observe the droppings of his prey: a rabbit he intended to use for that night's dinner. He noticed small paw prints in the grass leading toward a small clearing about fifty meters ahead.
Standing up, Roan walked silently toward the clearing. Unslinging the bow from his back, he grabbed an arrow from his quiver, placing it on the string to draw it. Moving against the wind, Roan hid himself, watching his prey. It was a rabbit, white as snow with red eyes and long ears.
Roan watched as the rabbit devoured some fallen nuts. Tensing his bow, Roan
remembered his grandfather's advice.
'Eyes forward on your target, keep a firm stance, calm your breathing and your heartbeat, and then release the arrow.'
Recalling his first lesson in archery, Roan drew the arrow with all the strength he could muster and let it fly. The arrow crossed the distance rapidly, cutting through the wind. An instant later, the arrowhead pierced the rabbit's neck cleanly.
The rabbit collapsed to the ground, twitching slightly until it moved no more, lying dead.
Roan stepped out from behind the trees and approached the clearing. Seeing the rabbit he had killed, his eyes softened. Roan never liked killing other living beings, but he couldn't avoid it.
It wasn't that he was a hypocrite; he needed to eat and needed the pelt to sell for money, but the idea of taking the life of another living creature felt wrong to him.
Roan picked the rabbit up by its ears and began his trek back home.
...
Roan's home was a small log cabin, built by his grandfather's hands and his own over the last few years. It stood in a protected clearing near a stream of crystal-clear water.
The wood, weathered by sun and rain, seemed like just another part of the forest. Upon arriving, Roan pushed the heavy oak door, which gave way with its familiar creak.
Inside, the silence was deeper than in the forest. It was a silence once filled with his grandfather's raspy voice and stories, but now it only resonated with the creaking of the wood under his feet and the occasional crackle of the hearth, which he always kept lit. The cabin was austere but cozy: a rough table, two chairs, a straw mattress by the fireplace, and shelves holding herbs, utensils, and a few old books.
With a sigh that vanished into the still air, Roan set to work.
He placed the rabbit on a hardwood cutting board near the window to catch the last light of day. He pulled out his sharpest knife, a short, sturdy blade his grandfather had taught him to keep like new.
His movements were precise and methodical, the result of repetition and necessity. First, being careful not to tear it, he began to separate the skin from the body. The knife glided skillfully between the hide and the muscle, freeing the precious, immaculately white pelt.
He couldn't afford to damage it; in the village, an intact winter rabbit pelt could be worth a few copper coins—enough to buy salt, a piece of cloth, or some flour.
Once freed, he spread the skin over a flat board to cure later. Then, he proceeded to butcher the meat with efficiency. Clean cuts separated the thighs, the loin, and the shoulders. The fresh, bright red meat was placed on a clay plate, which he then covered with a clean, damp cloth. It would be his dinner, and perhaps the next day's as well.
He picked up the already stretched pelt and approached a corner where a wicker basket sat. He pulled back the worn piece of cloth covering it. Inside lay other carefully arranged furs: a high-quality red fox, several gray squirrels, and another brown rabbit. He added the new one, white as snow, to the top. It was a small treasure, the fruit of weeks of careful and patient hunting.
He covered the basket again.
The sun was beginning to hide behind the tallest trees, tinting the sky in shades of orange and purple. It was time.
He went to a hook by the door and took a long cloak of thick wool, dark brown and frayed at the edges. He draped it over his shoulders, adjusting the wooden buckle. Then, he covered his head with the wide hood, hiding his striking blue hair and most of his youthful face. In the dim light of the forest at dusk, with the hood up and moving in silence, he didn't look like a seven-year-old boy. He looked like a shadow, a short and mysterious silhouette. The perfect source of a rumor.
With the basket of pelts hanging from his arm, he left the cabin, closed the door, and stepped onto the path that wound down through ancient oaks and ferns toward the village of Saram.
The path was as familiar to him as the lines on his own hand. But every time he walked it, a sense of heaviness settled in his chest. The forest was his home, a place of peace and challenges that he understood. The village, on the other hand, was foreign territory—full of stares he couldn't see but could feel, of whispers that ceased as he passed, of doors that closed just a little faster when he approached.
The last light of day faded, giving way to the bluish gloom of twilight as the first lights of the village windows appeared through the trees. The air smelled of woodsmoke, freshly baked bread, and manure—a cocktail of scents that always felt strange to him.
Upon reaching the edge of the forest, he paused for a moment. There was Saram village.
A handful of stone and wood houses with thatched roofs, clustered around a dirt plaza. The distant sound of laughter, a baby's cry, the hammering of a blacksmith working late. Normal life. A life he was not a part of.
He adjusted his hood to make sure it covered his hair well, took a breath, and stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the plaza. His footsteps, so silent in the forest, now echoed lightly against the stones. He hadn't traveled even ten meters when he noticed the first change in the atmosphere.
A group of children playing near a well went still at the sight of him. A woman hanging laundry turned quickly and went into her house, slamming the door shut. An old man smoking a pipe on a bench frowned and looked away.
Roan lowered his head, looking only at the ground in front of his boots. He didn't need to see their faces. He knew what they were thinking. The boy from the forest. The stranger. The one who doesn't belong. The one with the demon hair.
His destination was the shop of Oldric the merchant. He was a grumpy but fair man, one of the few who bought his pelts without asking too many questions, though he always haggled down to the last copper to secure the most profit.