Amukelo: The Burdened Path

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the group had settled into their evening routine, as they prepared camp. A small fire crackled softly in the center of their resting area, casting flickering shadows across the surrounding trees.

After eating their meal, a simple mix of dried meat, bread, and whatever fruits they had gathered along the way, everyone drifted into their own activities.

Bral and Idin had leaned back against their packs, stretching their legs as they rested. Bao was sharpening her arrows. Her expression was neutral, focused, as if she had done this countless times before.

Pao, meanwhile, was writing in a small, well-kept notebook. Every now and then, she would pause, tap the end of the quill against her lip, then continue writing with renewed purpose.

And then there was Amukelo. He just sat there, his hands resting on his knees, unsure of what to do.

He wasn't used to this—this strange, quiet sense of security.

For months, he had slept with one eye open, his muscles always tense, his senses always attuned to the slightest rustle of movement in the trees. Every sound, every shift in the wind, every distant howl had been a potential threat. But now?

Now, for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like anything could suddenly kill him.

He glanced at the others, watching how effortlessly they carried themselves. They weren't worried about being attacked, weren't constantly checking their surroundings like he was used to. Even Bao, the most alert of the group, seemed more at ease than he had ever allowed himself to be.

And despite himself, Amukelo felt at ease too. It was an odd feeling.

They didn't know much about him, and yet, he could tell they weren't bad people. He could feel it in the way they spoke, in the way they acted. There was no hidden malice, no suspicion in their gazes, no sense that they were using him for something. It was… new.

The next day passed in much the same way.

They traveled in mostly companionable silence, only speaking when necessary.

Amukelo, still feeling awkward in social settings, had tried to spark conversations a few times. But they never lasted long. He wasn't sure what to ask, what to talk about. He avoided asking them too many personal questions, and at the same time, he wasn't willing to reveal too much about himself.

It was a balance he wasn't good at keeping.

Eventually, after several failed attempts at keeping a discussion alive, he gave up. It wasn't that they ignored him—they answered when he spoke—but the silence afterward felt suffocating.

Socializing was more complicated than fighting, that much he was sure of.

By the time the evening came again, the group stopped to set up camp as they had the night before.

The fire was lit, food was prepared, and once again, everyone settled into their routine.

Bral sat with a worn out book in his hands, flipping through its pages casually. His eyes skimmed over the words, and occasionally he smiled as he read through it.

Idin was staring at a ring on his finger, deep in thought. His thumb ran over the smooth metal absentmindedly, his brows furrowed as if lost in memories.

Pao, as before, was writing something in her notebook, though this time she was conversing softly with Bao.

And Amukelo… He sat there again. Watching. Doing nothing. He hated it.

His body wasn't used to stillness. His mind wasn't used to emptiness.

For the past months, his life had been dictated by survival. If he wasn't hunting, he was running. If he wasn't running, he was fighting. If he wasn't fighting, he was healing from a fight. He had never had the luxury of just sitting around, existing.

Now, with no immediate danger, he felt like he was wasting time.

After a while, he stood up, stretching his limbs.

"I'll practice my sword for a bit," he said, glancing at Bral and Idin.

Bral looked up from his book, then shrugged. "Alright. Just don't overdo it."

Amukelo nodded, then moved away from the fire, putting some distance between himself and the group.

As he walked, he flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. He hadn't properly trained in a while.

In the wilderness, he never had the time. Everything had been real combat, real battles. There had been no reason to refine his technique—he had learned to fight by necessity, not by practice. But now, for the first time in a long while, he could afford to train.

He found a sturdy tree, rough and thick, perfect for practice.

Taking a deep breath, he shifted into position, steadying his stance. Then, he swung. A precise, clean strike. Then another. And another.

His body moved on instinct, his muscles remembering the drills that Syltar had taught him. 

But then a deep gash appeared in the tree.

Amukelo stopped, blinking. His sword had bitten deeper into the bark than he expected.

Frowning slightly, he ran his fingers along the cut.

"Is the tree just softer than usual?" he muttered.

He pulled back and struck again—same technique, same strength.

Another deep gash.

He stared at the blade. Then, realization hit him. It wasn't the tree. It was him. He had gotten stronger.

He had been fighting, running, surviving for so long that he hadn't noticed how much his body had changed. How much his technique had improved, how much sharper his reflexes had become.

Out in the wild, there had never been time to compare himself to his past self. But now, standing here, looking at the damage he had just done, he knew he wasn't the same person he had been when he first left his village.

His grip on the sword tightened slightly.

He looked up at the sky, the stars glimmering above.

"God… is this the right path?" he murmured. "Am I getting where I want to go?"

The wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves.

There was no answer. Just silence.

Amukelo exhaled slowly, lowering his sword.

Amukelo walked back toward the camp, his breath steadying after his training. The crisp night air felt refreshing against his skin, cooling the slight sweat that clung to him. He had worked harder than he expected, but somehow, the exhaustion felt… good. Like progress. Like something real.

As he neared the camp, the fire had burned low, flickering weakly as embers smoldered among the remaining logs. The night was quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the distant hum of insects hidden in the trees.

He expected everyone to be asleep.

But as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the firelight, he noticed a figure sitting near the edge of camp, facing outward, away from the others. It was Bao.

She sat with her arms resting on her knees, her bow placed beside her within reach. Her sharp eyes scanned the darkness, her posture relaxed but alert—like a hunter waiting, always prepared to react.

Amukelo tilted his head slightly.

Everyone else was sleeping. Why was she still awake?

Curious, he stepped closer, the soft crunch of his boots against the dirt alerting her to his presence.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.

"Oh, so you're back," she said, her voice calm, but laced with that usual edge she carried. "I thought you had run off, or that something happened to you."

Amukelo raised an eyebrow. "What? Why would I escape?"

Bao shrugged, looking back out into the trees. "You disappeared into the dark without saying much. Not that I was particularly worried, but people do weird things when they're alone."

Amukelo sighed through his nose. "I was just training."

Bao smirked slightly. "I figured."

He shifted his weight slightly, looking around. The others were fast asleep—Bral, Pao, Idin—all resting peacefully. It was only now that he realized how unnatural it felt to have people watching over him while he slept.

That had never been an option for him before.

He looked back at Bao. "Aren't you going to sleep?"

She raised an eyebrow slightly, then gestured toward the camp. "Someone has to stay awake. We take shifts every night when we travel, just to make sure nothing happens while we sleep."

Amukelo furrowed his brows. "Shifts?"

Bao nodded. "Yeah. Every night, two of us take turns staying awake."

He processed that for a moment, then frowned. "Then why didn't anyone wake me up to take a shift?"

Bao glanced at him again before looking back at the darkness beyond the firelight.

"It's not like all of us stay up in shorter shifts. Only two people rotate each night." She tilted her head slightly. "And besides, we still don't trust you enough to let you take one."

Amukelo felt his stomach twist slightly, but he knew it made sense.

Even though he had started to feel safe around them, even though they had been traveling together without issue, it didn't mean they had any reason to fully trust him. After all, they barely knew him.

He looked down, deep in thought. He wasn't offended. Not really. He understood it, but at the same time… it was different from how he saw them. He didn't feel the need to watch his back around them. But for them, he was still an unknown factor.

Bao sighed, breaking the silence.

"Don't think we have anything against you," she said, her tone even, but not unkind. "We'd just rather be careful."

She shifted slightly, stretching her arms before resting her elbow against her knee. "Even if some of us don't think you'd do anything," she added, "it's always better to stay safe."

Amukelo looked up at her, then shook his head quickly.

"No, no, no. I don't have an issue with that," he said, raising his hands in a slight defensive gesture. "It's just… different."

Bao raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"

He hesitated, searching for the words.

"You guys have seen a lot of people before, right? You're used to being around them." He gestured vaguely. "I haven't."

Bao didn't say anything. She just watched him, waiting for him to continue.

Amukelo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Being around people is just… different than being alone for so long. I don't mind how you guys do things. I get it."

Then, after a moment, Amukelo shifted slightly and said, "So… in that case, I'm going to get some rest."

Bao nodded. "Yeah. You should."

As he turned and began walking toward his bedroll, he heard her mumble something under her breath.

He slowed slightly, half-turning his head, but she wasn't talking to him.

She was talking to herself.

"He's not as bad as I thought," she muttered, her gaze drifting upward to the stars.

Then, more softly, almost like she was still trying to piece her thoughts together, "You can tell he hasn't seen people in a long time."

There was a long pause. Then, she sighed. "But does that make him sincere in that innocence and awkwardness?"

Her eyes flickered with uncertainty. "I don't know."

She leaned back against the log she had been sitting on, still staring at the stars above.

Then, quietly, almost like a whisper, "We'll see…"