Venturing into a foreign realm is far from the romanticized adventure one might imagine. Beyond the thrill of ancient ruins, magic, mythical beasts, and tales of heroism lies the reality—a series of hard truths one cannot ignore, such as finding shelter in the wild and the ever-present question of how to fill one's belly.
In their hasty flight, there was no time to prepare for such necessities. With the castle walls breached and every last guard fighting to the bitter end, who could think of packing supplies? Their last stop was the ancestral tomb—a place far from any stockpile of provisions.
When Amber's stomach let out a loud grumble, the dire reality dawned upon them: hunger was now their closest companion.
They found themselves in a barren wasteland, where even the hardiest grass had forsaken the soil. Across the hill lay the charred ruins of the Cecil estate, now reduced to ashes. Yet, in the distance at the foot of the hill, stretched the deep embrace of a dense forest.
In this medieval realm of magic, a forest outside of civilization bore the ominous mark of danger. Far from the reach of town lights, it was a realm for beasts, bandits, and monsters. Yet a forest also held another promise: food.
And if they were to reach the northern town of Tanzan, it was a forest they would have to cross.
They paused at the forest's edge, choosing a flat, open spot to rest, and set about dividing responsibilities for finding food. Gawain's gaze fell on Betty, the quiet maid with her ever-present frying pan. Small in stature and lacking a sense of presence, Betty nonetheless displayed an unusual bravery—even the sight of a dragon had not driven her to tears. Or perhaps she was simply too stunned to react. Noticing Gawain's look, she gripped her pan a little tighter and shrank slightly under his gaze.
"Betty, Hetty, Rebecca, you three stay here with Byron as guard," Gawain instructed. "The rest will join me for the hunt. Yes, that includes you, Amber."
Betty was no warrior, and though Hetty and Rebecca were mages, they were in no condition to chase game through the woods. Their battle-worn exhaustion lingered, and neither had taken the time to meditate and recover since the siege. And spellcasters, without their full strength, were little more than shadows of their true selves. Better to let them stay behind and regain some strength.
The three loyal guards accepted their roles without question, but Amber's eyes widened in protest. "Why me? I'm exhausted too!"
Gawain raised an eyebrow. "Touch those ears of yours. With that bit of elven blood in you, would you really sit this one out? Think of it as reconnecting with your heritage."
Amber pursed her lips, muttering with obvious discontent, "That's just…speciesism! Who said elves are automatically at home in a forest? My skills are in sneaking, not hunting…"
"You robbed my grave."
Amber sighed, resigned. "Fine."
With three soldiers and a grumbling half-elf at his side, Gawain led the hunt party into the woods, leaving Byron and the others to guard the camp.
Hetty used the last of her magic to set basic wards around their small camp before settling on a rock to recover her strength. Rebecca, meanwhile, led Betty around the area, gathering up a bundle of dry branches for the fire.
With the branches in place, Rebecca stepped back, raised her staff, and muttered a simple fire spell. An unstable, crackling fireball began to form in the air.
Before it could erupt, Hetty quickly intervened. "Let me handle that."
With a gentle flick of her fingers, Hetty conjured a steady flame to ignite the branches, and warmth soon pushed the chill from their bones. She glanced at Rebecca with a sigh. "When will you learn to use something other than fireballs, Rebecca?"
Rebecca looked down, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Aunt Hetty."
"Apologies are one thing, but even in those moments, hold your head high," Hetty replied, rubbing her forehead in exasperation. "You are the inheritor of the title now. Today's events… well, I imagine the ancestor may have felt disappointment, though he didn't show it."
Rebecca's eyes widened with alarm. "What… what can I do?"
Hetty hesitated, then sighed. "What can any of us do? Look at the state of our family. No descendant of House Cecil would likely meet his expectations now. What we are today is… far removed from the grandeur we once held."
Rebecca bit her lip, her mind awash in thoughts. Raised in the strict structure of nobility, she had never encountered challenges like these—chaos, monsters, and the sudden appearance of her resurrected ancestor. None of her tutors had prepared her for any of it, leaving her feeling utterly lost.
After a pause, she finally spoke. "Aunt Hetty… do you think our ancestor… has truly come back to life?"
Hetty met her gaze, easily reading the doubts within her.
"Are you questioning him, or his resurrection?"
"I know I shouldn't, but… it all seems impossible."
"I feel the same, but we can't deny what stands before us," Hetty said, shaking her head. "Do you remember the first lesson every mage learns? It's not a spell or theory, but a simple phrase: 'Truth may defy common sense, but it is always truth.' That wisdom applies as much to life as it does to magic."
Seeing Rebecca deep in thought, Hetty softly added, "No matter the cause of his revival, the fact remains: our founder has returned."
Betty, unable to understand the weight of their conversation, stared at her treasured frying pan in silence.
Before long, Gawain and his hunting party returned.
The hunt hadn't been particularly fruitful, but it was sufficient. They carried three rabbits and two colorful birds, along with a mix of wild berries. It would suffice.
As Gawain watched Amber expertly clean the game, he raised an eyebrow. "For someone who 'can't hunt,' you seem rather practiced."
Amber, not looking up, muttered, "You're a true hero from seven hundred years ago if your impression of forest elves is that old. Did you know the elves are mostly in the herbal business now? They don't hunt anymore."
Gawain was struck silent.
Amber continued her work, stringing the cleaned meat over the fire. She glanced at Gawain, grinning. "For the record, I never hunted. I've been in human society as long as I can remember. An old thief raised me…"
"Then where did you pick up this skill?"
"Maybe I can't hunt, but I sure can steal chickens." Amber grinned, her face bright with mischief despite her past. "I picked up the technique during my thieving days."
Hetty, hearing this, frowned. "Such crude behavior."
Amber waved a hand dismissively. "Crude, perhaps, but a thief only takes what they can carry. Nothing compared to what nobles openly take from their subjects."
Before she could finish, Byron's sword was out with a cold glint, pressing against her neck.
The half-elf paled.
Gawain waved for Byron to lower his blade and looked at Amber, curious. "How, exactly, have you survived this long with such a sharp tongue?"
Amber opened her mouth, but Gawain interrupted, imitating her voice with a shake of his head, "I'm really good at running, right?"
Amber was speechless.
"Let's put aside any class struggles or philosophical debates for now," Gawain said with a sigh, grabbing a berry and biting into it. "For now, let's rest. Spellcasters, meditate and recover your mana. We need to be ready to leave before noon. We've spent enough time underground already; we can't afford to lose another day."
"Betty, you can set that pan aside," Rebecca said gently, glancing at her maid. "It's not needed at the moment."
Betty looked at her mistress, then at her pan, as if struggling with the idea.
Gawain tilted his head. "Why do you hold onto that pan so dearly?"
Betty, clutching the pan handle tightly, mumbled with nervous shyness, "Mrs. Hansen said I'd be in charge of frying sausages and bread… with this pan."
"Mrs. Hansen was the castle's cook," Hetty whispered. "She… didn't make it."
Gawain sighed, studying the young girl with the freckles dotting her cheeks.
"The pan is yours now, Betty," he told her gently. "Now and always. You can set it aside for now and join us for a meal."