The sun hadn't risen yet.
The world was still, wrapped in that cold, grey silence that comes just before dawn. Frost coated the grass, and the trees stood like quiet watchers in the mist.
I stood near the treeline, the house behind me.
I hadn't left yet.
But I would.
My hand rested on the sword at my back. The grip felt familiar now. Not easy. Not light. But mine.
They had given me shelter. Food. Warmth. Kindness without asking anything in return.
And still—I couldn't stay.
Not because they did anything wrong.
But because I didn't belong here.
Not really.
Not in the laughter by the hearth. Not in the gentle hush of a quiet home. Not in the way Sera smiled when she thought I wasn't looking.
This place was too soft.
Too good.
I carried something with me that didn't fit here. Something darker. Something sharper.
I didn't know what I was meant to become—but it wasn't this.
And the longer I stayed, the more it hurt.
I wasn't running from them.
I was running from who I might become if I stayed.
Soft.
Comfortable.
Weak.
I looked back at the house—dark windows, quiet roof, smoke curling faintly from the chimney.
I wanted to be the kind of person who stayed.
But I wasn't.
So I turned away.
And started walking.
The frost cracked under my boots as I stepped past the first trees. The world ahead was wide and grey, the path unclear—but it was mine.
A branch snapped behind me.
I froze.
"Arlen!"
I turned slowly.
Sera stood there, her breath misting in the cold morning air, her hands clenched at her sides. Behind her, Theon and Lira had followed—still half-dressed, their faces pale in the dawn.
"You weren't going to say goodbye," Sera said. Her voice trembled.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Lira stepped forward first. No anger. Just quiet understanding in her eyes.
"You could've waited until breakfast," she said gently. "We would've made something warm."
"I'm sorry," I said. My voice sounded distant, like it wasn't really mine. "I didn't want it to be… harder than it already is."
Theon nodded once. He understood. I could see it in the way his shoulders dropped slightly, in the tired breath he let out.
"You've got a road to walk," he said. "No shame in that."
From behind him, Lira held out a small bundle—cloth tied tight with twine.
"Food. And flint. Some salve for the leg. It's not much, but…"
I stepped forward and took it with both hands. "Thank you."
She touched my arm before letting go. "You're always welcome here. Remember that."
Then Sera came closer.
Her eyes were shining now, and she didn't try to hide it. "I thought maybe you'd stay a little longer."
"I thought so too," I said. "But this place… it's not where I end."
Her lips trembled. "I don't care where you end. I just…"
She didn't finish. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. Tight. Fierce.
I stood frozen for a second.
Then I hugged her back.
Not for long.
But enough.
When she pulled away, she wiped her eyes quickly with her sleeve. "Then promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't forget us."
I looked at her, really looked.
"I couldn't if I tried."
She nodded, biting her lip.
Then Theon stepped forward. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye.
"Go steady, boy," he said. "Watch your back. Trust your instincts. And never hesitate to swing first, if it comes to it."
"I won't," I said.
He grunted softly. "You're a good one, Arlen. You might not see it yet. But you will."
Lira smiled faintly. "Try not to get killed."
I gave the smallest smile I could manage. "I'll do my best."
The morning light was starting to break through the trees now—thin streaks of gold in the mist.
I turned toward the woods again.
Sera called after me one last time. "Arlen?"
I looked back.
"I meant it," she said. "You're not weak."
I nodded once. Didn't trust myself to speak.
Then I walked into the trees.
And this time—I didn't look back.
The days blurred together.
Hills, rivers, forest. Then more of the same.
Every morning, I rose before the sun touched the trees, sword in hand, muscles stiff and sore. I trained in silence—moving through drills again and again until the frost melted on my skin and the blade felt like an extension of my arm.
At first, it was just movement.
Then it became something more.
Precision. Control. Rhythm.
I learned the weight of the sword—not just how heavy it was, but where the balance lay, how it pulled when I swung wide, how to correct with my footwork.
I remembered what Father had shown me.
And I added what I learned on my own.
By the end of the second week, my swings no longer felt clumsy. The sword still strained my arms, but it no longer ruled them.
I moved with it.
A little faster.
A little sharper.
Each day, I grew.
But the land didn't care.
The world stayed cold. The trees remained silent.
And my provisions—what Lira had given me—ran out by the tenth day.
The bread turned stale. The cheese molded. The dried meat was gone before I noticed it had been the last piece.
So I fished.
Badly, at first.
I carved a hook from a bone. Used string from my tunic's hem. Sat by riverbanks for hours with barely a nibble. Sometimes I caught something small—enough to quiet the hunger for a night. Sometimes nothing at all.
I drank from the streams. Boiled water over small fires, hidden under rock shelves and tree roots. I avoided roads. Followed animal trails instead.
My stomach ached more each day.
By the third week, I could feel the bones in my wrists. My ribs pressed sharper against my skin. My legs still carried me forward, but slower now. My swings were less crisp. My grip, weaker.
I trained anyway.
Because if I didn't, I'd lose more than strength.
I'd lose myself.
Then—
The forest opened.
I stepped through a narrow wall of underbrush and found myself at the edge of a ridge, overlooking a wide, sunlit valley.
And there—
Chaos.
Two banners flew, torn and soaked in blood. I didn't recognize either. Just sigils on faded cloth—one gold, one dark red—snapping wildly in the wind.
Below them, two armies clashed in the middle of a field. It wasn't a grand battlefield. No cavalry charges or formations. Just men—some armored, most not—cutting each other down in the dirt.
The sun hung high, bright and hot, making the blood shimmer like spilled wine.
I stayed behind the trees, crouched low.
Screams rose from below. Steel rang against steel. Bodies dropped like sacks of grain.
Limbs twisted where they shouldn't. Faces torn open. Some crawled through the mud, reaching for weapons they'd never hold again.
A man screamed for his mother as a sword split his chest.
Another tried to run, only to be pulled down by three others, stabbed again and again until he stopped moving.
There was no honor in this fight.
Just death.
But neither side backed down.
And I knew this wasn't over soon.
I backed away slowly from the ridge, heart pounding, breath tight in my throat.
It wasn't just the blood.
It was the smell. The noise. The way the world seemed to bend around it. Like even the wind held its breath.
This wasn't a battle.
It was a butcher's yard.
I moved deeper into the woods again, following the tree line, keeping low.
Hours passed. And slowly, the noise faded.
By dusk, the field was silent.
Birds didn't sing. Nothing stirred.
But I knew what waited in that valley.
Bodies.
Weapons.
Maybe… coins.
And I had none.
No gold. No silver. Not a copper left in my pockets. And hunger chewed at my belly like a second heart.
I didn't want to rob the dead.
But if I didn't… I might join them soon enough.
So I waited.
Watched the sky shift from orange to purple, then to deep blue.
No horns. No drums. No fires lit along the ridges.
Just the hush of a temporary peace.
A night's truce.
Maybe both sides had pulled back. Maybe they were tending to their wounded. Maybe they were preparing for dawn.
I didn't care.
I needed to move.
I waited until the moon rose.
Then I made my way toward the edge of the battlefield.
Step by step.
Careful not to be seen.
Not knowing that I wasn't the only one who had that idea.
The moon hung low, silver and watchful.
I moved through the trees like a shadow—low, careful, one hand on the hilt of my father's sword, the other keeping branches from snapping underfoot.
The world was quiet now.
Too quiet.
Every few steps, I stopped and crouched low. Watched. Listened.
No horns. No voices. No sound but the wind slipping through the grass and the distant creak of a broken bannerpole swaying in the breeze.
But the closer I got, the worse the smell became.
It was thick. Heavy. A rotting stench that clung to the back of my throat and made bile rise in my chest.
Death.
Not the clean kind. Not the kind that comes fast in the dark.
This was old blood. Split intestines. Mud soaked through with the ruin of men.
I pressed a sleeve over my mouth and kept going.
The edge of the battlefield came into view—a broken fence line, a few shattered shields, arrows sticking from the ground like crooked weeds.
Then the bodies.
Dozens. Maybe more.
Some still clutched weapons. Some had fallen on their knees. Some had faces frozen in pain. Others—none at all.
The armor glinted in the moonlight. Most of it dented, bloodstained, scorched.
My stomach turned, but I moved forward.
Slow. Careful.
I crouched beside the first body I dared approach.
He was young.
Couldn't have been older than twenty. A fresh wound cut clean across his throat. His eyes were still open—glasslike, staring at nothing.
I hesitated.
Then reached out and opened the flap of his pouch.
Inside—two silver pieces and a broken ring.
I took the silver.
My hand trembled.
What have I become?
I'm the son of a knight. A noble bloodline, even if our name's forgotten in the wind.
No lands. No title. No banner to raise.
Just this blade. And a name tied to a grave.
I looked down at the corpse.
His eyes reminded me of Father's—just for a moment.
And that was worse than anything.
I closed them gently. He deserved that much.
I moved to the next body. This one was heavier. I knelt, reached for his belt, and—
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
The voice came from behind me—low, rough, and close.
Cold steel touched the back of my neck.
Not teasing. Not playful.
Deadly.
I froze.
My hand still hovered near the soldier's belt. I hadn't even taken anything yet.
"Stand up," the voice ordered. "Slow. No tricks."
I did as he said.
My legs felt weak, but I forced them to move. I rose from my crouch, every muscle in my back tensed like a drawn bowstring.
"Turn around."
The blade followed my movement as I slowly turned to face him.
The man standing there wasn't dressed like a soldier.
His armor was mismatched leather and fur, stained with old blood and dirt. A jagged scar split his left eyebrow, and his beard was a tangled mess. The short sword in his hand was rusted, but it looked sharp enough to kill.
A bandit.
And from the look in his eyes—he had no intention of playing nice.
"Didn't expect to find anyone else stupid enough to come out here," he said, voice sharp and amused. "Let alone a kid."
I said nothing.
I didn't move.
His eyes flicked to the sword strapped across my back.
"Pretty blade you got there," he said. "Too big for someone like you."
He stepped closer.
"Hand it over."
I clenched my jaw.
"I can't."
He laughed once—short and dry.
"You can't? I wasn't asking."
He pressed the blade harder against my throat. Not enough to draw blood—but enough to remind me it wouldn't take much.
"Listen, boy," he said. "You give me the sword. And whatever else you got in that little pack of yours. Or I spill your guts and take it off your corpse."
Still, I didn't move.
Didn't speak.
I could feel the heat rising in my chest—rage, fear, defiance. It burned behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.
But I was outmatched.
I knew it.
If I moved wrong now, I'd die.
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"What, you think you're special? Think you're some noble's brat with a blade and a story?"
He had no idea who I was.
What I was.
What I'd done.
Who I'd lost.
He grinned again.
"You're just another crow, pecking at the bones. No different from me."
His sword twitched. "Now drop the pack. And the sword. Or I'll start cutting."
My hands twitched.
Not from fear. Not anymore.
From anger.
He didn't know who I was.
He didn't know what I'd done to stay alive. What I'd lost to be standing here at all.
And he dared to look at me like I was less.
Like I was weak.
I stared at him. At the blade near my throat. At the hunger in his eyes.
And then—I smiled.
Just a little.
Not out of confidence.
But because, for the first time in weeks, I wanted to fight.
"You want my sword?" I whispered.
The grin on his face widened. "Finally getting smart, are you?"
I met his eyes, and said:
"Then come and take it."