The voices were low but distinct, carrying a sinister undertone that sent a chill through me.
"Looks like we've found our prey," one of them said, his voice rough and laced with cruel amusement.
"Didn't think they'd be so careless, camping out here," another replied, followed by a soft chuckle. "This'll be easy."
I felt my stomach drop, my mind racing. Whoever they were, they were close—too close.
Keeping my movements slow and deliberate, I turned my head toward Nessa. She was still fast asleep, her face peaceful in the dim light of the tent. Gritting my teeth, I reached out and gently shook her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, confusion flickering across her face.
Before she could speak, I pressed a finger to my lips, meeting her gaze with a steady look. She froze, her clever mind grasping the situation immediately. Her small hands clutched her blanket, and I saw her swallow nervously, but she didn't make a sound.
The voices outside continued, now closer than ever.
"You check the tent," one said, the tone of command unmistakable. "The rest of you spread out. Make sure they don't bolt."
Nessa's eyes widened, and I gave her a small nod, trying to project calm despite the fear thrumming in my veins. Whoever they were, they weren't here by accident—and they weren't looking for a friendly chat.
The tent ripped open with a violent screech, the fabric tearing like paper under clawed hands. A figure loomed in the jagged opening, his face a grotesque mix of scars and malice. His wide, crooked grin revealed yellowed teeth as his eyes locked onto me and Nessa.
"Gotcha," he hissed, stepping forward with a predator's ease.
Before I could react, his rough hand grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking me out of the tent with a force that sent pain shooting through my scalp. I stumbled as he dragged me into the clearing, throwing me to the ground like a sack of grain.
"Nessa!" I gasped, trying to get my bearings, but she was already there, pulled roughly from the tent and pushed down beside me. She stayed quiet, her wide eyes darting from me to the bandits surrounding us.
As I struggled to sit up, I noticed a figure seated a few feet away, casually perched on a wooden chair that looked absurdly out of place in the forest. He sat lazily, one leg draped over the other, a small knife in his hand as he clipped his nails with practiced indifference.
My breath caught as recognition struck me. The mohawk—shaved close on the sides and sticking up like the feathers of a bird—and that scar cutting across his mouth, pulling his lips into a perpetual sneer. It couldn't be.
"Torven?" I said, my voice cracking slightly.
The man didn't react at first, his attention fixed on his nails. He finished clipping one, examined it briefly, and then shifted his gaze to me. His eyes narrowed as if trying to place me, and then they widened in sudden realization.
"Harith?" he said, his voice filled with disbelief.
I nodded, still catching my breath as I sat up straighter.
Torven blinked, his lazy demeanor replaced by an awkward tension. "Oh, gods. It is you." He stood abruptly, his knife falling to his side as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Damn it, I—I didn't know it was you."
The other bandits exchanged confused glances, their menacing posture faltering as their leader's tone softened.
Torven took a step closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at me. "Harith Broadfield. The vegetable man." He chuckled nervously, scratching his head. "Well, ain't this awkward?"
"Awkward?" I said, raising an eyebrow despite the throbbing pain in my head. "You rip open my tent and throw me into the dirt. Yeah, I'd call that awkward."
He grimaced. "Sorry, sorry. Honest mistake. We don't usually run into... uh, friendly faces out here."
Nessa, still silent beside me, stared at him with wide eyes, her body tense. Torven noticed her and straightened up, waving his hands in a show of harmlessness. "Don't worry, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you. This was... all a misunderstanding."
I snorted, shaking my head. "Misunderstanding or not, what are you doing out here, Torven? And with... all this?" I gestured to the other bandits, who were still watching us warily.
Torven sighed, shoving his knife into a sheath on his belt. "It's a long story, Harith. I ain't proud of it, but it's the life I got. Not everyone makes it out of the gutter the way you did."
I frowned, the memories flooding back. Torven—an orphaned boy who used to loiter near my vegetable stall back in Willowshade. I'd fed him scraps every day, watched him grow into a wiry teenager with a sharp tongue and a knack for survival. I hadn't seen him in years.
"You were just a kid back then," I said, my voice quieter. "I didn't think you'd end up..."
"A bandit?" Torven finished for me, his tone dry. "Yeah, well. Not exactly my dream career, but it's better than starving in the streets." He scratched his head again, looking genuinely embarrassed. "Listen, if I'd known it was you, we wouldn't have bothered you. No harm, no foul, right?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You call dragging me out of my tent and scaring the life out of us 'no harm'?"
Torven winced. "Alright, fair. That was on me." He turned to his men, waving them off. "Go on, pack it up. Leave 'em be. This one's... off-limits."
The bandits hesitated but obeyed, disappearing into the forest with grumbles and muttered complaints. Torven turned back to me, his hands on his hips.
"Look, Harith," he said, his tone more serious now. "You should be careful out here. These roads aren't safe, and not just because of folks like us. There's worse things out there. But... you're family, in a way. I owe you. So if you're heading to the Capital, let me know. I'll make sure no one else gives you trouble."
Torven lingered by the campfire after his men had melted into the forest shadows. He leaned back on his heels, hands warming by the flames, his sharp eyes flicking to Nessa, who had retreated to the tent and drifted off to sleep.
"You don't mind if I stick around for a bit, do you?" he asked, a half-smile tugging at his scarred mouth.
I waved a hand toward the fire. "Pull up a log. Seems like you've got some catching up to do."
He found a seat on a fallen log, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flickering flames. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the quiet crackle of the fire filling the space between us.
"So," he said finally, breaking the silence. "What're you doing out here, Harith? You looking too old to live in the woods."
"I'm heading to the Capital," I replied, reaching into my bag and pulling out the wooden deer I'd finished carving the day before. I held it out to him. "Here—this is what I've been up to."
Torven took the figure, turning it over in his hands, his expression shifting from surprise to awe. "You made this?" he asked, his voice quieter, almost reverent.
I nodded, watching as he ran his fingers over the smooth curves of the deer.
"This is... incredible," he said, shaking his head. "Harith, you're something else. A craftsman, huh? I'd never have guessed back then."
"It keeps me busy," I said with a shrug. "Besides, the kids in Willowshade love them. Makes it worthwhile."
Torven let out a low chuckle, still examining the deer. "Thank you," he said suddenly, his tone uncharacteristically earnest.
"For what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.
"For everything," he said, looking up at me. "Back when I was just a scrawny street rat hanging around your stall. You probably don't even remember, but you gave me food every day. Scraps, sure, but they kept me alive. You didn't have to do that, but you did."
I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling a little embarrassed. "I didn't think much of it at the time," I admitted. "Just scraps that didn't sell. Would've gone bad otherwise."
Torven laughed, his grin returning. "Scraps to you, maybe. But to me? It was everything. A lifeline." He fell quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting back to the fire. "After you retired, it got tough. Really tough. The other vendors weren't like you—most of them chased me off if I even looked at their stalls too long. I went hungry a lot after you were gone."
His voice hardened slightly, though his grin remained. "I had to figure things out on my own. Stealing was the easiest option, so... I stole. First it was bread and apples, then coins, then jewelry. I got good at it, too. Made a name for myself in Redvale. People there called me Dangerous Torven."
He leaned back with a lazy grin, his scar pulling at the corner of his mouth. "A dangerous man, but a well-fed dangerous man."
I couldn't help but shake my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips. "Well-fed or not, Torven, you know that life's going to catch up with you eventually."
"Maybe," he said, his grin faltering for a moment. Then he shrugged, tossing the deer back to me with surprising care. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I'm just glad to see you again, Harith. You're a good man."
The fire crackled softly as we sat in silence for a while, the weight of years and choices hanging between us. For all the differences in our paths, it felt strangely like old times—two unlikely souls finding warmth and connection in a cold world.
Torven glanced toward the tent, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "The kid in there... is she yours?"
I shook my head, a small smile tugging at my lips. "No, not mine. My kid's all grown up now. I'm headed to her wedding, actually. She's marrying a King."
Torven's hand shot to his head, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "A King? Your daughter's marrying a King?" He let out a low whistle, shaking his head slowly. "Years have gone by, huh?" he said, more to himself than to me. "Feels like just yesterday I was playing with her."
He was quiet for a moment, then glanced back at me, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "So, what about your wife? Reina, right? Still around, looking as beautiful as ever?"
The question caught me off guard, and for a moment, I could only stare at him. Then, I laughed—a soft, tired laugh that held more years than humor. Torven joined in, though his grin faltered as he noticed the look in my eyes.
"No, Torven," I said finally, my voice quieter now. "Reina's the reason I retired. Her health started to go downhill, and I couldn't afford to stay in Redvale. The noise, the pace—it wasn't good for her. So, we moved to Willowshade. A small place, quiet and peaceful. That's where she spent her remaining years."
Torven's grin vanished completely, replaced by a somber expression. He rubbed the back of his neck, his head lowering slightly. "Ah, Harith, man, I'm... I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't know."
I waved a hand, brushing away his apology. "You couldn't have known. It was a long time ago. And honestly, it was the right choice. Those last years in Willowshade, they were good ones. She loved the garden, loved the quiet. It gave her some peace, I think."
Torven sat back, his scarred face etched with regret. "Still," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that. She didn't either."
I smiled faintly, the memories of Reina as vivid in my mind as if she were still with me. "Life doesn't give you what you deserve, Torven. It just gives you what it gives. The best you can do is make something out of it."
For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. Torven stared into the flames, his expression unreadable, before nodding slowly. "You always did have a way with words, Harith," he said. "Even back then. I guess that's why I kept coming back to your stall, besides the scraps."
I chuckled softly, the shared warmth of memory easing the weight of the conversation. "I think you came back because you were too stubborn to give up."
Torven smirked, his mood lifting slightly. "Maybe," he said, his tone lighter. "Maybe I just knew you had good scraps."
The fire had burned lower, casting flickering shadows that danced around the clearing. Torven stretched, rising from the log with a groan. "Well, Harith, I think it's about time I head out," he said, dusting his hands on his trousers.
I stood as well, the warmth of the fire clinging to my skin as the cool forest air rushed in. "Leaving so soon? And here I thought you'd softened enough to keep me company for the night," I said with a small grin.
He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tempting, but no. Got to keep moving. My lot's probably already grumbling about my absence."
Torven reached into a pouch at his belt and pulled out a coin, flipping it between his fingers before pressing it into my hand. It was heavier than it looked, and when I turned it over, I saw an intricate engraving of a snarling wolf's head, its eyes sharp and menacing.
"Keep this," he said, his voice dropping into something serious. "Not for buying food or drink. Just show it if anyone on the road tries to bother you. Especially the kind who don't take no for an answer."
I frowned, running my thumb over the engraved surface. "What is it?"
"A mark," Torven explained. "Anyone who knows me will know what it means. It says, 'Leave this one alone—or deal with me.'" His grin was crooked, but there was steel behind it.
I nodded slowly, slipping the coin into my pocket. "Thanks, Torven. I hope I won't have to use it."
"Me too," he said, his tone softening. Then, without warning, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug, his arms strong and warm. For a moment, he was just the boy I remembered—a scrappy kid who'd survived against all odds.
"Take care of yourself, Harith," he said as he stepped back, his hand lingering briefly on my shoulder. "And that kid in the tent. She's got something about her. Keep her safe."
"I will," I promised.
With a final nod, Torven turned and disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest. I stood there for a long moment, staring after him, the weight of the coin in my pocket a strange comfort. Then, with a sigh, I turned back to the camp, sleeping peacefuly next to Nessa.
The night passed peacefully after Torven's departure, the forest settling into its quiet rhythm once more. By the time dawn arrived, the first light of day was a muted gray, filtered through a thick canopy of clouds. There was no sun to break through, but neither was there rain. Just a cool, still air that carried the faint smell of damp earth and leaves.
After washing our faces with water from my flask, we packed up our belongings. Nessa folded the blanket she'd used, tucking it back into the bag with surprising neatness. She hummed softly to herself as we worked, her spirits seemingly unshaken by the events of the night before.
As we stepped back onto the road, I noticed her glancing up at the sky. "What are you looking at?" I asked.
She grinned, her steps light and easy. "This is my favorite kind of weather," she said.
I raised an eyebrow. "Cloudy?"
She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the overcast sky. "Not hot, not cold. Just... perfect. I don't like it when the sun's too bright—it makes me feel like I'm melting. And when it's too cold, I feel like I'm freezing from the inside out." She spread her arms wide, spinning in a small circle. "But this? This is perfect. I could walk forever in weather like this."
I chuckled at her enthusiasm, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. "Fair enough. You've got a good point there."
We walked in companionable silence for a while, the soft crunch of our footsteps blending with the distant rustle of the forest. The gray sky above seemed to stretch endlessly, wrapping the world in a calm, subdued light.
I glanced down at her. "How about last night? You okay? Anything hurt?"
Nessa shook her head, her brown hair bouncing slightly with the motion. "Nope, I'm fine. Went back to sleep in no time, actually." She gave me a sly smile. "I think I was more sleepy than terrified."
That earned a laugh from me, a genuine one that echoed along the quiet road. "More sleepy than terrified, huh? That's quite a talent."
We both laughed at that, the tension of the night before fading further into memory with each step. The day stretched out before us, quiet and calm, and for the moment, it felt like the road ahead was as perfect as the weather Nessa loved so much.
The road stretched out before us, winding through gentle hills that gradually flattened as we neared our destination. The clouds overhead had thinned, allowing shafts of pale light to touch the landscape. As we crested a hill, the horizon opened up, and there it was—Aldenholm, the Capital City.
Even from a distance, it was breathtaking.
The gates stood tall and proud, carved from pristine white marble that seemed to glow even under the muted light of the overcast sky. Golden embellishments traced the edges of the gates, glimmering faintly as though catching the light of an unseen sun. From where we stood, I could just make out the intricate carvings etched into the marble—tales of valor and triumph, stories immortalized in stone.
Beyond the gates, Aldenholm unfolded like a vision. The streets gleamed as though freshly polished, their smooth stones catching the light. Buildings of white marble lined the avenues, their golden roofs shining like scattered treasure. It was a city of contrasts—vibrant yet serene, bustling yet perfectly ordered. Even from this distance, I could feel the pulse of life within its walls, a harmony that spoke of unity and purpose.
Nessa gasped beside me, her small hand clutching the strap of her bag. "Is that... it?" she whispered, her voice tinged with awe.
"That's Aldenholm," I said, my gaze fixed on the magnificent sight before us.
At the heart of the city, perched high above the rest, was the royal palace. It rose like a beacon, its spires reaching toward the heavens, their golden tips gleaming even in the subdued light. Flags bearing the crowned lion crest fluttered proudly from its terraces, and the grand staircase leading up to the main entrance was visible even from here, a testament to the grandeur and scale of the structure.
"It's beautiful," Nessa said softly.
I nodded, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. "It is," I agreed. "More than I remembered."
The city seemed untouched by time, as pristine and majestic as the stories claimed. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if Ellara had stood here, looking out at this same sight when she first arrived. If she had felt the same mix of wonder and nervous anticipation that now gripped me.
As we stood there, the cool breeze carrying the faint hum of distant life, Aldenholm loomed before us—a city of kings, of stories, and of possibilities. And it was waiting.
As we approached the city gates, a guard stepped forward, his hand raised to halt our progress. His armor gleamed under the muted daylight, the polished steel reflecting the faint glow of the marble gates behind him. He carried himself with an air of authority, his sharp eyes scanning us both with practiced scrutiny.
"Halt," he said firmly, his voice echoing slightly off the massive gates. "State your business in Aldenholm."
I stopped, adjusting the strap of my bag, and offered a polite smile. "This young lady here," I said, gesturing to Nessa, "is on her way to enroll in the Archatian Academy."
The guard's expression didn't change, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The Academy, eh? And what proof do you have of that? The Academy doesn't take just anyone off the road."
I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, Nessa stepped forward, her small frame somehow brimming with confidence. She tilted her head slightly, studying the guard with an intensity that seemed to unnerve him.
"You're hungry," she said suddenly, her tone casual but firm. "And tired. You just want to eat something and get some sleep."
The guard blinked, his posture straightening. "What?" he stammered, a hint of surprise flashing across his face.
Nessa shrugged, giving him a knowing smile. "I can tell. It's been a long shift, hasn't it? You've been standing here all day, and you're ready for it to be over."
For a moment, the guard stared at her, his stern demeanor faltering. Then he cleared his throat, stepping aside and gesturing toward the gates. "Alright, you may pass," he said, his voice slightly gruff.
Nessa turned to me as we walked through, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She gave me a quick wink, and I couldn't help but chuckle under my breath. Clever girl.
As we passed through the gates, Aldenholm revealed itself in all its splendor.
The streets were alive with activity, bustling with people of every shape and size. Merchants lined the thoroughfares, their stalls brimming with goods so vibrant and polished they seemed almost unreal—jewels that caught the light like tiny suns, bolts of fabric dyed in colors that defied nature, and fruits so perfect they could have been carved from crystal.
Street performers dotted the squares, juggling flaming torches or playing strange and enchanting tunes that made the air hum with magic. Their performances drew lively crowds whose laughter and applause mingled with the music, filling the city with a sense of joy and celebration.
The people of Aldenholm were as diverse as their wares. Humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs mingled freely, their differences blending seamlessly into the fabric of the city. Halflings darted through the crowds, their small frames carrying satchels nearly as large as themselves, while gnomes bartered animatedly over piles of curious, intricate trinkets.
As we reached the main square, my attention was drawn to a towering statue at its center. A knight clad in gleaming armor stood atop a pedestal, his sword raised high toward the heavens. Every detail had been captured with breathtaking precision, from the flow of his cape to the fierce determination in his gaze. At his feet, smaller statues of dwarves, elves, and humans stood together in solidarity, their hands raised in support as though holding up the knight himself.
Nessa tugged at my sleeve, pointing at the statue. "Who's that?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
"That," I said, my eyes lingering on the knight, "is King Alden. The ruler of this continent. Though this statue shows him when he was young."
Nessa looked up at me, wide-eyed. "Did you meet him before?"
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "Of course not. I doubt he even knows I exist."
She smiled at my response, her gaze returning to the statue. As we continued through the square, the vibrant city seemed to embrace us fully, its energy and beauty pulling us deeper into its heart.
The vibrant energy of Aldenholm pulsed around us as we wandered through the square, the smells of roasted meats, spiced breads, and sugary confections mingling in the air and making my stomach rumble. Nessa glanced at me with a knowing smirk, her own hunger clearly matching mine.
"Smells good, doesn't it?" she said, her gaze darting toward a vendor grilling skewers of some kind of glazed meat.
"It does," I admitted, though I tugged her gently away from the stalls. "But I've got a better idea. Let's find somewhere quieter."
A few turns later, we came across a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. The wooden sign above the door swung gently in the breeze, its paint faded but legible. The place wasn't grand, but it had an inviting warmth, with soft light glowing from the windows and the faint sound of clinking dishes and conversation drifting out.
"Here," I said, pushing the door open.
Inside, the restaurant was simple but cozy. A handful of people sat at tables scattered across the room, enjoying quiet meals. The aroma of freshly baked bread and savory stews filled the air, and behind a counter, a cook worked diligently, humming softly to himself.
A young woman with a broom in hand glanced up as we entered. Her plain dress and apron marked her as the cleaner, and she offered a polite smile as she approached. "Welcome," she said. But then, as her gaze landed on Nessa, her entire demeanor changed.
Her eyes widened, and the broom clattered to the floor as she gasped. "Nessa?"
Before I could react, she rushed forward, dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the girl in a fierce hug. Nessa stood frozen for a moment, her face a mixture of shock and recognition, before her own arms tentatively came up to return the embrace.
"Sis?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The cleaner pulled back just enough to look at her, tears welling in her eyes. "Nessa," she repeated, her voice trembling. "What are you doing here? How—?"
I stepped back slightly, letting the moment belong to them, my chest tightening with a mix of surprise and quiet relief. It had to be her sister—Clara, if I remembered correctly from our earlier conversations.
As the two embraced again, the noise of the restaurant seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their reunion, raw and full of unspoken emotions.
"And you must be Mr. Harith," Clara said, her voice warm but thick with emotion as she looked up at me. Her arms stayed firmly around Nessa, the hug holding a kind of unspoken relief and gratitude. "Thank you so much for keeping Nessa safe."
I gave her a small nod, smiling softly. "She's a clever girl," I said. "I've had more help from her than she's had from me."
Clara let out a breathy laugh, her grip tightening briefly around Nessa. "Still, I owe you more than I can say," she said. "We've been... I've been worried about her."
They stayed like that for another moment, holding onto each other as though trying to bridge the time they'd been apart. I stood back, giving them the space they needed.
Then Clara pulled back slightly, still keeping one hand on Nessa's shoulder. "But may I ask," she said, her voice soft but laced with curiosity, "why did you bring Nessa here, Mr. Harith? For welcoming the Heroes of the Realm? You're too late, we celebrate it last week."
Before I could open my mouth to reply, Nessa straightened up, her face lighting with pride. "Because I'll be going to the best academy in the continent," she said boldly. "The Archatian Academy!"
The words hit Clara like a gust of wind. Too quickly, almost instinctively, she released Nessa from her embrace and stared at her, confusion etched into her features. "The Archatian Academy?" she repeated, her brow furrowed. "Nessa... do you have magic in you? Can you conjure it? Do anything with it?"
Her voice was sharp, but it wasn't harsh—it was filled with the kind of protective worry that came from years of shouldering too much responsibility. Her eyes darted briefly to the side, and I caught the look, one I knew all too well: the quiet calculation of someone weighing the cost of a dream they couldn't afford.
"I don't have the money for it," she said softly, her voice falling to a near whisper.
Nessa opened her mouth to protest, but the look on Clara's face stopped her. The weight of doubt and the struggle of hard years were written there, and for a moment, the room felt heavier, the warmth of the restaurant dimmed by the rawness of the moment.
I stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Nessa's shoulder. "It's alright," I said gently, looking from Clara to Nessa. "We'll talk about it. One step at a time."
Clara's gaze shifted to me, her eyes searching mine, and I could see the mix of hope and uncertainty that lingered there.
"You guys must be hungry," Clara said, standing up and brushing her hands on her apron. Her voice carried a warmth that softened the tension, and for the first time, I saw something shift in Nessa.
Her face lit up—not with the reserved, cautious smiles I'd grown used to, but with pure, unguarded happiness. Joy radiated from her, her wide eyes shimmering with excitement as she looked up at her sister. It was the kind of expression that didn't need words to explain—it spoke of love, comfort, and belonging, all rolled into one.
"Yes!" Nessa exclaimed, her voice louder and more enthusiastic than I'd heard it in days. "I'm starving!"
Clara laughed, the sound carrying a similar lightness, as if seeing Nessa's joy had lifted some of the weight from her shoulders. "Alright, alright," she said, gesturing toward a small table in the corner. "Sit down. I'll bring you something. It's on the house."
I started to protest, but Clara shot me a look that brooked no argument. "It's the least I can do," she said firmly.
I nodded, leading Nessa to the table. As she plopped into her seat, her grin still firmly in place, I couldn't help but smile myself. For all the trials the road had thrown at us, this moment alone made it feel worthwhile.
To be continued...