Veigar emerged from the forest like a man shedding a skin.
Behind him, the trees fell away like memories — dense, dark, unforgiving. Before him stretched a field of light, wind, and wildflowers. The world was open now. No longer a cage. But a question.
He stood for a while on the edge of that change, breathing in the scent of fresh soil and blooming life. Then, he stepped forward.
The fields swayed gently beneath the breeze, golden and green, speckled with bursts of violet, white, and blue petals. Bees buzzed lazily between flowers. The air was warmer here. Softer. Less defensive.
After an hour of walking, signs of humanity appeared like gentle interruptions to the calm: a crooked fence, the distant bark of a dog, a flicker of chimney smoke. Soon, the path became clearer — dirt-packed but well-used, winding between modest homes with thatched roofs and stacked stone walls. Goats bleated. Chickens ran freely. It was peaceful.
And then, he saw it: a village. Small, but alive.
It was the kind of place a younger Veigar might have mocked. "NPC town," he would've called it. "Tutorial zone."
Now… it was beautiful.
But as he approached the road, he paused. He caught his reflection in a shallow basin beside a well — clothes torn, blood still dried along his arms, hair wild from days of travel. A dagger wrapped in a rag hung from his belt.
"…Maybe if I look handsome and harmless enough, they'll overlook the serial killer aesthetic," he muttered, pulling off his shredded shirt and tying it tighter around the dagger. "One can hope."
He entered the village walking tall, steady. He didn't avoid the stares this time — he met them.
Some were cautious.
Others curious.
But most were just confused.
"…He's not from around here."
"Looks like a noble's bastard."
"Do you think he's dangerous?"
"No. He looks… lost."
And he was. But not in the same way he had been days ago.
He made his way to the outskirts again, drawn by the calm. There, where the village faded back into farmland, he found a small wooden bench beneath a crooked tree. He sat and let the setting sun warm his skin.
It felt familiar.
He had sat like this once before — under different skies, in a different world — with nothing but questions and hunger gnawing at his chest.
This time, the hunger was still there.
But the questions no longer screamed.
And then came a voice.
"What are you doing here, young man?"
Veigar turned and found an old man approaching, his gait slow but steady. His clothes were poor, patched many times, and his beard was gray and untrimmed. There was dirt beneath his nails and something sharp in his eyes — not unkind, but searching.
"I'm watching the sunset," Veigar said, smiling faintly.
The old man squinted at him. "In the middle of nowhere?"
"I suppose so."
"You don't look like you belong here."
"Because I don't."
The old man frowned and sat down beside him with a grunt, placing an empty wooden bucket on the ground. "Where are you headed?"
"I'm looking for somewhere to go."
"Where are you coming from?"
"I… don't know how to answer that."
The old man tilted his head. "You don't know where you came from… you don't know where you're going." He chuckled. "At least tell me you know who you are."
Veigar didn't respond immediately. He looked at the sun — now kissing the edge of the hills — and let the light paint gold across his face. His hands rested calmly on his knees. His eyes, for once, were steady.
"…No," he said softly. "I don't."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it doesn't bother you."
"It did. Before," Veigar replied. "Back when I thought I was supposed to know. Now I think… maybe finding out is part of the journey."
"Young people always think life's a journey," the man muttered, shaking his head. "You sound like a wandering priest or a madman."
Veigar laughed lightly — not defensively, but warmly. "Maybe I'm both."
The old man studied him. Not with contempt, but with something close to confusion. Or maybe… admiration.
"Well," he grumbled as he stood, brushing off his knees, "if you ever figure it out, let me know." the old man said while chuckling.
"I will," Veigar said, still smiling.
The man started walking away, then paused and looked back.
"You're a strange one."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
With a snort, the old man disappeared into the village, bucket swinging loosely in his hand.
Veigar sat in silence, alone again. But it didn't feel the same.
The wind rustled the grass. The stars began to blink into existence. And the sun, now gone beyond the hills, left behind a sky painted in deep hues of lavender and crimson.
[Would you like the answers now?]
Veigar closed his eyes.
"No," he whispered. "Not yet."
[Why not?]
"Because I'm not ready for answers. I'm ready for questions. For roads. For wrong turns. For… growth."
A pause.
[Understood]
He leaned back against the bench and breathed in deep — not because he needed air, but because he needed the stillness that came with it.
"I'll find the truth," he said quietly, "when it's time."