By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, Char's legs felt like they had been beaten with a club. He wasn't sure how much ground they had covered—miles, maybe?—but the uneven path had done a number on his feet, and he was grateful when Benjamin finally slowed and gestured toward a cluster of trees.
"This'll do," the old man said.
Char followed his gaze, taking in the natural shelter the trees provided. Their thick canopy of leaves stretched wide overhead, blocking out most of the sky, while their trunks stood close together, forming a natural windbreak. The ground was mostly clear of undergrowth, aside from a few fallen branches and patches of grass.
Not a bad spot.
Char slid his pack from his shoulders, wincing at the sore muscles beneath. He knelt and started unbuckling the straps, eager to finally set up camp. But as soon as he began unpacking his supplies, Benjamin made a low, unimpressed sound.
Char glanced up. The old man was staring at his gear.
"You call this camping equipment?"
Char frowned. "Uh… yeah?"
Benjamin snorted, picking up one of the tent poles Char had brought. He twisted it lightly, and it immediately bent out of shape.
Char felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck.
"These stakes are flimsy, too," Benjamin muttered, tossing one aside. "The rope's too thin, your bedroll is more suited for a summer festival than the wilderness, and you didn't bring an axe or a knife worth a damn." He sighed, shaking his head. "Kid, this isn't a backyard excursion. You really think this stuff is gonna hold up out here?"
Char crossed his arms, suddenly feeling very stupid.
"Well, I didn't exactly have time to train as a survivalist," he muttered.
Benjamin gave him a long look, then grunted. "No, I suppose you didn't."
With that, the old man moved away, crouching down to pick up a few fallen branches. Char watched as he worked, pulling out a short, thick-bladed knife and stripping the bark with ease.
"Come on, then," Benjamin said. "I'll teach you how to actually survive out here."
Char let out a breath and nodded.
It wasn't exactly a lesson he wanted to admit he needed—but, well, he did need it.
Benjamin started with the basics—food, fire, and shelter.
First, he walked Char through foraging, pointing out what was safe to eat and what would make his stomach twist into knots. He showed him how to test berries by rubbing them against his skin, how to look for signs of animal burrows to know where water might be, and how to set simple traps with nothing but twigs and rope.
Next was fire.
"Your fancy little flint isn't bad," Benjamin admitted, turning it over in his hands, "but in wet conditions, it'll be useless. You need to learn how to start a fire no matter what."
He taught Char how to gather dry kindling, how to use tree bark as a firestarter, and even how to make an ember with just wood and friction.
Char tried it himself—and immediately failed.
Benjamin laughed at his struggles but coached him through it, adjusting his grip, his pressure, his angle. Char's arms ached, sweat beaded on his brow, and his patience wore thin—but after what felt like an eternity, a tiny wisp of smokecurled up from his kindling.
The fire caught.
It was small, frail, barely flickering—but it was his fire.
Char couldn't help but feel a surge of pride.
Benjamin only gave a nod of approval, then moved on to shelter.
"Since your tent is useless, we're making do with what we've got," he said, grabbing a thick branch and stabbing it into the dirt. He showed Char how to weave smaller branches and leaves into the framework, how to make a slanted coverto block the wind, and how to use dried grass as a sleeping mat.
By the time they were finished, Char stared at their handiwork—a sturdy, if somewhat makeshift, shelter. It wasn't much, but… it was real. It was something he had helped build.
Benjamin settled by the fire, letting out a sigh. "You learn quick," he admitted.
Char sat beside him, rubbing his sore arms. "Thanks."
The night settled around them, quiet and still, the flames casting flickering shadows over the trees
*
The cold was what woke him.
A sharp, biting chill crept into Char's bones, dragging him from the depths of sleep. His eyes fluttered open, and the first thing he noticed was the darkness—the fire had gone out.
The second thing he noticed was the wind.
Their shelter shuddered as a gust tore through the trees, rustling the leaves and shaking the branches overhead. The woven structure they had built earlier creaked under the force, and for a brief moment, Char wondered if it would hold.
He sat up slowly, trying not to wake Benjamin, who—somehow—was fast asleep, completely unbothered by the cold.
Char frowned, watching the older man for a moment.
It was strange. He hadn't really stopped to think about him before—Benjamin had just been this gruff, experienced presence forced upon him by Tess, a safeguard he didn't ask for. But now, looking at him—his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed even in sleep—Char found himself wondering.
Who was Benjamin, really?
He had mentioned a war, earlier that day. Thirty years ago. That meant he had to be at least in his late forties, maybe early fifties. His body was still strong, his movements efficient—but Char had noticed the way he sometimes winced when standing up too fast, or how his right knee clicked when he walked. He wasn't young anymore.
So why was he still living like this?
Char sighed, rubbing his arms. It wasn't his business. He'd only known the guy for a day—maybe by the time this journey was over, he'd have more answers.
For now, though, they had more immediate problems.
The shelter wasn't stable, and the fire had gone out.
He needed to fix it.
Benjamin had taught him enough that he should be able to handle it himself.
Right?
Char took a deep breath, steeling himself, then quietly got to work.
First, the fire.
He crawled out from under their shelter, the cold immediately slicing through his clothes. He bit back a curse, moving quickly. The embers were dead, meaning he had to start over from scratch.
He gathered dry twigs and leaves, breaking them into small pieces. His fingers were stiff with cold, but he forced them to keep moving.
He retraced Benjamin's earlier lessons, recalling how he had angled the wood, how he had pressed the bark together, how the pressure and friction had to be just right.
It took longer than he wanted—his arms ached, his breath came out in white clouds, his frustration threatened to boil over.
But then—a wisp of smoke.
Then, a spark.
Then, fire.
Char grinned, feeding it carefully, nurturing it until the flames grew.
The warmth returned, and with it, a sense of accomplishment.
Next, the shelter.
He circled around it, checking for weaknesses. The wind had loosened some of the branches, and the leaves weren't layered densely enough to block out the chill.
He wove more branches into the gaps, pressing them tightly together. He gathered fallen leaves and layered them along the edges, reinforcing the structure.
By the time he was done, it felt sturdier—not perfect, but better.
Char stepped back, brushing dirt off his hands. He glanced at Benjamin—still fast asleep—and let out a quiet chuckle.
Maybe this whole survival thing wasn't so impossible after all.