The forest met him with silence and the smell of pine needles.

  Greg stood for a moment, listening to a woodpecker somewhere hammering at a tree. The woodpecker had a purpose. The woodpecker had a job. Greg had only a leaky memory and a growling stomach.

  “So…” he drawled, looking around. “What now?”

  He scratched his nose.

  “And where the hell am I, anyway? I was in a village… what was it called? Eldur? Smeldur? Bumfuck-nowhere?” He frowned, trying to remember the name he’d heard an hour ago. Useless. The village name erased itself like chalk off a board.

  “Whatever. So. Where am I?”

  He stepped forward. The forest was thick and gloomy, with massive roots sticking out of the ground like a giant’s veins. Greg liked it here. He walked between the trees, and every turn, every bush felt impossibly familiar.

  “Right here,” he muttered, stepping over a rotten log, “I think I slept. And over there… mushrooms grow there. Poisonous, but pretty.”

  How did he know that? His body moved уверенно, without stumbling. He walked the forest like it was his hallway.

  Soon he came to a stream. The water was clear and icy. Greg dropped to his knees to drink, and made the same mistake again—he looked into his reflection.

  “Oh,” was all he said.

  The process was speeding up.

  The right eye, which that morning had still been sky-blue, was getting dragged under by darkness. A black blot spread across the iris, eating the color. Now he looked at the world through two almost-black holes. And his hair… there were barely any white strands left. They looked pathetic—thin little streaks against the thick, pitch-black that had taken almost his whole head.

  “I look like a fairytale villain from a kids’ book someone forgot to color in,” Greg sighed. “I’m definitely not going back to that village. They only didn’t burn me because they didn’t have time.”

  He stood, brushing off his knees. He had to keep moving.

  Suddenly the bushes to his right exploded with cracking. Loud. Brazen. Greg turned.

  A bear burst out of the brush, snapping branches like matchsticks. Huge, brown, scar across its muzzle. It rose onto its hind legs and roared so hard needles rained off the nearest fir.

  Greg stared at it, exhausted.

  “Why me?” he asked the bear. “Do I smell like honey? Or do I just have this… edible face?”

  The bear didn’t answer. It dropped to all fours and charged, snarling—muscle and claws rushing a skinny teenager.

  “Alright,” Greg didn’t even flinch. “I’m too lazy to run.”

  He just opened—just a little—the thing inside him. He didn’t know what to call it. Aura? Bloodlust? Pressure? He simply let his inner darkness—the same darkness that had painted his hair—spill out for a second.

  The air around Greg turned heavy as lead. Birds went silent instantly. The bear, already only a couple meters away, slammed to a stop on all four paws, claws gouging the ground.

  The beast froze. Its eyes widened. It wasn’t looking at a teenager anymore. It was staring at something ancient, dark, endlessly dangerous.

  The bear whined, tail tucked like a beaten mutt. Then it spun and tore off into the brush, breaking bushes even faster than before.

  “So we talked,” Greg nodded, pulling the “aura” back in. “Nervous animals around here.”

  He glanced up at the sun filtering through the canopy. Still a long way to sunset.

  “If I walk to the end of this forest, that’s half a day,” Greg calculated. “And I want to eat. Right now. My stomach says that jerky wasn’t enough.”

  He looked into the distance, where the forest should end. “Why walk if you can not walk?”

  He pictured the far end of the woods.

  Snap.

  Pop.

  One blink—and the pine smell turned into smoke and dust. Greg stood at the edge of the forest on the other side. A path that would take a normal human six hours took him half a second.

  A valley stretched out in front of him. And in the valley—a town. Not a three-house village. A real town: stone walls, towers, chimney smoke.

  Greg’s eyes—now almost fully black—lit up with interest. Where there’s a town, there are taverns. Where there are taverns, there’s food.

  “Oh,” Greg licked his lips. “Civilization. Hope they’ve got something hot. And hope they don’t have prejudices against guys with black eyes.”

  He adjusted his bag and headed toward the gates.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Objective acquired: lunch.

  He tugged his old, battered cloak into place and walked up. The guards tensed. They exchanged looks at his strange hair and the black pits where his eyes should be. One hand drifted toward a halberd, but the other guard hissed something into his ear. Apparently they decided it was better not to mess with lunatics or lepers.

  Greg passed them without even looking. He followed his nose.

  The smell.

  Thick, fatty, mind-wrecking smell of roasted meat.

  Greg swallowed. His legs carried him across the market on their own. He shoved people aside, not even hearing their outraged shouts.

  There it was. A stall. A whole pig turning over coals. Juice dripped onto the embers, sizzling and exploding into fragrant smoke.

  Greg didn’t think. Instinct said: Food. His hand did: Grab.

  He tore a steaming chunk right off the spit, burning his fingers, and sank his teeth into it. Hot fat ran down his chin. It was divine.

  “HEY!” someone barked right in his ear. “PUT THAT BACK!”

  Greg froze with meat in his mouth. A pudgy man in a stained apron stood in front of him, face red with rage. The vendor.

  “What the hell are you doing, you ragged bastard?!” the man yelled, waving a carving knife. “Who’s paying? Pushkin?!”

  Greg blinked, chewing. “Paying?” he repeated. The word felt странное. “Like… woke up? What is that?”

  The man exploded, face turning purple. “You little thief! Playing dumb? You’re not paying?! Where’s the money?!”

  “Money…” Greg frowned. “That sounds familiar. Like… round metal things?”

  “YES!” the vendor roared. “ROUND! METAL! GIVE THEM HERE OR I’M CALLING THE GUARDS!”

  Greg sighed. Guards meant беготня. беготня meant laziness. He patted his pockets. His fingers found a small pouch. He pulled it out and shook its contents into his palm. Three coins. Dull and worn.

  “How many metal circles do you want?” Greg asked.

  The vendor didn’t answer. He just scooped all three coins off Greg’s palm with his big hand. Looked. Grimaced.

  “Bronze,” he snorted. “Three copper pieces. Tch.”

  He stuffed the coins into his apron pocket and crossed his arms. “Fine. We’re even. Now get out before I call the guards.”

  Greg nodded and reached for his half-eaten meat. The vendor slapped his hand.

  “Where the hell are you reaching?!” he snapped. “Get lost, I said!”

  Greg froze. “Hold up,” his voice went quiet. “That was all the metal circles I had. I gave them to you. Give me the meat, fat man.”

  “What meat, you idiot?!” the vendor laughed. “Those pennies were for moral compensation! For the nerves you cost me and for ruining a piece. Now GET OUT!”

  Something clicked inside Greg. Not panic—like the morning.

  Anger.

  Cold, hungry anger.

  He just wanted to eat. He gave away his round metal things. And this greasy lump decided to scam him?

  “Give it,” Greg said through his teeth. “The meat.”

  The air around the stall turned cold. The fire under the spit, crackling merrily a second ago, crouched into the coals like it got scared. Shadows under Greg’s eyes deepened. His black eyes seemed to widen, swallowing the sunlight of the market.

  The vendor choked on his laughter. He looked at Greg—and understood: this wasn’t some ragged kid. Waves of horror rolled off Greg. Pure, primal. Like a predator staring at meat.

  And the meat was the vendor.

  The man’s lower lip began to shake. The knife slipped from his fingers and clinked against the stall.

  “O-okay…” he squeaked, stepping back. “Okay! You—uh—don’t get worked up!”

  With trembling hands he grabbed the biggest chunk of pork, wrapped it in greasy paper, and shoved it into Greg’s chest.

  “Take it! Take it all! Just go!” he shrieked. “And don’t come back! Psycho!”

  Greg took the bundle. The pressure vanished instantly. The fire flared again.

  “Thanks,” Greg said politely—and bit into the meat.

  He walked off through a hushed crowd, chewing as he went. Buying food was harder than he’d expected. But it was worth it.

  He found a quiet alley, sat on a crate, and prepared to enjoy his victory. The meat was fatty, hot, and smelled like happiness.

  Then metal rang right by his ear.

  “Hey, you—kid!” a loud, trained voice barked. “You behaved badly! How dare you act like that in our town?”

  Greg rolled his eyes—both of them, the black and the blue—and slowly turned his head. A man in shining armor stood there. His cloak was fluttering (even though there was no wind), hand resting on his sword. A classic “defender of justice.”

  Greg chewed and asked lazily, “And who the hell are you? Some pathetic hero of this town nobody asked for?”

  The knight choked on air at the audacity. “What?! I am Sir Roderick, and I—”

  “Got it,” Greg cut him off. “So you’re the type who decided to do extra work for… what? Justice? Boring.”

  The knight turned red enough to match the plume on his helmet. “Why you little—!”

  “Relax,” Greg sighed. He couldn’t be bothered arguing. “Here, I’ll share. Maybe you’re hungry—that’s why you’re angry.”

  He tore off a fatty chunk of pork with his bare hands. Grease ran down his fingers. Greg held it out like a peace pipe.

  “Take it. It’s good.”

  The knight’s face twisted with disgust and rage. “WHAT KIND OF AN ANIMAL ARE YOU?!”

  He smacked Greg’s hand with a gauntleted fist.

  Smack.

  The meat flew from Greg’s fingers.

  Time slowed.

  Greg watched the steaming, juicy piece of pork arc through the air and land прямо in road dust.

  In dirt.

  It lay there ruined—dirty—and infinitely sad.

  Greg slowly lifted his gaze to the knight.

  “My piece of meat?” he asked quietly. “You… you knocked it out of my hand?”

  “I’ll teach you manners, freak!” the knight shouted, reaching for his sword.

  He didn’t get to draw it.

  Because the air in the alley suddenly turned heavy as a tombstone. Birds went silent. Rats in basements froze. Cold sweat slid down Sir Roderick’s spine. His knees started shaking; his armor clinked жалобно.

  He looked into the kid’s eyes.

  And he didn’t see offense.

  He saw the Abyss.

  “How DARE you?” Greg’s voice wasn’t loud, but it vibrated in the stones. “I offer you food… from the bottom of my heart… and you?!”

  Greg’s hair shot upward, though there was still no wind. Darkness thickened around him.

  “You out of your mind?” Greg snarled.

  He just waved a hand. Not a spell. Just an annoyed gesture.

  That was enough.

  A compressed удар-wave of air slammed into the knight’s chest like a battering ram. Sir Roderick flew back about ten meters, crashed into a pile of empty barrels, and went still under the trash.

  Silence.

  Greg stared at his own hand, then at the knight.

  The aura vanished as fast as it came.

  “Oh,” Greg said. “Uh. Kinda overdid it. Is he alive?”

  Checking sounded like effort. And the guards would come running at the noise.

  Time to vanish.

  Pop.

  A second later Greg was sitting on a bench on another, crowded street, calmly chewing the rest of his pork like nothing happened.

  Well-dressed townsfolk walked past. Ladies in dresses wrinkled their noses at the sight of a strange boy with a dirty face and greasy hands eating meat without a knife.

  “Ugh, so uncivilized,” one lady whispered. “What kind of village animal is that?” her companion agreed. “Where are his manners?”

  Greg took a big bite and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

  “Manners…” he mumbled with his mouth full. “You can’t spread manners on bread. But meat tastes good.”

  He didn’t care. The important thing was he saved most of lunch. And the knight… well. He could lie in the trash and think about his behavior.

  Greg had already almost forgotten what he looked like.

  “Alright,” Greg told himself. “I ate. Now I need to find a place to sleep. And figure out why even bears freak out around me.”