As the botanic students spent their day foraging through the forest, a more sizable group of students walked the paved roads of Ventispils under the warm midday sun.
Like the botanists, the fighting class students had divided in groups of three, and assigned a town guard to show them the ropes and familiarize them with the town.
The day had begun without too much of a fuss, Thane had given a small speech and introduction to their duties, what struck most of the students was how he decided to end it.
"Peace is not a given," he'd said, his dark eyes hinting at experiences they could only guess at, "and it is our duty to safeguard it."
The students had been too young to properly experience the war, the oldest being barely 17 had been just 9 at the time, yet the stories that their fathers and neighbors told them gave them quite the vivid image.
Yet, it was the stories that were left unsaid that really encompassed the horrors of war.
The way a man would flinch when the wind picked up or a log crackled in the fireplace. The empty stare of a mother as she cleaned the rooms for her children that never came back. The immaculate graveyards with more tombstones than skeletons.
But in the innocence of ignorance, the students willingly picked up spears and swords and started their patrol.
Team 17 came together with a diverse group of individuals. Silas, at sixteen, possessed a quiet sharp intellect that surpassed even the keenest of blades, exuding a calm and reserved demeanor. In contrast, fifteen years old Cassia, embodied fiery energy and animated spirit, much like the vibrant flames that mirrored her fiery red hair. And lastly, Eamon, a seventeen-year-old with brawny muscles even rare to adult standards, owing to his blacksmith legacy.
Guiding the team, town guard Dean, a content middle-aged man born blind in his right eye, a disability he thanked daily, ever since it saved him from being summoned to the front. And while he might have been blind from one eye, he never closed the other to injustice.
The quartet walked across the main plaza of Ventispils, food stalls, and chattering mothers gathered on the sides while children played on the main roads, taking a break only to let the occasional carriage pass.
As it was their first time patrolling, the three students kept their alertness sky-high, looking for dragons and evil mages in every open window and old lady knitting on the terraces.
Dean chuckled hoarsely and patted Eamon on the back as he observed their restless gazes, shifting back and forth. "Hahaha, take it easy, guys. You're making me anxious," he commented, gesturing towards their firm grips on their weapons. He then reassured them, "Ventispils is the epitome of serenity." Hearing this, the trio reluctantly released their tight hold on their weapons.
With the reassuring words of Dean, the trio relaxed their posture a little. However, they kept their eyes alert, the young fighters within them primed and ready for any unseen danger. Dean, noticing their residual tension, decided to break the ice with a bit of a history lesson about Ventispils.
"Ventispils was founded over three centuries ago," Dean began, his one good eye gazing fondly at the marketplace. Cassia, her competitive nature piqued, listened attentively, ready to soak in every piece of information she could. "It started as a humble logging camp, attracting axes from far and wide, and as time passed expanded into what you see today." He wore a proud smile as walked.
As they continued their patrol around the city, the group passed in front of the local forge, a big building with many stands full of axes and farming tools, and in the back stood a rack filled with weapons. Eamon, with his blacksmith background, found himself drawn to the weapons section, his experienced eyes quickly appraising the craftsmanship of the displayed items.
"Morning Dean." Boomed a voice. Out from the shadows of the forge stepped out a giant of a woman, wearing black clothes and a blacksmith's apron on top. Her pale complexion was currently hidden by soot and sweat, but nothing could hide the herculean muscles and snaking veins across them.
Dean raised his hand in greeting, "Mornin', Bella."
Bella, gave a quick look to Cassia and Silas, then focused on Eamon, and followed his gaze to the weapon's rack. She frowned slightly. Feeling her stare, Eamon turned around and asked. "Is it your work?" His voice carried a little respect.
Bella shook her head, "No, these were my father's work. He loved weapons so much that he went off to fight with them. After that, I stopped making weapons. And the folks around here? They don't seem interested in buying the leftovers." She snorted with a curled smile that disappeared as some memory flashed past her eyes.
Nodding respectfully at Bella's words, Eamon glanced back at the weapon rack, understanding the bittersweet memory associated with them. Silas and Cassia stood silent, sharing a look of realization.
After a quiet moment, Dean nudged the group forward, leaving the forge behind. As they walked, the sounds of the bustling city welcomed them back.
Cassia perked up at the sight of a bakery on the corner, the sweet aroma of fresh pastries wafting through the air. Her eyes widened with anticipation, and with a quick look at Dean, that nodded back with a sly smile, she made her way to the shop window, her mouth watering at the sight of cream-filled pastries and sugar-dusted donuts.
Eamon followed about to make a snarky comment about eating on the duty, when a rumble from his stomach stopped the words from coming out of his mouth. Silas looked at the two of them and shook his head, keeping his alert vigil.
Their guide, Dean, let them enjoy their moment, leaning on a nearby wall with a fond smile. "That's Miss Hazel's shop," he shared. "Best pastries in town. Every patrol should have a sweet treat, don't you think?"
The door of Hazel's shop jingled as Cassia pushed it open, with the rest of the group following her inside. The warmth of the bakery immediately enveloped them, and the aroma of fresh pastries intensified, making their stomachs growl in unison.
Inside, the bakery was just as charming as it was from the outside. The walls were lined with wooden shelves, each holding an assortment of pastries that were more delicious-looking than the last. Behind the counter, a petite older woman was bustling about, carefully arranging some freshly baked croissants. And in the right corner, a young man around thirty ate a slice of pie with great gusto.
"Dean!" she exclaimed as she spotted the group, her face breaking into a wide, welcoming smile.
With a friendly wave, Dean led the group to the counter. "Hazel, got some first-time patrol students here. Thought they should get a taste of the best pastries in town."
A soft, embarrassed chuckle escaped Hazel as she sized up the three teenagers. "Well, aren't you a lucky bunch!" She then reached under the counter and brought out a tray of cinnamon rolls, still steaming from the oven. The sight of them had everyone's mouth watering.
"These just came out. Try one," Hazel said, her eyes twinkling with pride. The trio didn't need any further persuasion, each taking a roll. The moment they bit into the sweet treat, their eyes widened in delight. The roll was soft, flaky, and melt-in-your-mouth delicious, with the perfect balance of cinnamon and sugar.
Even Silas's lips curled up slightly as they tasted the sweet treat.
Hazel watched their reactions, clearly pleased. "Now remember, a sweet treat after a day's hard work never hurts." She winked, packing a few more pastries for them to take on their patrol.
*BOOM*
Just as they were about to leave the bakery, a sudden loud pop, followed by a cloud of flour erupting from the kitchen area, halted their steps. It was like a mini snowstorm had just broken out inside the bakery, and Hazel, standing near the source of the explosion, was dusted head to toe in white.
"Oh dear, not again," she muttered, more irritated than alarmed, brushing off the flour from her apron.
Seeing their shocked faces, she quickly reassured them, "It's nothing serious. Just the oven acting up again. Must've been a buildup of pressure. Happens when the dough has a bit too much yeast and gets left in too long. Turns into a mini flour bomb."
Her explanation seemed to make sense. The group exhaled in relief, thankful that it wasn't anything dangerous or supernatural.
The man in the corner suddenly froze, his hand gripping his half-eaten pastry so tightly that it started to crumble. His eyes, previously twinkling with enjoyment, turned dull and distant. The joyous atmosphere of the bakery seemed to slip away from him, replaced by something much darker and more haunting.
His body started to shake, each tremor more violent than the last. His other hand clenched the table's edge till his knuckles turned white. He looked like he was holding onto reality by a thread, but it was a thread that was quickly fraying.
In that silence, Dean quickly approached the man. But before he could even reach him, the man's face crumpled, as if the memory was a physical blow. His eyes filled with a profound sorrow, his lips opened. "NO! NO! NO!" He stood up and seeing dean approaching him he backed further into the corner.
"Calm down! everything is alright." Dean's voice, flat and reassuring didn't seem to reach the man.
"I'm not going back!" In a split second, the man tried reaching the fork on the table, his fight or flee response fully active, at the same time Silas shot forward alongside Dean and the two wrestled the man as he tried to stab himself in the neck.
"Let me go!" He cried out as his eyes grew red and tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Calm down soldier!" Dean ordered with an authoritative yet supplicant tone. "15 May 876! The war is over!" he said between grunts.
The man slowed down a little bit, as if spent. "The war is over, it's over." Dean kept repeating until the man stilled and seemed to regain consciousness.
"I..." the man started saying with a sore throat from all the screaming.
"Don't sweat it," Dean guessed what the man was trying to say and gave him a small, comforting smile, guiding him back to sit on his chair.
Soon after, Hazel returned with a fresh slice of pie, set it down on the table, and quickly cleaned up the crumbled one from the floor.
"Hazel, I'm really sorry about your pie." The man managed to get the words out, his voice sounding more steady now.
"Don't you worry about it! As I said, it's that pesky oven's fault, not yours!" Hazel responded warmly.
After a few more kind words and a suggestion to speak with someone about it, Dean and the students left in silence, walking a bit more before Rhea talked. "What was that?" She asked confused.
Dean let out a heavy sigh. "It's something we call the war disease or spell shock. Many soldiers who returned from the war... well, they didn't completely return. Some parts of them are still stuck there, and sometimes a sound, a smell, a place, or even a simple object can trigger those memories. It's like they're back in the war, but just in their heads. All we can do is help them calm down and hope that it won't happen again." His face grimaced as he added, "But usually, it's not that simple."