The Beninging

Chapter 7

But this figure was different. Smaller, less imposing. It stepped into the clearing, and she realized it was a young boy, no older than twelve. He had a wild look about him, with tangled hair and dirt-smudged clothes. His eyes, though, were sharp and alert.

"You're hurt," he said, his voice steady and calm despite her disheveled state. "You shouldn't be out here alone."

She stared at him, confused by his sudden appearance. "Who... who are you?"

The boy tilted his head, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That's not important. What's important is that you need help."

"I don't need—" She started to protest but stopped. She did need help. She was too weak to fight, and there was something odd about this boy—something she couldn't quite place. He didn't seem afraid of her, or the power she carried.

"Come with me," he said simply. "There's a place nearby. Safe. You can rest."

Despite the confusion swirling in her mind, she found herself nodding. She had no other options. If this boy was offering help, she would take it—at least for now.

The boy turned and led the way through the trees, moving with surprising speed and confidence. She followed, her steps heavy and unsteady, but the promise of safety kept her going. After a short walk, they arrived at a hidden clearing, where an old, weathered cabin stood nestled between the trees. Smoke rose from a small chimney, and the air smelled faintly of herbs and wood.

The boy opened the door and motioned for her to enter. Inside, the cabin was simple but warm, with a fire crackling in the hearth and shelves lined with jars of dried herbs and strange trinkets.

"Sit," the boy instructed, and she complied, collapsing into a chair near the fire. The warmth seeped into her bones, and she let out a long breath, the tension finally easing from her body.

The boy moved about the cabin, gathering a bowl of water and some herbs. He worked in silence, grinding the herbs into a paste and mixing them with the water. After a few minutes, he handed her the bowl. "Drink this. It'll help."

She hesitated, eyeing the concoction suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Something to restore your strength," he said with a shrug. "You'll need it if you want to survive what's coming."

She frowned but took the bowl. She had no reason to trust this boy, but something about him made her feel like he knew more than he let on. She drank the mixture, grimacing at the bitter taste.

As she set the bowl down, the boy sat across from her, watching her closely. "You're not the first to try and control the stones," he said quietly. "But you're different."

"Different how?" she asked, her voice rough.

He met her gaze, his eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. "Because you haven't given up yet."

The boy's eyes gleamed with a depth far beyond his years, and as she studied him, an uneasy feeling settled in her chest. He wasn't just a child—there was something ancient in the way he moved, the way he spoke. His words carried a weight that didn't belong to someone so young. She hadn't noticed it at first, but now, as he sat across from her, calm and composed, it was impossible to ignore.

"Who are you?" she asked again, her voice firmer this time. "You're not just a boy, are you?"

The boy leaned back in his chair, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his face. For a moment, he seemed to consider her question, his eyes narrowing slightly as if debating how much to reveal. Then, with a small sigh, he spoke.