The metallic stench of the wasteland was Kael's constant companion. Days blurred into a grim cycle of hunger and vigilance. Wake. Scavenge. Hide. Survive. Protect Elian. This was his world now.
His left eye socket was a throbbing, raw mess. A dull, constant ache behind it was a persistent reminder of the Cleansing, of the flying debris, of the agonizing pain that had erupted. He hadn't stopped to truly tend to it, only pressed a grimy scrap of cloth there, an inadequate barrier against Dirtspire's filth. He blinked rapidly with his right eye, adjusting to the hazy, dust-choked light, trying to compensate for the void in his peripheral vision.
Elian's cries were less frequent now. Kael had learned to find tiny, overlooked caches of nutrient paste. Or small, edible fungi that grew in damp, dark crevices, beneath crumbling walls. The taste was vile, like damp earth and chemical residue, but it sustained them. Barely. Each mouthful for Elian was a victory, a small defiance against the crushing reality.
The rusted blade was an extension of his arm. He carried it everywhere, its rough hilt worn smooth by his small, constant grip. Its weight felt less burdensome now. More like a cold, familiar comfort. A promise. It was the last tangible link to his father, and his only defense in this unforgiving world.
He learned the silent language of the ruins. The creak of shifting metal under a phantom breeze. The rustle of movement in shadowed alleys. The distant drone of a scavenger rig. The faint, barely audible scuttling of the Crawlers. He was a phantom, moving through the skeletal remains of his home, unheard, unseen.
One afternoon, Kael navigated through a labyrinth of twisted rebar and broken concrete. The air hung thick and still, heavy with the dust of collapsed buildings. The oppressive silence was broken only by the distant, mournful wail of the wind. Elian was nestled in the sling across Kael's chest, his small body a warm, vulnerable weight.
A faint sound. A scuttling. Closer this time.
Kael froze. He pressed himself into a narrow gap between two precariously leaning walls, becoming one with the shadows. His single eye darted, scanning the desolation.
Three figures emerged from the gloom. Not upper-realm elites. These were Dirtspire's own. Scavengers. Bigger than the one he'd encountered before. Meaner. Their faces gaunt, eyes hungry, sharpened by desperation. Each carried a crude weapon—a rusted pipe, a length of chain, a sharpened piece of rebar. They were a pack, dangerous and unpredictable.
They were arguing. Their voices low, guttural, a discordant growl. Then one of them, the tallest, with a jagged scar across his cheek, spotted Kael.
"Look at this," the leader sneered, his grin a jagged line on his filthy face. He pointed a scarred finger at Kael. "A little rat. And he's got... a baby. Might fetch a few scraps for some of the grunts."
The others laughed. A harsh, dry sound that echoed in the oppressive silence.
"And look at the blade," another rasped, his voice a smoker's cough. His eyes fixed on the rust-stained iron in Kael's grip. "Kid thinks he's a warrior."
Kael didn't move. He stood utterly still. His small body was a coil of tension, vibrating with a desperate energy. He clutched Elian tighter, almost painfully so. The instinct to flee screamed in his mind. But where to run? These scavengers were experienced, faster, stronger.
The leader took a predatory step forward. "Give us the blade, boy. And the brat. He'll make good bait for the Crawlers."
Bait for the Crawlers. The words struck Kael like a physical blow. Elian. His brother. A tiny, helpless life. Being used as bait. The thought was a searing brand.
A cold rage, primal and unfamiliar, began to bloom in Kael's chest. It was a new feeling. Hot and sharp. Unlike the cold, numb shock of the Cleansing. This was personal. This was a direct, unforgivable threat to the last piece of his world.
His single eye narrowed. The world seemed to sharpen around him. The dust motes in the air, swirling lazily. The faint shimmer of heat rising from the rubble. The almost imperceptible shift of weight in the scavenger's stance, the subtle tensing of muscles just before a strike. He saw it all.
The leader lunged. Not with skill, but with brutal, unthinking intent. His rusted pipe swung wide, a heavy, clumsy arc aiming for Kael's head.
Kael didn't think. His body simply moved. An instinctive reaction, honed by days of constant danger. A desperate, primal surge. His body, small and wiry, twisted. He ducked under the swing. The pipe whistled past his ear, narrowly missing him. He felt the faint rush of displaced air.
He was inside the man's guard. Close. Too close for the long pipe. The scavenger was caught off balance.
Kael's rusted blade, still in his grip, moved. Not in a practiced strike. Not in a graceful parry. But a desperate, frantic lunge. His small arm, driven by a raw, unyielding will, plunged the blade forward.
The blade found soft flesh. It slid into the scavenger's gut. A wet, tearing sound, sickeningly audible even over the wind.
The leader gasped. His eyes widened in disbelief. He looked down at the blade protruding from his belly, a grotesque, dark extension of his own body. Then back at the child, a phantom of cold fury.
Kael pulled. He twisted the blade with all his meager strength. The scavenger roared, a choked, agonizing sound, more beast than man. He stumbled back, clutching at the wound, his hands slick with gushing blood. Warm and thick, it poured over Kael's small hand, running down his wrist.
The other two scavengers, initially stunned, snapped into action. "Get him!" snarled the one with the chain, his face twisted in fury. He lunged, swinging the rusted links, a harsh metallic rattle accompanying his attack. The third, armed with the rebar, moved to flank Kael, aiming for a swift, decisive blow.
Kael was trapped between them. He pulled the blade free from the gut-shot leader with a sickening squelch. Before the man even hit the ground, Kael dodged the chain swing, ducking low, his small body weaving like smoke. The chain whipped past his head with a chilling whoosh.
He thrust the blade backward, blindly, fueled by pure instinct. The rusty tip found purchase. A cry of pain. The rebar-wielding scavenger stumbled back, clutching his thigh. Kael had stabbed him. Not deep, but enough to draw blood.
He turned to face the chain-wielder. The man was big, his eyes blazing with murderous intent. He swung the chain again, aiming for Kael's head. Kael, still clutching Elian to his chest, couldn't fully evade. He raised the rusted blade defensively.
The chain wrapped around his arm, scraping against the steel. Pain flared. But Kael held fast. He pulled, twisting his small body, using the man's momentum against him. The scavenger, caught off balance, stumbled forward.
Kael saw his opening. He plunged the blade into the man's exposed neck. Not with force, but with a desperate, repeated stabbing motion. The man gurgled, a terrible sound, as blood welled up, coating Kael's hand, arm, and the blade. His struggles weakened. He fell.
Kael didn't stop. Driven by a primal, unthinking ferocity, by the burning image of Elian as bait, he continued to stab, his small body a shaking, blood-soaked engine of destruction. He hammered the blade down until the man stopped moving. Until the struggles ceased. Until only a pulpy, broken mess remained, barely recognizable as human.
Blood splattered Kael's face again. Wet. Warm. He tasted it. Metallic. His breath came in ragged gasps.
He stopped. His small chest heaved. Elian, startled by the brutal struggle and the sudden stillness, began to cry, a sharp, piercing sound that cut through the silence.
The third scavenger, clutching his bleeding thigh, had witnessed the horrific display. He stood frozen for a moment, his face ashen, his eyes wide with visceral, animalistic terror. He had seen Dirtspire's cruelty. He had seen death. But he had never seen a child, barely three years old, commit such an act of unthinking, brutal savagery. This wasn't a fight. This was an execution. A child becoming a monster before his very eyes.
He didn't scream. He didn't think. He dropped his rebar. He turned. And he ran. Vanishing into the darkness. His injured leg burned, but his fear propelled him faster than any pain. He had seen enough to never forget.
Kael stood amidst the silence. His breathing ragged. His heart pounding. The stench of fresh blood, different from the old, dry blood of the Cleansing, filled his nostrils.
He looked at his hands. Red. Sticky. He looked at the two mangled corpses. Men. Dead. By his hand.
He felt nothing. No remorse. No triumph. Only a cold, hard clarity. This was what Dirtspire demanded. This was what he had to do.
He wiped his bloody hand on the scavenger's rough tunic. He turned. He picked up the discarded nutrient paste pouch from the first scavenger's belt, its contents a small but vital gain. And he held Elian closer, the baby's cries slowly subsiding as Kael murmured soothingly.
His first kills. A brutal, desperate stain on his young soul. But it was done for Elian. For survival. The path ahead was clear. It was a path carved in blood. And he would walk it. No matter the cost.
He looked around the desolate ruins once more. This place would only offer more death. He needed to find a better way, a safer path. His gaze drifted towards the distant, unattainable glimmer of the city, and then, beyond it, to the dark, silent expanse of the Northern Mountains. He needed to move. He needed to survive. He needed to get strong enough to pass the city gates and face what waited within.