Esteban made his way north, using the woods as cover, while keeping an eye on the distant road from the gaps between the trunks of the elm trees. Before the Fall, people traversed these roads on horseless carriages made of metal. He would have found that hard to believe, since even the Valyr used either horses or human slaves to pull their carriages, if not for the rusted husks that could still sometimes be found in the ruined cities. The ones that had once dotted the roads were all reclaimed to be melted and reforged long before he was born. That was unfortunate, as such markers would have made it easier for him to keep the road in sight.

  For someone who had spent the night on the dusty, hard floor of an abandoned abode, Esteban felt surprisingly well rested. He would have no trouble traveling all day, if not for his hunger. Estoril was at least a week away, and he wouldn’t make it without food. The forest provided water, from the morning dew that collected on the leaves, to the many streams that streaked its verdant ground. It was not as generous with food.

  The only fruit Esteban could see were the small red berries known as Mother’s Tears. As the name suggested, those were not to be eaten. Small animals, like rats and rabbits, scuttled through the underbrush, but Esteban knew neither how to track nor trap them. He was, to his dismay, completely unprepared to survive alone in the wilderness.

  As the sun rose in the sky, his hunger became a persistent distraction. Risks be damned. He left the cover of the trees and made for the road. He needed a town. He did not have any coin, but he had the gold watch that he might be able to barter. That was a dangerous thought. The artifacts of the Fallen were the domain of the Bound and their Valyr masters. An Unbound had no business possessing, much less selling, such an object. But his stomach, indifferent to his angst, continued to growl. He would find a town first, then worry about coin later.

  It was past noon when he spotted a small town in the distance. Esteban didn’t recognize it, but he was relieved to see the gates free of his likeness. He was only half a day from Ardan, but news travelled slow.

  Other than the occasional curious glance, the townsfolk paid him little mind. Perhaps they assumed he was a straggler from a merchant’s caravan, though he hardly looked the part. His clothes were dirty and ragged, and he carried no weapon, since he had left his pickaxe, which wasn’t really a weapon, in a bush outside of town to avoid unnecessary attention.

  Lucky as he had been so far, he needed to attend to his task and leave before he was spotted by a Bound. Those were invariably more curious than the common folk.

  Staying to the narrow alleys, he scanned the windowsills, hoping to find a pie left to cool, or sausages left to cure. The scent of porridge and stews wafted from the small houses, taunting his empty stomach, but nothing was within arm’s reach.

  “Hey, you!”

  The shout came from behind. Esteban froze, then slowly turned around. A Bound stood at the alley’s entrance, a man of about thirty. He had a single band on the middle finger of his right hand, signifying his rank.

  The man closed the distance with a leisurely stride, hands clasped behind his back. “Who are you, and what are you doing skulking about?” the Bound asked, coming to a stop a few feet away.

  “My name is Pete, sir. I was just stretching my legs.” Esteban kept his eyes to the ground, trying to keep a deferential tone. “I’m a porter for Master Olsen. He set up his spice stand in the town square, sir.”

  “A spice merchant?” The Bound rubbed his chin. “I don’t recall any merchants arriving in Oakhaven recently.”

  “We just got here this morning, sir.”

  “Did you, now? Well, your master should take better care of you. You look like a damn vagrant!” The Bound smirked. “Come, show me this… what did you say his name was? Orson?”

  “Olsen, sir. Master Jack Olsen.”

  “Right. Take me to him.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Esteban swallowed, his knees threatening to buckle. He nodded and started toward the town square, the Bound’s footsteps following close behind.

  They reached the town square, and Esteban made a show of looking around, craning his neck to locate his nonexistent master. He considered bolting, but the risk was too high. He knew the Bound possessed different gifts, and that no two were exactly alike. That’s where his knowledge of the subject ended, for he was not a priest of the Spheres. His experience taught him, however, that his chances of outrunning a Singler, regardless of their specific abilities, were very slim.

  “I don’t see him, sir. He must have moved his stand.”

  The Bound sighed. “So, you are a vagrant. Where did you come from, boy?”

  Esteban opened his mouth to answer, but the Bound held up a hand. “Consider your next words carefully, boy. I don’t take kindly to being lied to.”

  “The truth is, sir, I was traveling with Master Olsen. We came from Estoril. But he wasn’t having any luck selling his spices. Times are tough, sir. He said he had too many mouths to feed and let me go. That was in the town of Greenfield.”

  The Bound studied him, his face expressionless. “Greenfield? That’s a few hours south, isn’t it? And what are you doing here in Oakhaven?”

  “I was hungry, sir. I was looking for something to eat.”

  “Something to steal, you mean.”

  Esteban stayed quiet.

  “Come with me.” The Bound turned and marched down a side street. Esteban followed, his mind racing for a way out.

  A few minutes later, they stopped at a modest house, slightly larger than its neighbors. The Bound unlocked the door and waved him inside.

  “Sit.” He pointed to a chair by a small kitchen table.

  Esteban obeyed, his mind numb with disbelief. He had expected the stockades. He had thought his journey was over before it even began. Instead, the man slapped a hard loaf of bread and a few slices of cured meat on a plate and slid it across the table.

  “Oakhaven is a quiet town. I can’t have a vagrant running around terrorizing the citizens.” He sat opposite him. “But it was cruel of your master to leave you stranded, looking the way you look.”

  Esteban wolfed down the food, barely registering the man’s words.

  “Have your fill. But then you leave, and you’d better hope I don’t see you again.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Esteban said, flecks of food sputtering from his mouth.

  A heavy knock came from the front door.

  The Bound frowned, stood up, and left the kitchen. Esteban’s throat tightened, and he forced himself to swallow the dry lump in his throat, his eyes darting around the room.

  A carving knife lay on the counter. He stood and snatched it up.

  “Krovos save us! A killer? And I fed him.”

  Esteban pressed himself against the wall beside the doorframe, holding his breath.

  “Yes sir, from a town called Ardan. He smashed the man’s head with an axe, he did,” a woman’s voice replied.

  “I’ll take care of it. Let Stephen know he’s here. Bring a man or two, just in case.”

  The door opened, and the Bound stepped in, his eyes scanning a parchment in his hand. He turned to latch the door, sealing them in.

  Without hesitation, Esteban stepped from the shadow and plunged the knife into the man’s back with all his might.

  Blood sprayed as he ripped the blade free. Esteban expected the Bound to fall dead. He was wrong.

  The Bound roared, spinning around. He grabbed Esteban’s arm before he could strike again, his other hand clamping around the young man’s throat and pinning him to the wall.

  The Bound’s face contorted, eyes bloodshot and bulging. Esteban clawed at the hand choking him, but the grip was strong as iron. Blood soaked the Bound’s shirt, dripping onto the floor, splattering the charcoal drawing of Esteban’s face, but the wound did not seem to sap his strength.

  Esteban flailed with his free hand, trying to punch the Bound’s face, his vision blurring as his body begged for air. He connected a few times, weak and ineffectual. Desperate, he drove a fist into the Bound’s nose, putting whatever he had left into the strike. Cartilage crunched, and the grip loosened just enough.

  Esteban wrenched his hand free and slashed down, carving a deep gash into the man’s forearm.

  The Bound let go, stumbling back. Esteban lunged at him, burying the knife into his chest, throwing his body weight behind it. They crashed to the floor.

  The Bound pushed at Esteban’s shoulders with both hands, but his strength was finally fading. Esteban yanked the knife out and drove it down again. And again. He didn’t stop until the man’s arms fell limp and his eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling.

  Pale threads of light escaped from the mangled corpse into Esteban.

  Esteban, covered in blood, remained on all fours, straddling the body and gasping for air. Others were coming, and he had no time to rest.

  He scrambled to the kitchen and gathered all the food he could find onto the tablecloth, and he tied it into a crude bundle. Then he bolted, running through the town as fast as he could, the shouts behind him distant and blurred together.

  He ran until his lungs burned. He didn’t stop when he reached the tree line, pushing deeper into the safety of the woods.

  After ten minutes of sprinting, his legs finally gave out. He fell face-first into the dirt. The knot on the tablecloth came undone, scattering the stolen food across the forest floor.

  Esteban crawled to his knees. Shaking, he collected the bread, meat, and cheese, stuffing them back into the sack. Then he slumped against a tree, buried his face in his bloodstained hands, and sobbed.