The first hint of grey light was staining the eastern sky as Malrik slipped back through the window of his room. Every movement was agony. His leg, where the ice had struck and where he had later exacerbated the wound, felt like a block of numb, throbbing pain. His arm was a dull ache, crisscrossed with the invisible lines of mana stitching. Dirt, blood, and the acrid scent of the Whisperwood clung to him.
He moved with silent, desperate efficiency. The wooden clone lay in the bed, a still, false shape. With movements learned over months of practice, he carefully lifted the figure, replacing it with his own wounded body. He pulled the blankets up, arranging them to conceal the worst of the grime and the awkwardness of his position. The clone was then swiftly hidden in the bottom of a large, rarely used chest in the corner, its surface returning to its inert, carved state.
Collapsing onto the mattress, Malrik forced his breathing to slow, to match the shallow rhythm of the wooden double. He didn't have long. Helga would be here soon with breakfast. He closed his eyes, not for true rest, which felt impossible, but to focus his mana inwards, continuing the slow, arduous process of internal repair, pushing back the wave of exhaustion and pain.
He must have drifted for only a few short minutes before the familiar soft tap came at the door, followed by the gentle creak as it opened.
"Young Master? Breakfast is here." Helga's voice was soft, kind, as always.
Malrik forced his eyes open, blinking as if roused from deep sleep. He presented the usual picture – a pale, slightly built boy stirring slowly from slumber. He managed a small nod.
Helga set the tray down on the bedside table. "Sleep well, Young Master?"
He gave another slow nod, his expression carefully neutral. He couldn't risk even a gesture that might betray the agony beneath. Silence was his natural state, and today, it was his shield.
"Good. Eat up now. Sir Kaelen said he might come check on you later this morning." She gave him a warm, maternal smile before quietly exiting, leaving him alone once more with the reality of his injuries.
Once she was gone, the facade dropped. He sat up, wincing. Eating was a secondary concern. First, he needed to clean himself. The cold water in the basin was a shock, sending shivers through his battered body, but it was necessary. He scrubbed off the blood, the dirt, the cloying scent of the forest and corrupted magic. The cold was a sharp, clean pain that helped cut through the dull ache. He checked the mana-stitched wounds; they were holding, raw and angry beneath the surface, but closed.
Dressing was another exercise in calculated concealment. He chose clothes that were slightly looser, thicker fabrics that wouldn't press on his wounds and would hide any tell-tale bulges or stiffness. Long sleeves covered his arm, sturdy breeches concealed his leg. He moved slowly, deliberately, ensuring his posture didn't reveal the agony just beneath the surface.
When Sir Kaelen arrived, he was seated near the window, a book open in his lap, presenting the picture of quiet study.
"Young Master Malrik." Kaelen's voice was a low rumble. He always had a watchful air about him. "Helga said you were awake."
Malrik looked up, offering a small, polite inclination of his head. He met Kaelen's gaze, allowing a flicker of... something. Perhaps longing? Curiosity? Something that suggested a need beyond the routine of his exile.
Kaelen studied him for a moment, his gaze sharp. Malrik felt the scrutiny, the subtle probing for weakness or deception. He held himself still, radiating an aura of quiet fragility. "Reading?" Kaelen prompted.
Malrik gently closed the book, setting it aside. He turned his head slightly, looking towards the window and the world beyond the Lodge walls. He then looked back at Kaelen, his expression conveying a sense of... unease. Restlessness.
"Restless?" Kaelen interpreted, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The news from the front lines, perhaps? It weighs on us all."
Malrik nodded slowly, acknowledging that was part of it. He then hesitated, forming his request silently. He gestured towards the window, then outwards, as if indicating the world beyond. He then made a small, tentative motion with his hand, as if asking permission, following it with a gesture that suggested... a need. From a place far away.
(Internal Monologue: Here it is. The request. And the inevitable suspicion. I cannot speak the words, 'Take me to town.' I must convey the need, the destination, through action, through expression. This departure from routine, combined with my silence... it will amplify his unease. Good. Let him be uneasy. Let him think he understands the source.)
"Town?" Kaelen interpreted, his voice laced with surprise. "Descate? You want to go to Descate?" His surprise quickly morphed into suspicion. This was unprecedented. Malrik never asked for anything like this. What could he possibly need from town? He never asks to leave. Never shows this much interest in the outside world... He's ill, frail. A trip to town? It's... completely out of character.
Malrik offered another slight nod, confirming his interpretation. He then made a gesture that suggested seeking something small, perhaps information or understanding, combined with a look of quiet desperation, like someone lost seeking a map.
"Information?" Kaelen mused aloud, piecing together the silent cues. "'Someone who knows things'?" He looked Malrik over again. The boy looked the same – pale, fragile, but there was something different in his eyes today. A flicker of something unexpected. Is this boredom driving him to strange requests? Is he trying to escape? Or... is this a sign of something else? I need to watch him. Keep him close. See what he's truly after.
He settled his expression into one of reluctant consideration. "Descate is a small town, Young Master. Not much in the way of... comprehensive information. The Duke receives the official reports here first."
Malrik shook his head slowly, a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture of disagreement. His expression remained earnest, portraying the quiet yearning he wanted Kaelen to see.
"Very well," Kaelen said finally, a decision made. Refusing outright felt wrong, given the boy's isolated life. Allowing it, while keeping a close eye, seemed the safer path. He was a knight; his duty was protection. "I will arrange for a carriage. We will depart after the midday meal. But you will remain with me at all times."
Malrik inclined his head deeply in thanks, a silent acknowledgment of the knight's agreement. He allowed a subtle, almost imperceptible easing of tension in his posture, conveying relief.
Hours later, as the carriage rattled down the dusty road towards the small, unremarkable town of Descate, Malrik sat opposite Sir Kaelen, outwardly a quiet, fragile passenger, inwardly a storm of calculated intent. He could feel Kaelen's gaze on him periodically, watchful and assessing.
(Internal: He thinks he's being subtle. He believes my request is born of isolation or a naive curiosity about the war. He sees the deviation from my pattern and interprets it through his own limited lens – the concerns of a loyal knight guarding a Duke's son.)
He allowed himself a small, private smile that Kaelen wouldn't see behind his downward gaze.
(Internal: Let him watch. Let him try to decipher my motives based on his understanding of the world and my perceived weaknesses. My 'true' purpose in Descate is far beyond his comprehension: recruitment. This provincial backwater, filled with unremarkable people, is a pool of potential. I need eyes and ears outside this Lodge. I need hands that aren't bound by loyalty to the Duke or Kaelen. A servant, perhaps. Someone overlooked, easily manipulated, but with enough wit and freedom of movement to be useful. A pawn. A piece on the board I am building, here in the shadows. He believes he is taking me on a short, controlled outing. He does not understand that I am taking my first step towards building my network. The Whisperwood taught me self-reliance. Descate will teach me leverage.)
The carriage rolled on, carrying the watchful knight, the seemingly frail, silent exile, and the hidden intentions that would soon reach out into the unsuspecting town of Descate. The game was changing, moving from the brutal wilderness to the subtle manipulations of civilization. And Malrik was ready for this new kind of hunt.