Ryen didn't waste time grieving.
Grief was a luxury, one he had no right to indulge in. He had learned that the world didn't stop for suffering—it moved on, indifferent, relentless. And so, he moved with it.
At twelve, he knew that survival was not about strength or kindness; it was about adaptation. He never asked for help, not once. He never begged, not because of pride, but because he understood people too well. A child who begged was just another problem. A child who worked was tolerable.
So, he made himself tolerable.
He offered labor in exchange for food. Cleaning, running errands, carrying sacks of grain. He hunted small game in the forest, traded rabbit pelts for bread, and gathered herbs from the outskirts of town, learning their value from watching apothecaries. He wasn't the only orphan, but he was the one who never stayed in the same place long.
The villagers didn't pity him. They didn't care. But they gave, because it was easier to give than to refuse and feel the weight of guilt.
Ryen took advantage of that.
---
One afternoon, as he was sweeping the steps of a merchant's shop, he overheard a dispute in the marketplace. A butcher and a farmer arguing over spoiled meat.
"This isn't what we agreed on," the farmer snapped, holding up a slab of meat with a grayish tinge. "You think I won't notice you cut corners?"
The butcher, a large man with thick arms, scoffed. "You think you can do better? Go ahead. Raise your own livestock, slaughter your own pigs."
Ryen observed.
The butcher's arms were folded too tight. His stance, defensive. He was lying.
The farmer's hands clenched. His frustration was real, but he wouldn't act on it. He didn't want conflict—he wanted an apology that would never come.
A worthless argument.
Ryen finished sweeping and left before it could drag out. People were predictable, their actions dictated by wants they could barely admit to themselves.
He knew that too well.
It was evening when he found a group of boys near the river. Older, stronger, the kind that looked for amusement in cruelty.
They had caught a smaller boy—one of the younger orphans—and were shoving him around, laughing as he stumbled.
Ryen watched from a distance.
He should have left. It wasn't his problem.
But then one of them raised a fist.
Ryen stepped forward.
His voice was calm when he spoke. "You'll regret that."
The oldest of the group, a broad-shouldered boy named Larek, turned. "And who's gonna make me?"
Ryen didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, just enough for the firelight to cast shadows across his face. His expression didn't change, but his eyes—his eyes were cold. Not with anger, not with fear. Just calculation.
Larek hesitated.
It was a flicker, barely noticeable, but Ryen caught it. Hesitation. Doubt. The realization that something felt… off.
Ryen took a step forward. Larek took a step back.
The others noticed.
Larek scowled, muttered something under his breath, and shoved past him. "Not worth it," he said, feigning boredom.
Ryen let them go.
The younger boy looked up at him, wide-eyed.
"You didn't do anything," he said.
Ryen glanced down at him. "Didn't have to."
---
That night, as he skinned a rabbit behind an abandoned shed, a voice cut through the silence.
"You always listen, but never speak."
Ryen didn't turn. He recognized the voice—Hagan, the retired carpenter. A man who spoke little but saw much.
"You see things others don't, don't you?"
It wasn't a question.
Ryen continued working.
Hagan sighed. "Careful with that, boy. Some people don't like being seen for what they are."
Ryen smirked. Not out of amusement, but understanding.
He already knew.