Damon awoke on the second day before his planned departure with a sense of restless anticipation tightening his chest. Dawn's pale light crept through the shutters of his modest room. He still half-expected to see Fallbrook exactly as it had always been—peaceful, slow to change, forever removed from the realm's grander conflicts. Yet the faint stirring of rumors about the Crimson Crown and the promise of a journey to Silverhold had shattered the timeless stillness of his village life. He rose, dressed in well-worn trousers and a simple linen shirt, then slung his meager coin pouch at his belt. The moment his feet touched the dirt outside, he noticed something was off.
Gone was the usual serenity of a village morning. No gentle clucking of hens, no bleating goats wandering the roadside. Instead, tension hung in the air like a taut bowstring. A handful of villagers were clustered near the far edge of the main road, whispering to each other. Damon spotted Grogan among them, his brow furrowed. He quickened his stride, heart already thudding in his chest.
"Master Grogan?" Damon called softly as he approached. "What's going on?"
The old swordsman's face was grim. "There've been sightings of an armed group in the hills west of here—bandits or mercenaries, we're not certain. A few traveling merchants claim they saw men on horseback prowling near the village outskirts."
A chill ran down Damon's spine. He'd heard whispers of bandit activity on the frontier, but Fallbrook was rarely a target. The village had little in the way of riches—just farmland, a blacksmith, a few modest trades. "Why would they come here?" he asked, voicing everyone's unspoken question.
Grogan's lips formed a tight line. "Desperation, perhaps. Or maybe they heard rumors that a merchant caravan is scheduled to leave soon—yours, in fact." He glanced meaningfully at Damon. "Bandits might decide it's easier to ambush the wagons on the road if they start by weakening the village first."
Damon swallowed, feeling a surge of protective instinct stir within him. "Then we need to prepare. We can't just wait for them to strike."
Grogan nodded. "We've been discussing it. Most of the men here aren't soldiers. They can hunt, they can till the land, but standing firm against organized raiders is another matter."
Damon looked around at the anxious faces. Many were older men and women who'd spent their lives farming. Others were younger, but few had ever swung anything sharper than a sickle. The blacksmith, Jonar, hovered at the fringe of the group, arms folded over his chest. His gaze was steely, yet Damon could see the flicker of unease in his eyes.
"What about the travelers? Thormund, Kelwick—would they help defend the village?" Damon asked.
Grogan sighed. "Kelwick leads the caravan, but he's only got a handful of men. Thormund is just a merchant, not a fighter. Still, they might help if it means protecting their goods."
Just then, one of the village boys came sprinting down the road, panting. "They've been seen on the ridge—at least eight riders!" he gasped, pointing to a low slope west of Fallbrook, where a sparse line of trees stood against the mist-shrouded hills.
A murmur of fear coursed through the villagers. Damon's hand instinctively went to the hilt of his wooden practice sword, which he'd taken to carrying everywhere since yesterday's revelations. He caught Grogan's wry look, then realized how futile a wooden blade would be if a real fight broke out. "I—let me fetch something sharper," Damon muttered, cheeks flushing.
Grogan laid a hand on his shoulder. "A real sword is in Jonar's workshop. He was crafting a new blade for you once you'd finished training—but I think we'll need it now."
Jonar nodded at Damon. "Come on, then. We'll get you outfitted, and anyone else who can carry a blade." The blacksmith turned and hurried toward his forge at the far end of the village.
Damon followed, heart pounding with a mixture of dread and excitement. Despite the threat, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered that this was a chance to prove himself beyond practice bouts and daydreams. A chance to protect the people he cared about before he left for the wider world.
Inside the forge, smoke from the banked coals hung heavy in the air. Rows of metal tools and half-finished horseshoes littered the walls. Jonar strode to a wooden workbench and lifted a simple longsword from beneath a cloth. The blade was plain but sturdy, with a faint swirl pattern from the forging process.
"Not the fanciest sword, but it'll serve you well," the blacksmith said, holding it out. "Steel's strong, and I balanced it to your arm length. Take good care of it."
Damon gripped the hilt, testing the weight. The metal felt cool and reassuring in his hand, far heavier than the wooden swords he'd used for training—but somehow right. He nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you, Jonar. I'll do my best."
A tense silence followed as a few other villagers filtered into the forge, rummaging for old spears or sharpened scythes. Damon couldn't help noticing that some looked visibly ill-at-ease, hands trembling. They're not warriors, he reminded himself. None of us truly are, except maybe Grogan.
Outside, the sound of hooves drew closer. Damon and the small group readied themselves, stepping out into the open. The village seemed to hold its breath. A row of cottages ran along the muddy road; beyond them, farmland stretched under the pale morning light. Every window was shuttered, every door firmly closed.
At the village's western boundary, where a crude wooden fence marked the edge of cultivated land, a handful of riders emerged from a patch of trees. Damon counted seven men in ragged leathers, armed with swords and shortbows, along with one who wore a dented breastplate and carried a wicked-looking axe. Their horses snorted and pawed the ground. They advanced at a leisurely pace, clearly confident in their advantage.
One of them, presumably the leader, lifted a hand to halt the group. He was a gaunt man with a badly scarred cheek and dark eyes that swept across the village in a predatory way. "We've come to collect a toll," he announced, voice echoing in the sudden hush. "Pay us a fair share of your valuables, and we won't burn this place to the ground."
A few villagers behind Damon gasped. Jonar clenched his jaw, knuckles whitening around his hammer. Grogan stepped forward, raising his hands to show he carried no weapon—yet. "We have nothing for you," the old master said calmly. "We're a poor village. Turn around and find your fortune elsewhere."
The bandit leader sneered. "Don't try to fool me, old man. We know about that merchant caravan. We know you have goods, coins, perhaps even some fancy artifacts. Hand them over, or pay in blood."
Grogan's face hardened, but he tried again. "There's no need for violence. Our goods aren't worth your lives—or ours."
A harsh laugh ripped from one of the mounted raiders. "Old fool thinks we'll walk away empty-handed!"
The leader pointed at Damon's new sword with a half-toothed grin. "I see steel there, at least. Surrender it, boy, along with whatever else you can find, and we might spare your miserable hamlet."
Damon's heart thudded. His grip tightened on the hilt. Was he ready for this? The entire village seemed to shrink back, as if unconsciously giving him space. Grogan glanced at him, a silent question in his eyes: Will you stand and fight?
Damon swallowed. "No. I won't give you this sword," he said, forcing his voice not to tremble. "You want to take from us, you'll have to fight for it."
A flicker of approval crossed Grogan's features. The bandit leader frowned, then barked an order to his men. "Archers, send a warning shot!"
Two of the bandits fitted arrows to their shortbows, drawing back with practiced ease. Damon's pulse hammered. In the next instant, the arrows whistled through the air. One thudded into the ground a few paces in front of Grogan; the other struck the fence, splintering wood. Village folk cried out and ducked behind crates or doorways.
"So that's how it's going to be?" the leader growled, spurring his horse forward at a slow trot. His axe glinted in the fragile sunlight. "Then we take what we want by force!"
In that tense moment, Damon felt all the training he'd done with Grogan crystallize inside him. He advanced, steel drawn, ankles squared. The leader charged, raising the axe overhead. As the horse thundered closer, Damon sidestepped at the last second, swiping his blade upward. Sparks danced as the steel connected with the axe's metal shaft. The blow jostled the raider, causing him to sway in the saddle.
Grogan darted in from the side, hooking a staff around the rider's arm in an attempt to pull him from the horse. The man twisted free, growling. Meanwhile, the other bandits kicked their mounts into motion. They fanned out, some riding toward the blacksmith's forge, others galloping deeper into the village.
Shouts and cries erupted. Jonar rushed after one bandit who made for the merchant's wagon, brandishing his smith's hammer. A scuffle of hooves and swinging weapons followed. Damon caught glimpses of villagers scrambling to defend their homes with pitchforks, wooden clubs—anything they could lay hands on.
An arrow zipped past Damon's ear, so close he felt the rush of air. He spun to see one of the archers taking aim from horseback. Fury and adrenaline surged. He sprinted forward before the raider could loose another arrow, slashing at the horse's flank. The animal veered wildly, throwing the archer to the mud. Damon pressed the advantage, foot planted on the fallen man's bow, sword aimed at his chest.
"Yield!" Damon shouted. But the bandit spat at him and reached for a dagger. Damon kicked the knife from the man's hand, heart pounding in his ears. Do I have to kill him? The thought turned his stomach. Yet he steeled himself, remembering that these men came to pillage his home.
Before Damon could decide, Grogan's staff cracked down on the bandit's temple, knocking him unconscious. The old master nodded gravely at Damon, then whirled away to intercept another raider who was harassing a pair of villagers.
Chaos reigned. The clamor of steel on steel echoed among the cottages. Damon saw Kelwick's men fighting off two bandits near the merchant's wagon. Thormund cowered behind barrels, clutching a small chest protectively, while an armed escort grappled with a sword-wielding raider.
Then Damon's gaze snapped back to the bandit leader, who circled around, eyes blazing with murderous intent. He spurred his horse toward Damon at full gallop, axe raised. Damon sprinted forward, meeting the charge head-on. The thunder of hooves roiled the muddy ground.
At the last moment, Damon slid sideways, whipping his blade in a diagonal cut. Metal screamed against metal. The bandit leader howled as the axe slipped from his grip, clattering into the dirt. Damon's sword cut a shallow gash across the man's leather armor. The horse reared, nearly throwing the rider, but he clung on with white-knuckled desperation.
With a snarl, the leader yanked a dagger from his belt and leapt off the horse, rolling to absorb the impact. Damon advanced, blade at the ready. "You'll regret this, boy," the man spat, blood trickling from a split lip.
Damon remained silent, focusing on each breath, each shift in stance. The bandit lunged. Steel flashed in the watery sunlight. Damon parried with a downward thrust of his own weapon, muscles clenching as he locked blades with the raider. Their faces were inches apart, and Damon caught the stench of the man's unwashed breath.
"Fallbrook doesn't belong to you," Damon growled, driving his shoulder into the man's chest. The bandit staggered backward. Damon seized the opening and slashed low, slicing across the man's leg. The bandit hissed in pain and dropped to one knee, dagger falling from his trembling hand.
All around them, the fighting was waning. Grogan had incapacitated another raider, while Kelwick's men cornered two more near the blacksmith's forge. One horse had galloped away riderless, and the rest of the bandits were either disarmed or trapped. A hush fell as villagers cautiously emerged from behind their makeshift barricades.
Damon kept his sword level, breathing hard. Blood pounded in his ears. "Surrender," he said, voice rasping with exhaustion. "Call off what's left of your men."
The leader glared up at him with pure malice. "You've made enemies, boy. We were just the first wave. This kingdom is ripe for plunder, and you can't be everywhere at once."
Damon hesitated, adrenaline still coursing through him. For a fleeting moment, he considered finishing the man then and there, but something in him recoiled at the thought of a cold-blooded killing. Instead, he jabbed the tip of his sword against the bandit's throat, forcing him to lie flat in the mud.
Grogan approached, staff in hand, panting slightly. "We'll bind him and the others," he announced to the circle of onlookers. "They can be turned over to the authorities—if there's anyone with proper authority out here, that is."
A few villagers hurried forward with rope, trussing up the surviving bandits. Damon stepped back, nausea and relief mixing in his stomach. The fight had lasted only minutes, yet it felt like an eternity. He scanned the village—several cottages bore scars of stray arrows, and two wagons had overturned. Thankfully, it appeared no villagers had been killed; a few were wounded, but from the looks of it, nothing fatal.
Jonar limped over, supporting one of Kelwick's men who had taken a blow to the ribs. "We'll need bandages and herbs, quickly!" he called out. Several women rushed to assist, and the grim process of tending wounds began.
Damon's gaze drifted to the unconscious and bound bandits. He felt a mix of pity and anger. They chose to prey upon us, he told himself. We did what we had to.
The tension slowly ebbed, replaced by a sense of collective relief. Some villagers muttered thanks to the gods; others patted Damon on the back, praising his courage. Thormund—red-faced and shaking—approached him. "Thank you, lad. You and Grogan saved us all. If not for you, I'd have lost my wagon, my goods…maybe my life."
Embarrassment colored Damon's cheeks. He wasn't used to such praise, but he forced a smile. "I only did what had to be done."
Grogan put a hand on Damon's shoulder, pride shining in his eyes. "Your bravery just proved what I've always known: you're no mere orphan. You've got the heart of a protector."
Damon wanted to argue, to say it was the adrenaline of the moment, the training, or luck. But he held his tongue. Perhaps he really had changed in these last days—grown into someone who could fight for a cause, not just dream about it.
A hush fell again as Kelwick, the caravan guide, addressed the crowd. "Friends, it's clear these roads are more dangerous than we realized. Our departure is set for tomorrow morning, but if another bandit group is out there, we'll have to be ready."
Damon's brow furrowed. "You still plan to go tomorrow?"
Kelwick nodded. "Yes, but we may leave earlier than expected—before dawn, to minimize the chance of another raid." He looked around, concern etched on his face. "If any of you plan on traveling with us, be prepared for trouble."
Grogan glanced at Damon. "That includes you, lad. After what just happened, I suspect the road to Silverhold won't be smooth. Are you sure you still want to leave?"
Damon met the older man's gaze, his resolve rekindled by the fight he'd just survived. "Yes. I can't turn back now. I'll just have to face whatever comes my way."
A chorus of hushed agreement passed through the remaining villagers. Though some might have hoped this brush with danger would deter Damon from leaving them, they could see the determination burning in his eyes. Even those who had been skeptical of his ambitions realized that the boy had risked his life for their home. They recognized that staying might only stifle what he was meant to become.
As the day wore on, the people of Fallbrook worked together to clean up the aftermath of the skirmish. Damon helped gather dropped weapons and tie the unconscious bandits to a sturdy post near the village center. A message would be sent to the nearest town guard, though it might take days for any official to arrive. In the meantime, the bandits would remain under watch.
By sunset, an eerie calm had settled over the village. Damon stood on a small knoll beyond the cottages, gazing at the golden-red light that bathed the rolling farmland. A soft breeze carried the scent of grass and damp earth. Despite the chaos of the day, the land itself was peaceful, unchanging. Tomorrow, Damon would leave that land behind—perhaps for a long time.
Grogan joined him, the old master's footsteps crunching softly in the grass. "How are you holding up?"
Damon shrugged, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "My head's still spinning. That was the first real fight I've been in—outside of practice. It was different."
"Yes. Training can't fully prepare you for the reality of steel meeting steel. And you handled it better than most."
Silence stretched between them. The last rays of sunlight caught the fresh nicks in Damon's sword, highlighting the reality of battle. He thought of the bandit leader's threat: We were just the first wave. This kingdom is ripe for plunder, and you can't be everywhere at once.
"Master," Damon began, voice low, "the roads are dangerous, but so is staying here, waiting for another raid. Maybe there will always be danger, no matter where I go."
"That's often the way of the world," Grogan said, his voice reflecting hard-earned wisdom. "But if you truly believe you have a greater calling, you can't hide in a village forever. You choose the risks you face—and you face them head-on."
Damon nodded, clinging to that thought. He turned to Grogan. "Thank you. For everything. I promise I'll do my best to live up to your teachings."
"You already have. Now go, rest. You'll need your strength. Kelwick's caravan sets out before first light."
With that, Damon left the knoll, heading back into the village. He passed cottages where the windows now glowed with lamplight. Some villagers offered quiet nods or murmured thanks. In the forge, Jonar was already repairing damaged tools, muttering curses about bandits who didn't respect honest craftsmanship. Damon gave him a nod of gratitude and carried on to his small room.
By the time he lay down on the straw mattress, the moon hung high above the thatched rooftops, bathing Fallbrook in pale silver. Sleep eluded him, and he found himself replaying the day's fight: the flash of steel, the muddy chaos, the choice he'd made not to kill. He wondered if, in the days ahead, he would face the same dilemma again—and if he would always be able to spare a defeated enemy.
Exhaustion eventually overcame worry, and Damon fell into a fitful sleep. In his dreams, he saw a crimson crown glowing in the darkness, heard whispers of dragonfire echoing over distant mountains, and felt the slow, resounding beat of a draconic heart that seemed to call his name. When he awoke the next morning—long before dawn—he rose with a singular certainty: the road would be hard, but his journey had truly begun. And somewhere, in the vast realm beyond Fallbrook, answers awaited—for him, for the rumored Crimson Crown, and for the destiny that now unfurled at his feet.