The road stretched ahead of me, a winding ribbon cutting through fields of wild grass and scattered trees. The early morning sun hung low on the horizon, its soft light casting long shadows across the landscape. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and earth.
For the first time in days, I walked alone. No Nessa bounding ahead of me, pointing out every curious flower or strange bird. It was just me, the sound of my boots crunching on the dirt road, and the endless expanse of sky above.
The solitude gave me space to think, though I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse. My thoughts wandered to places I hadn't visited in years, memories bubbling up like old friends I'd left behind.
I thought of Willowshade, the village where I'd made a life for myself. But before Willowshade, there was another place. A tiny village nestled in the hills, its name almost lost to time—Windmere.
I hadn't thought about Windmere in years, but the more I walked, the more the memories came back. The small, crooked houses with their thatched roofs, the old well at the center of the square where children would gather to play, and the fields that stretched beyond the village, golden with wheat in the summer.
I remembered the way the village smelled after a rainstorm—fresh and earthy, with a hint of something sweet from the wildflowers that grew everywhere. And I remembered the people, though their faces had grown blurry with time.
My father had been a strict man, a fisherman with calloused hands and a voice that could carry across the oceans. My mother had been softer, her touch as gentle as the wind that gave the village its name. Windmere had been my whole world once, but as I grew older, I'd realized it wasn't enough. I left, chasing something bigger, though I couldn't have said what at the time.
Now, as my feet carried me toward Iverithyn, I wondered if I might stumble onto Windmere again. If my memory served me right, the road ahead would pass close to the place. Not that there would be anything left for me there. Windmere had been abandoned years ago, the villagers scattered by bad harvests and worse luck. But the thought of walking those roads again, of seeing what remained, stirred something bittersweet in me.
Every so often, I found myself needing to stop and rest. My legs weren't what they used to be, and as I eased myself down onto the side of the road, I couldn't help but chuckle at the thought. Sixty years old, or close enough. A long journey like this on foot wasn't exactly something I should be doing at my age. But then again, maybe my body had grown used to it.
I leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, letting the cool breeze wash over me. The ache in my knees and back was familiar now, more a companion than a burden. I gave myself a few moments to catch my breath before pressing on again, the rhythm of my boots on the dirt road lulling me into thought.
My mind wandered back to another time, when I wasn't walking down an empty road but hauling heavy bags of vegetables to my stall in Redvale. Back then, the mornings had been just as early, but the streets had been alive with vendors setting up shop, their voices carrying through the crisp air as they prepared for the day.
I remembered the weight of those sacks on my shoulders, the strain of carrying them from the garden to the cart, and then from the cart to the stall. It had been grueling work, but I'd been strong then—strong enough that Reina would often tease me about it.
She'd loved my arms and back, always commenting on how stiff and strong they were. "A farmer's back," she'd call it, running her fingers along my shoulders after a long day. "Built for the earth and everything it grows."
Now? Well, the muscle was still there, but it wasn't as stiff or as strong. The years had softened me, as they did with everyone. My shoulders ached more than they used to, and my strength wasn't what it once was. But that was what getting old was. It wasn't something to fight or fear. It was just life.
I didn't really mind it, to tell the truth. Growing older felt like a privilege, especially in a time like this. Not many men made it to my age. Most of my childhood friends were gone now, taken by wars or famine. Some had been called to fight and never returned; others had been swallowed by the harshness of the land itself.
I'd been lucky. I'd never been to war, never known the ache of hunger gnawing at my ribs. My life had been simpler, more peaceful. Selling vegetables, tending my garden, carving little figures. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
The thought gave me a small sense of comfort as I kept walking, the road stretching out endlessly ahead. My back might ache, and my legs might tire, but I was still here, moving forward. And for now, that was enough.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and purple, I veered off the road and into the forest. The trees stood tall and close here, their thick trunks and sprawling branches casting long shadows that would keep me hidden. I'd learned from my first mistake—camping too close to the road wasn't worth the risk. Last time, it had been Torven, and that had ended well enough. But next time? I didn't want to test my luck.
Torven's token—a small, heavy coin engraved with a snarling wolf—sat in my bag, a silent reassurance. Still, I wouldn't rely on it. Relying on luck, magic, or favors wasn't my way. Better to rely on my own wits.
After finding a secluded spot, I spent extra time making sure my tent was hidden among the thick undergrowth, the fabric blending with the forest's muted greens and browns. Once I was satisfied, I grabbed my cooking set and wandered to a small clearing nearby where I could build a fire without giving myself away.
My cooking tools were simple but reliable—an old tin pot, blackened at the bottom from years of use, a wooden spoon carved by my own hand, and a small, foldable knife that I'd bought back in Aldenholm. I laid them out carefully, setting the pot on a flat stone while I unpacked the rest of my supplies.
Tonight's dinner would be a simple stew of beans, something light but filling. From my bag, I pulled the small sack of dried beans I'd bought at the market, a few pinches of rosemary wrapped in a scrap of cloth, and a flask of water.
I poured the beans into the pot, followed by the water, and set the pot over the fire. As the flames licked at the metal, I reached for the rosemary, crumbling it between my fingers to release its earthy scent before sprinkling it into the bubbling mixture.
Cooking had never been my strong suit. Ellara always said she preferred Reina's meals over mine—and she wasn't wrong. Reina had a knack for it, a way of turning even the humblest ingredients into something special. My meals, on the other hand, were… serviceable. But I could manage well enough.
I stirred the pot with my wooden spoon, watching the beans begin to soften and the stew take shape. The aroma of rosemary mingled with the earthy smell of the forest, and for a moment, I felt a quiet satisfaction.
It wasn't much, but it was enough. A warm meal after a long day, a fire to keep the night at bay, and a tent hidden away where I could rest without worry. As I stirred the stew one last time, I thought of Ellara and Reina.
"They'd probably laugh if they saw me now," I muttered with a chuckle. "But it's not so bad."
The stew bubbled gently, ready at last. I ladled a portion into a tin bowl and settled onto a flat stone to eat, the warm, simple meal easing the ache of the day's journey. The forest around me was quiet, the only sound the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves. It wasn't perfect, but for now, it was enough.
As I ate the stew, the warmth spreading through me with each bite, my mind wandered. It wasn't bad—simple, hearty, and filling—but I couldn't help but think about how much I missed eating meat.
It had been a long time since I'd had any. I wasn't like Ellara, who'd sworn off it entirely; I still ate meat when I could, though it wasn't an everyday thing. Not because I didn't want to, but because I wasn't rich enough to have it whenever the craving struck. But when I wanted it, when the chance presented itself... well, there wasn't much better than a roasted rabbit or a bird over an open flame.
Now, sitting here with only beans and a faint trace of rosemary in my belly, the desire grew stronger.
"Maybe I could set up a bait," I muttered to myself, glancing into the woods. A rabbit or a bird might come along if I knew how to lure one. But that was the problem—I didn't know the first thing about setting up a trap.
Hunting? With a knife? I almost laughed at the thought, shaking my head. "Yeah, who am I kidding?" The image of me charging through the woods with a knife, chasing a rabbit, was almost enough to make me chuckle aloud.
As I drank the last of the stew, the warm broth sliding down my throat, a thought struck me. I paused, the bowl in my hand, and remembered something Reina had insisted on all those years ago.
I rummaged through my bag and pulled out a small bundle of threads. Reina had told me to always carry them, just in case my pants got ripped or a seam burst on the road. She'd been right, of course. She'd even taught me how to sew—simple things, but enough to keep me self-sufficient.
But this time, the threads could have another purpose. Fishing.
The idea sparked in my mind like a flame catching dry wood. If I stumbled upon a river or lake tomorrow, I could try my luck. It had been years since I'd fished, but the memory of catching and cooking a fresh fish stirred something in me. The idea lingered, growing more vivid as I cleaned the pot and carefully extinguished the fire.
"Tomorrow," I thought as I crawled into the tent, the threads safely tucked back in my bag. "If I find water, I'll give it a try."
The thought of casting a line and reeling in a fish stayed with me as I lay down, the sounds of the forest lulling me to sleep. For the first time in a while, my mind felt lighter, and I drifted off with the faint taste of fish lingering in my imagination.
When I opened my eyes the next morning, the forest was quiet, the clearing untouched. No visitors, no danger. Just the soft light of dawn filtering through the trees.
And for that, I was thankful.
To be continued...