"How much?" El asked, pointing at the strange, oversized fruit sitting at the front of the merchant's stall. It was round, about the size of a small pumpkin, covered in a smooth orange-pink skin that glistened under the late morning sun.
"Six gallion," the vendor replied without looking up, already haggling with another customer.
El hesitated. Six gallion… for a fruit? She glanced down at her coin pouch. She could feel the faint clinking of what little they had left after the last round of shopping. Still, she nodded and handed over the coins. "I'll take it."
She added the heavy fruit to her basket, which was already filled with small jars of herbs, wild peppers, a wrapped bundle of dried root, and two glass vials of dark brown liquid—soy sauce and vinegar. With the weight tugging her arms and the spice of crushed pepper tickling her nose, she stepped back into the crowded street.
Axbrid's market district was alive and bustling. Vendors shouted over each other, colorful awnings flapped in the breeze, and the cobblestones echoed with the clatter of wheels and boots. The scent of roasted meat wafted through the air, mixed with the tang of sweat, spice, and fresh-cut wood.
El moved gracefully, her green eyes darting from one stall to another. Her long linen dress swayed as she walked, the faded floral pattern bouncing with every step. A light kerchief tied over her golden hair kept the strands from falling over her face. Despite the simplicity of her clothes, there was something regal in the way she moved—poised, confident, yet distant.
"El!"
She paused, the name tugging at her thoughts like a familiar melody. She turned, already knowing who it was.
Leo pushed through the crowd with a grin, his arms full with a bundle of wrapped meat. He wore a woolen tunic—simple, earth-toned, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His black hair was tousled by the wind, and his dark eyes sparkled when he saw her.
"Did you get what I asked for?" he asked, slightly out of breath.
El sighed, shifting the basket on her hip. "Salt, pepper, soy sauce, vinegar... all here." She raised an eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how hard it was to find soy and vinegar? Not to mention how expensive they are in this place?"
Leo rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling. "Yeah, yeah... I'll make it up to you."
"You'd better," she muttered, though her tone had softened. "Don't go wasting money. We need to stretch every coin before we leave next week." She turned, beginning to walk again. "Besides... what's with all this anyway?"
Leo caught up to her, smiling. "It's for Old Man Tavon. I wanted to cook something for him. Something from home. My mom used to make it when I was a kid."
El looked over at the bundle of meat. "Did you buy pork?"
Leo nodded. "I wanted the ingredients to be exact. I can't risk the flavor changing because we used some strange creature meat like that... scorpion-wolf thing we hunted yesterday."
El gave a short laugh but didn't press further. "Just make sure this is the last time you spend for wants."
She turned to him, pointing a finger at his face.
Leo raised his hands in mock surrender, grin widening. "I know, I know."
El's glare melted into a small smile. She knew he was right. Of all the things Old Man Tavon had done for them, this was the least they could do in return.
Five Months Earlier...
The parchment map lay sprawled on the old wooden table, its edges curling and worn. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across its hand-drawn lines and strange symbols. It was the only map they had—and it didn't even show where "home" was. Just endless forests, mountains, scattered settlements, and regions they could barely pronounce.
Matt leaned forward, both hands on the table, his brows furrowed. "What are we supposed to do?" he muttered. "It'll take years to get home... if we even know where that is."
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the brass wall clock and the faint chirping of night insects outside the wooden shutters.
El sat by the window, arms crossed, her face unreadable. "And we don't have the resources to even try venturing out," she said, her voice flat but not emotionless. Just... tired.
The parchment map lay sprawled on the old wooden table, its edges curling and worn. Candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across its hand-drawn lines and strange symbols. It was the only map they had—and it didn't even show where "home" was. Just endless forests, mountains, scattered settlements, and regions they could barely pronounce.
Matt leaned forward, both hands on the table, his brows furrowed. "What are we supposed to do?" he muttered. "It'll take years to get home... if we even know where that is."
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of the brass wall clock and the faint chirping of night insects outside the wooden shutters.
El sat by the window, arms crossed, her face unreadable. "And we don't have the resources to even try venturing out," she said, her voice flat but not emotionless. Just... tired.
I rubbed my eyes, leaning against a shelf lined with dried herbs. "You mentioned something earlier. About slavers and traders roaming around these parts?"
El nodded slowly. "And monsters. Wild creatures. Even people you can't trust. This land isn't some fantasy adventure—it's chaos, survival."
Matt's hands clenched into fists. "Stop making it worse. That's not helping."
"I'm not here to sugarcoat," El snapped, standing up. "You'd rather we walk out there blind? Better to face the truth than die pretending."
There was a brief silence. I couldn't argue with her—none of us could. El had spent more time out there than either of us. She knew this world better.
Then, a soft voice interrupted.
"Ahem."
We turned in unison. None of us had noticed the old man still sitting in the armchair across the room, hidden by the low firelight and his habit of becoming nearly invisible when still.
Old Man Tavon looked at us with calm, heavy eyes. "You know, lads... with my age, it's hard to tend to everything around here. And I've got some extra space."
His voice was gravelly, as if it carried the weight of the earth itself. We stared at him, still caught in the remnants of our panic and planning, trying to make sense of his words.
He leaned back, resting both hands over his walking stick. "What I'm saying is—I can give you a hand."
El stepped forward, hesitant. "We couldn't possibly ask that of you, Mr. Tavon."
He waved her off. "Call me Old Man Tavon. And besides—who said it'd be free?"
And that was how it began.
We started working with him. Helping around the field, cleaning, doing odd chores, and making regular trips to Axbrid to buy supplies and deliver goods. In return, he paid us—not out of pity, but principle. "Earn your keep," he said, "and your gear will feel lighter when the day comes."
The money we earned came from his harvest—vegetables, herbs, dried roots—and small things he crafted or bartered. We didn't want to take it at first. Living under his roof, eating at his table, learning from him—it was more than enough. But he insisted.
"If you're going to survive out there," he told us, "then every coin in your pocket should remind you of your own sweat."
We eventually agreed, dividing our earnings—saving most of it for the journey, and using a small amount to blend in. We sold our old clothes, which fetched a surprisingly high price from a local trader who liked "foreign fashion." With that, we bought sturdier clothes, satchels, boots, and eventually… weapons.
Old Man Tavon—former soldier, quiet veteran—taught us the blade.
Mornings began before dawn. We trained in the field behind his house, using wooden swords until we could swing without embarrassing ourselves. At first, I could barely keep up. My arms ached for days, and my footwork was a joke. Matt, with his athletic background, caught on quickly—graceful and fast.
And El… Well, El moved like she'd done it all before.
"Where'd you learn to fight like that?" Matt once asked between training drills, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I had a teacher," El replied, adjusting her stance. "Started when I was eleven."
She didn't elaborate.
Her style was elegant—precise footwork, sharp angles, fluid strikes. But even she couldn't land a clean hit on Tavon. The old man, despite his age, moved like smoke. Fast, silent, and relentless. He never mocked us. He just expected better every time.
That only made El train harder.
As the weeks went on, training grew harsher. Longer runs, faster drills, wooden swords replaced with real steel. Then, one morning, Tavon told us to pack light and bring our weapons.
"We're going into the Jurra Forrest ," he said.