Morning had come to Brackenhill in its usual, quiet way. The mist had thinned, curling low against the hills like a blanket being slowly pulled back. The sky glowed pale orange above the peaks, the kind of soft warmth that made the dew sparkle on every thatched roof and leaf. Chickens clucked behind wooden fences. A wooden cart creaked faintly in the distance. A few birds called out, their songs light and forgettable. Smoke rose gently from a chimney or two.

Peaceful. Simple.

Aaryan didn't feel any of it.

He walked the gravel path leading away from the village, barefoot as ever, the chill of early stone and soil steady beneath each step. The sun brushed his shoulders, warm but distant. It didn't reach where it mattered. It couldn't melt the weight lodged deep in his chest or loosen the tightness stretched across his ribs. This warmth wasn't his to enjoy. Not anymore.

He didn't stop to look back.

Binay's words echoed faintly in his ears—calm, steady, even kind in their own way. They'd come from a man who belonged here. Who knew every stone wall and every face. A man who had buried roots and grown around them.

Aaryan understood that kind of bond. The kind that wrapped tight and refused to let go. But understanding didn't mean agreement.

He wanted me to stay and protect them.

Aaryan's jaw clenched. He kicked a loose stone from the edge of the path. It skittered down the slope and disappeared into a patch of overgrowth.

That's not acceptable.

He wasn't some wandering sword-for-hire. Wasn't a nameless warrior looking to fix broken villages and solve other people's problems. He wasn't built for that. Not anymore. Maybe never.

I'm not some hero wandering around looking for someone else's fight. I don't owe them anything. Not my time. Not my blade.

He'd left everything behind to grow. To rise. To chase the power he needed to keep his promises—the real ones. The ones that mattered.

He stepped over a gnarled root without slowing. Eyes ahead. Intent fixed.

Everything else is just noise.

A soft chirp broke the silence. Vedik had uncurled from his resting coil around Aaryan's shoulder, his head lifting to glance back toward the rooftops now shrinking behind them. His tail looped gently around Aaryan's wrist, a subtle tension there. Not panic. Not protest. Just quiet concern.

Aaryan's expression softened, barely noticeable. His hand came up, fingers tapping once against Vedik's smooth scales.

"I offered him a way out," he said, voice low. "That's more than anyone ever gave me."

Vedik blinked slowly, eyes lingering on the village before shifting back to Aaryan.

"If he chooses to stay, that's his path. Not mine."

The trees ahead swayed gently in the wind, tall pines rustling like an old song. A breeze came down from the ridges, sharp and fresh, carrying the smell of damp bark, wildflowers, and the fading trace of smoke from the village fires.

"Maybe he will call it selfish," Aaryan said. "I'll call it honest."

The path curved gently to the left, slipping into a stretch of dappled shade. The sound of the village faded behind him—no voices, no footsteps, just the wind and the crunch of gravel beneath his soles.

He stepped forward, shadow long and thin in the morning light.

"I came here to forge strength," he muttered. "Not to loan it out."

The sun kept rising. The warmth kept spreading. But Brackenhill was already behind him.

Aaryan kept walking.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Unaware of what walked toward them, the village stirred into life.

Men hauled buckets from the well, one cursing under his breath as he fought with a stubborn ox yoke. Children chased chickens down the lane while their mothers swept porches or tended to simmering pots. It was shaping into another quiet morning—until the first distant sound broke it.

A rumble. Faint. Uneven. Then a sharp metallic clatter echoed off the cliffs.

Heads turned.

Across the hills, where the old road wound past the ridge, a dense cloud of dust swelled into the air. Shapes moved inside it—many shapes. As it neared, the outlines sharpened: a cart pulled by dark horses, flanked by men. Dozens of them. Some walked, others rode, and all of them came with purpose.

A hush spread across the village.

The word travelled fast—carried from porch to field to doorstep. Villagers gathered near the square, drawn by instinct and unease. Some still held tools. One woman clutched her broom like a weapon. Eyes strained toward the growing crowd now just past the outer fields.

None of them had seen anything like it.

The cart came to a stop just before the village gate, its wheels caked in dust. Some men broke off from the formation and surged ahead, their boots pounding against the earth as they entered the square. The cart remained behind, surrounded by more guards who stood motionless, weapons ready. It stood like a sealed tomb, flanked by still figures who didn't blink, didn't move.

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It all happened too fast for the villagers to react.

From the group of intruders, a man stepped forward. He wore deep red robes, his stride unhurried, assured. A broad sword was strapped across his back. He stopped in the centre of the square, gaze sweeping over the crowd with quiet menace. The villagers shrank under it. A baby whimpered somewhere. Then cried. The woman holding it clutched the child tighter.

Behind the heavy curtains, Drenval leaned aside and peered through the folds. His tone was casual—mocking.

"You said your men reached here and then vanished," he said. "Doesn't look like they even passed through. No blood, no wreckage, not even a broken door. Or does your unit work differently, Varen?"

Varen's jaw tensed, but he said nothing. His gaze scanned the undisturbed huts, the intact fences, the silent people. Karek sat beside him, frowning. Bitter as Drenval's words were, he wasn't wrong.

The red-robed man spoke again, his voice sharp and clear.

"A few days ago, some of our men came here. Since then, nothing. No tracks. No messages. Strange, isn't it?" He paused, watching their reactions. "I don't suppose any of you know what happened to them."

Silence.

Then an old man near the front stepped forward, shoulders stiff with fear. He swallowed hard—once, twice—before finding his voice.

"Yes, sir. They came. But they didn't stay. Said they were headed to Green Moss Village. That's all we know."

The man with the sword tilted his head, his smile curling.

"They came," he repeated, voice thick with sarcasm. "And yet this place still stands." He chuckled. "What'd you do, offer 'em pies and your daughters? Though I doubt either tasted good."

Laughter rang out from behind him—sharp, jeering.

Some of the younger villagers bristled, their hands clenched at their sides. One boy took a step forward, teeth grit, but an older man grabbed his shoulder and held him back. The weight of numbers—and weapons—snuffed out whatever courage had flickered.

No one spoke again.

They stood still, silent, helpless as stones.

Binay stood near the edge of the crowd, his eyes distant, fixed somewhere past the soldiers, past the dust, past the present. He wasn't trembling. Wasn't blinking either.

He was still thinking of the boy who had walked away at dawn.

With a tired breath, he stepped forward. His voice, when it came, was calm—old, but not frail.

"We're telling the truth," he said. "They killed an old man, a small child, and took captives—said to deliver the item to Green Moss Village within three days. That's all we know."

The bandits, mid-laughter, turned toward him.

There was a pause. A few sneers faltered.

Binay didn't cower. Didn't raise his voice either. It was as if their weapons, their numbers meant nothing to him.

One of the men, thick-browed and scarred across one eye, squinted toward the cart. When he saw no reaction from within, he turned back to Binay.

"You want us to believe that nonsense?" he asked, disbelief sharpening his tone. "They gave you three days? Took hostages? Why would they bother? They could've just killed you all and taken what they wanted."

He scoffed, eyes narrowing. "And if they did take people, you don't seem too shaken by it. What kind of villagers let their own get dragged away and barely blink?"

Binay didn't flinch. He held the man's gaze—not defiant, not submissive. Just steady.

"I don't know why they took hostages," he said. "But we couldn't stop them. We don't have anything rare or precious, and we don't have the strength to fight back."

He let the words sit.

"So we let it go. That's how the weak live in a world ruled by the strong."

The bandit stared at him, stunned for a beat. The bravado slipped. He didn't have a comeback.

Inside the cart, Ghoran leaned slightly toward the slit in the curtain, watching. A faint grin tugged at his lip.

"This one's not like the others," he muttered. "He is old, but not rotten. No cultivation, but his heart's tougher than half our squad."

Varen snorted.

"And what use is that heart when the blade comes down?" he said. "Strength of spirit won't stop a sword."

He clapped once.

The man with the broad sword turned, received a nod from the cart, and strode quickly back into the village.

When he returned, he stepped into the centre again—closer this time. His voice was low, but it carried.

"Don't worry," he said, eyes on Binay. "We've got our own way of confirming whether this is the truth… or just convenient rambling."

He leaned in slightly, his tone cooling even further.

"If you're telling the truth, we'll grant you a quick death."

A pause.

"But if you lied"—his lips curled into a faint smile—"you'll wish death came quicker."

The threat still hung in the air, sharp as a drawn blade.

A silence held them in place—too afraid to breathe, let alone speak. A few shifted nervously, half-formed words dying in their throats. Then the man with thick brows stepped forward, cutting through the silence.

"No need to hide anymore," he said. "Your work is done. We'll accept you as one of us now. If it turns out to be what we're looking for… you'll be rewarded."

His words didn't register right away. The villagers, who had been bracing for another threat or blow, blinked in confusion. For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then someone did.

A figure detached from the crowd, walking briskly toward the bandits.

Ramy.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, but no one dared raise their voice. They just stared—stunned, silent, disbelieving. The man they had known since childhood, the man who'd shared their tables and troubles, now walked with purpose toward the enemy.

He reached the bandits and bowed low.

"It's my good fortune," he said, voice thin with nervous pride. "To serve such great men."

Gasps spread behind him. Some villagers opened their mouths to curse, but no words came. Their shock weighed heavier than fear now.

The thick-browed bandit gave him a once-over, then jerked his chin toward Binay.

"What he said. Is it true?"

Ramy straightened and glanced back at the villagers—faces pale, confused, betrayed. Then he nodded.

"Yes. What he said is true."

A few villagers exhaled, some on the verge of relief.

But then Ramy kept speaking.

"The hostages… they came back. On their own."

The moment cracked.

"Came back?" the man snapped. "And our men? Just gone?"

Ramy looked down. "They said someone attacked and killed them. They didn't see who."

That silenced even the bandits.

Inside the cart, the four men exchanged glances. Tension spiked. Attacked? Killed?

Karek was the first to speak. His voice was calm, the kind that pulled things back from the edge.

"Maybe they were ambushed," he said. "Could've been a group. Those villagers wouldn't have dared look. Too afraid to know who did it."

The others nodded slowly. That, at least, made sense.

Back near the gate, the two bandits glanced toward the cart, waiting. When no command came, they turned back to Ramy.

"What about the item?" one of them asked. "Where is it?"

Ramy hesitated. Just for a moment.

"It's in the shrine," he said quickly. "Other end of the village. On the ridge."

This time, the outcry couldn't be held back.

Cries of anger burst from the villagers. Some shouted Ramy's name. Others cursed, accused. A few tried to push forward, but the bandits moved fast. Boots thudded against earth. Fists flew.

Those who shouted the loudest were beaten down without mercy.

Binay got struck across the face. He staggered and fell. Blood trickled from his mouth, but he didn't speak. Didn't look at Ramy.

Ramy turned.

He saw the people he'd grown up with—the same ones who'd shared their meals, their grief, their festivals. He saw his own family, curled on the ground, beaten but still staring at him.

They weren't begging. They weren't shouting.

Just looking at him.

Their silence hurt more than any blow.

Ramy lowered his head.

But he didn't take the words back.

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