Two days had passed since the raid, and the villagers of Suntails Hollow were slowly piecing their lives back together. Though the scars of the battle lingered, their resilient spirit shone brightly.
Dorian woke in his bed, his body no longer aching as it had been, though his heart still carried a weight he couldn't shake. He stretched, moving slowly to the mirror in his room. As he caught sight of his reflection, he blinked in surprise.
His hair, once streaked with red at the roots, was now fully crimson. It shimmered like fire in the morning light, bold and vivid. His eyes lowered to the pendant hanging against his chest. The hollow circle that had once held only faint traces of red now gleamed with a full, vibrant gemstone—rich in color and pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
For a moment, a glimmer of hope touched Dorian's heart. Just like he said, he thought, recalling the green-cloaked bard's prophecy. But the optimism faded quickly. His father's words lingered in his mind: You've done enough. Dorian clenched the pendant tightly, murmuring to himself.
"Was it really enough?"
He dressed and joined his family for breakfast. The warm scent of bread and eggs filled the kitchen, and Selia's giggles brightened the mood. Elira set plates before him and Gorlan, then ruffled Selia's hair with a soft smile.
Dorian tried his best to mask his lingering doubt, joining in the family's banter with jokes and polite smiles. But beneath the surface, he felt hollow. Gorlan and Elira exchanged subtle looks, both recognizing the cracks in his facade.
As the meal wound down, Gorlan placed a firm hand on Dorian's shoulder, silently reminding him of their earlier conversation. The touch was grounding but bittersweet.
"I'll clean up," Elira said, standing abruptly and dusting her hands. She looked at Dorian and smiled. "Come on. You're walking with me today."
"What?" Dorian asked, taken aback.
"No arguing," Elira said, pulling him out of his chair before he could refuse.
The two walked through the village, though Dorian barely lifted his head. The guilt weighed on him, clouding his surroundings as if the sun itself had dimmed. As they passed through the square, a familiar voice called out.
"Oi, lad!"
Dorian glanced up reluctantly to see Master Gresham waving at him with his only hand, the other arm missing at the elbow. The older man's face, weathered and kind, broke into a wide smile.
Dorian instinctively looked back down, shuffling past him.
"Dorian," Elira whispered sternly, nudging him forward. She walked to Gresham, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Dorian followed hesitantly, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Master Gresham took in the young bard's hunched posture, his sharp eye noting the signs of a troubled spirit. With a mock-scowl, he cleared his throat. "Lad, don't ya know it's rude not to look at your elder when they're talkin' to you?"
Dorian finally lifted his head, his expression heavy with guilt. Master Gresham smirked before softening into a genuine smile. "Thank you, lad. You called sunrise on your terms."
"But Master Gresham..." Dorian began, his voice cracking as his eyes darted to the stump where the man's left arm used to be. "Your hand..."
Gresham's laugh boomed, rich and unbothered. "Aye, I lost it. But you gave me back somethin' much more important: life." His eyes glimmered with warmth. "You did your best, lad. You always do."
Dorian's face crumpled. "But my best wasn't enough."
Master Gresham's face turned serious, his eyes soft and understanding. "It's enough for me, Dorian. For us."
The words struck deep, piercing through Dorian's layers of doubt. He glanced around, noticing for the first time the villagers greeting him as he passed—each one smiling despite their hardships, waving in gratitude. The resilience of Suntails Hollow hit him all at once.
This was his home, and no matter the challenges they faced, these people would always rise together.
…
Near the edge of the hollow, at the training ground, the steady rhythm of a wooden sword against the goliath dummy echoed. Lucas had been at it since the raid, his strikes fierce and relentless.
For two days, Lucas hadn't stopped, pushing his body to exhaustion in a fruitless attempt to work through the rage and guilt coursing through him. Hunters and villagers had tried to pull him away, but Alric Branwell, Lucas's aging father, had stopped them every time.
"If he needs to swing that sword to find peace, then let him swing," Alric had said calmly. And so he sat by the training ground, day and night, always watching, staying by his side.
…
That morning, Lucas paused his training, sweat dripping from his face as he turned to see his father sitting a short distance away. Alric sat on the ground with a small spread of food, cups, and a simple teapot beside him.
Lucas frowned. "What are you doing here, Dad?"
Alric smiled, lifting a plate toward him. "Brought you some food. You've been at it for two days."
Lucas blinked in surprise. "Two... days?"
"Didn't even notice, did you?" Alric chuckled, handing him the plate and a cup of water. "Eat up, son. You can't swing that stick forever."
Lucas hesitated, then took the plate and sat down beside his father, devouring the food without realizing how hungry he was.
Alric's voice was soft as he spoke. "Lucas, you have the makings of greatness. That night, you showed everyone what you're capable of. You've taken that sword and carved your own path. And I'm glad I'm there, catching your brilliance. I'm proud of you, son."
Lucas glanced at his father, seeing the lines on his face, the wrinkles that hadn't been there when Lucas was young.
"Dad..." Lucas whispered, his voice cracking. Tears welled in his eyes as he hugged his father tightly. "Thank you. Thank you..."
Alric patted his son's back, his own voice thick with emotion. "You're my boy. Always have been. Always will be."
**A/N**
~Read Advance Chapter and Support me on p@treon.com/SmilinKujo~
~🧣KujoW
**A/N**