The forest was quiet. So was I. Neither of us had been born that way.
The road had grown narrower as we passed deeper into the forest. Trees leaned in on both sides, their branches knitted overhead, cloaking the morning sky in a dim green hush. The creaking of the wagon was steady, and the horse, a thin old thing with dull eyes, moved with a patience I hadn't seen in years.
The man holding the reins sat hunched on the front bench. Grey hair thin as mist. Wrinkled hands like bark. His tunic hung loose over his frame, patched and threadbare. He had the look of someone who'd once loved the road, who might've dreamed, as a boy, of traveling from city to city, village to village, kingdom to kingdom, empire to empire, carrying people to places they'd never seen. But life has a way of wearing things down. Even dreams. Especially dreams.
I sat in the back, wrapped in a rough cloak I'd picked up in the last city. A sleeveless green tunic clung to my frame, damp with sweat. My boots were worn. The bags beside me carried everything I owned now. Which wasn't much.
The old man's voice broke the silence again.
"We're in a forest now," he said. "Slowly reaching the ends of it. We're near there. Just hang on."
He'd said it before. Dozens of times. Some mornings, some nights, sometimes twice within the same hour.
It wasn't impatience I felt. Just quiet recognition. The way time loops when memory starts to fray. He spoke with kindness, each time like it was the first. That was enough.
"Why Newham?" he asked suddenly, eyes still forward. "It's a quiet place, that village. Far from the world. Far from the noise. Not much happens there, young man. What draws you?"
I hesitated.
"Somewhere to breathe," I said. My voice was low, like I was afraid it might betray me.
He nodded slowly. "Yes. I suppose Newham's good for that."
Then silence again. The kind that stretches but doesn't press. He didn't seem to need answers, only the act of asking.
"Have to keep watch on the economy," he added, as if remembering something important. "That's the lesson I can give you. Always watch how a village feeds itself. How it earns. That tells you everything."
He smiled faintly. Looked up, maybe at the sky beyond the trees. Or at a time that no longer existed.
I nodded, but said nothing.
A lesson. I'd had enough of those. Given them. Received them. Bled for them. I'd commanded armies in kingdoms he'd never heard of. Killed men who believed they were right. Watched men die knowing they were wrong. What lesson could possibly remain?
What am I missing?
The old man coughed, thin and dry, then cleared his throat.
"Big arms," he said, with a short laugh. "You've lived a life, no doubt. But it's not the body that gives it away."
I glanced at him.
"It's your eyes," he said. "They're not angry. Not sad, either. Just dull. Empty, maybe. Like someone who doesn't know where they're headed. Or worse, someone who no longer cares."
His words hit harder than he meant them to. Not cruel. Not even critical. Just true.
I didn't reply.
The cloak had shifted in the ride. My tunic, sleeveless and thin from travel, left little to the imagination. My arms were thick, yes, but not with the weight of health or youth. They were worn. Pocked. The old lines of blade and steel ran across the skin like maps to places no one should ever have to visit. Some straight, some jagged. A long, pale seam ran from my shoulder to the middle of my forearm, sword. A smaller one at my elbow, too clean for a wound, an arrow that had to be cut out. On my side, beneath the cloth, I could still feel the pull of a deep puncture where a spear had once lived. The scar tissue tugged at me in cold weather. It tugged now.
His voice returned, softer this time.
"You've been torn up in more ways than one. But I've known men like you. The ones who carry wounds on the outside are usually trying to forget the ones they carry inside."
I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Scarred. Fingers that had gripped too many hilts. Too many necks.
"You don't walk like a man expecting trouble," he said. "But you sit like one who's lived through enough of it to know it never really ends."
He looked up at the trees as we passed under them, rain whispering on the leaves. For a while, the only sound was the horse's hooves squelching in the mud and the gentle creak of the old wagon beneath us.
"I used to wonder why back in my days, some soldiers who came back never looked proud," he went on. "You grow up thinking they'll return like statues. Tall. Shining. Full of stories. But they just, sit different. Eyes different. Some forget how to smile. Some forget how to talk. Others forget how to stop fighting, even after the war is over."
He finally turned, looking me in the face. Not intrusively. Just plainly. Like a man studying weather.
"You haven't forgotten," he said. "You just got tired."
"But maybe that's why you'll do well in Newham. That kind of tired sits quiet," he continued. "People there don't chase things. Not anymore. They just live. Maybe you'll remember how to live, too."
I turned to him. "What's your name?"
He smiled faintly, his voice raspy. "Call me Berun. No one's called me that in a while, but it's still mine."
Berun.
I didn't speak. There was nothing to add. Nothing to correct.
He turned back to the road. The reins shifted gently in his hands. And in the hush that followed, the forest slowly gave way to clearer skies.
"Your name?"
"Eron."
"Hmm. Eron. Sounds like a strong name. Fitting for someone like you." He paused, watching the path ahead. "But the irony of it, someone strong, even they need peace. Warmth. A place to call home." His voice dropped. "It's strange, isn't it? When we're young, we think strength is everything. That if we're strong enough, we won't need anything else. But the older I got, the more I realized, it's the strong who tire first. They carry more, drag more, bury more. They forget what it's like to be soft. They forget they're allowed to be." He gave a half-laugh. "But what do I know? I just drive wagons."
I chuckled. The first time I had all journey. Even with my face set like stone, that cracked through.
"Look," he said. "We're here."
I glanced toward where he was looking, and there it was.
The village. Far from the West. Farther still from cities, from kingdoms. From the things that once ruled my days.
Newham.
"Newham," I murmured, watching quietly as we rolled past its edge.
But something felt missing. Something that should've been here.
"Why are there no guards or militias? Every city and village we passed had them."
"I told you already, didn't I?" Berun said gently. "This village is far from politics and the conflicts of religion. Someone like you will struggle. But I didn't expect it to start this early." He chuckled dryly. "You're already searching for ranks, for systems. Militia? You don't even know the people yet." His voice slowed. "That's the thing about peace. You don't recognize it when you've lived too long without it."
The wagon creaked on as Berun guided the horse. I stayed where I was, moving without moving, pulled toward something I couldn't yet name.
I took off the hood of my cloak. From the wagon's open back, I looked out, watching the people as we passed. We were nearing the village's largest house, where the chief lived.
We rolled by wheat fields, dry paths, and farmers hunched in their work. Most were men, but some women too. Tilling the soil. Planting seed. Watching over stalks like they were children. And somehow smiling.
Some even laughed. Quiet, unforced laughter. A joke between men leaning on their tools. It struck me strange. What was there to laugh about, covered in sweat and dirt?
"Do you see now?" Berun said. "I don't expect you to understand it in a day. Not even in a week. But give it time. Days to grasp. Weeks to begin to see. Months to live with it. Years to grow inside it. That's how simple life can be. You don't need to understand it all today."
Wise words. The kind that only come from decades of living.
"We're near the chief's house, right?" I asked.
"Yes. But I won't bring you straight there. You'll need to walk through the houses yourself," Berun said, coughing into his sleeve as he waved to a few farmers nearby.
A man tending wheat called out, "Old man, Berun! Four years since you've been here!"
"Old Berun!" a woman beside him added.
"Ha ha! You all better have the finest rice and wine ready for me!" Berun shouted back, coughing mid-laugh.
We rolled closer. I stopped watching the fields. Sat still again.
Then, voices.
High-pitched. Light. Children.
Two young girls, maybe ten or so, walked near the wagon. They wore red and white dresses, their long hair tied with flowers.
"Old man! Another trade for the village?" one asked, skipping beside the wheel.
"No bags today," Berun replied, smiling. "But someone."
"Oh? Who?" she said, while the other girl leaned in to peek inside.
I didn't turn, but I saw them in the corner of my vision. Still sharp, even now. They studied me, careful, cautious.
"Eek, he's big and scary," the younger girl whispered.
"Shh! He might hear you!" said the older.
"In fact," Berun boomed, "he already did!"
"Ahh! Let's go!" the older one cried, grabbing her sister's hand. The two of them sprinted off between the houses.
"Ha ha ha! I love scaring the young ones!" Berun said, wheezing through his laugh.
I stayed silent. Maybe I did look frightening. My height. My build. My eyes. A face carved by war. It made sense.
"Hey! Don't be so gloomy now!" Berun said, glancing at me again. "Look outside, won't ya? It's morning. We made it with no trouble. You could at least stop brooding and be a little thankful."
He smiled, his teeth crooked, incomplete.
I met his gaze. "I'll try."
"That's the spirit!" he said, turning back to the road.
Berun finally stopped at the edge of the village. The path behind us curved back into trees. The one ahead led into Newham.
He gave the reins a soft pull, slowing the horse to a quiet halt. The wagon creaked as it settled.
I stood, slung two of my tied leather bags over my shoulder, then jumped down from the wagon with a thud.
Before I walked off, I tossed the third bag, heavier than the others, into the back of the wagon.
It hit the floorboards with a sharp clung, the weight of it making the wood groan.
"Huh?! What's that?!" Berun panicked slightly, shifting in his seat, looking behind him.
"Gold coins," I said, flatly, meeting his eyes. "Enjoy your retirement, Berun."
He blinked. Didn't say anything for a while.
I didn't expect him to.
He looked like the kind of man who'd return it. He was old. His back had seen too many roads. Maybe he had nothing to lose anymore. Maybe he thought he was already done living, just waiting for a quiet burial in some forgotten field.
But then—
"Ha ha ha! You've been carrying those three heavy-ass leather bags filled with gold coins all this time like you were hauling feathers?! Ha ha ha!" he laughed loud, almost unhinged. "I knew you were built like a wall, but gods, what kind of lunatic keeps a fortune strapped to his back like it's dried wheat?!"
I smiled. Just a little.
"You take care, alright?" he said, voice softer now. "I hope life lets me see you again, once you've found whatever it is you're looking for. Once you've lived what you've been trying to live." Then, raising his voice again, grinning wide. "And don't even think of asking for this back! Ha ha! I love gold, even at my age! I'm still a damn slave to wealth!"
He slapped the reins, the horse stirred, and the wagon groaned forward.
As he rolled away, he looked back one last time, not at the road, but at me.
Waved his arm high. "I'll see you again!"
Then he turned forward, laughing as the wagon carried him off. I stood there for a while, watching. Half a year on the road with him. Just half a year. We barely knew each other. But somehow, it still felt like something cracked. Still, I couldn't keep looking back.
I turned around, to see what was ahead of me.
And there it was. A blooming village.
The village was warm.
Happy.
Loud.
Alive.
People of all kinds, old, middle-aged, young, walked through the dirt paths as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. Like today was just another ordinary day.
But for me, it wasn't.
For me, this was something else entirely.
This was the beginning of something new.
Farmers tugged at their horses, brushing their manes or adjusting wooden yokes. Fishers held up their nets, water still dripping from the fresh catch, laughing and shouting across to one another. Blacksmiths stood outside their forges, showing off new sets of iron tools with proud, soot-covered smiles. Women carried babies in swaddles while men rested tired hands on their shoulders. Boys clung to their mothers, grinning wide with unspoken joy. Girls sat on their fathers' arms, being spoiled with fruits or carved trinkets.
Life was happening. All of it. At once.
And me?
I was just standing there.
Leather bags slung over my shoulder. Still. Watching. Feeling like a fool in the middle of something too alive to belong to me.
I looked dumb, probably. Still trying to figure out how to start living, while everyone else already seemed to be in the middle of it.
But then, I took a breath. And finally, I began. My first step toward the unknown. Toward the village chief's house. Or at least, that was the direction. I didn't really know. It was my first time being here. And truthfully? I was lost.
But maybe that's fine. Like Berun said, it takes time. It always does.
I walked. And walked. The dirt crunching under my boots. The sun warm on my face.
Some people noticed me. Or rather, not me, exactly. Just what I looked like. Tall. Big. Muscular. Broad shoulders. Arms scarred up. Chest marked with old wounds. A body shaped by war and worn by years.
They didn't say anything. But I could see it in their eyes.
A brute. A warmonger. A glutton. A man who would eat up their food, stretch their threadbare clothes, break their peace.
And I couldn't even blame them. I mean, look at me. Even I wouldn't deny it.
Then—
"Hey!"
A voice cut through the noise. Young. Clear. Direct.
I stopped. Turned my head.
Standing beside me, looking up into my eyes, was a young man. Probably in his early twenties. Brown hair, blue eyes, short and windswept. Fit frame. Light on his feet. There was a joy in him that hadn't been broken yet.
He wore a simple long-sleeved tunic. Brown leather boots. White pants tucked neatly.
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just looked at me.
So I stopped walking. And looked back.
"Hey," the young man said again, this time with a smile. "You're new. Black hair and blue eyes. Tall and muscular."
I gave a nod.
He stepped a little closer, still looking up at me. "First time here?"
"Yes."
He held out a hand. "Jeren."
I glanced at his hand for a moment. Then I shifted my bags to my other shoulder and took it. Firm grip. Honest eyes.
"Eron."
"Eron," he repeated. "That's a strong name. Matches your grip. Felt like you could've broken my hand without trying."
He studied my face for a second, then his eyes moved down, slowly, respectfully, across the old scars, the faded sword cuts, spear grazes, arrow marks, faint burns. Remnants from wars that had names, and wars that didn't.
Still, his voice stayed light. "Though I guess even the strong need a place to rest, yeah? Am I right?"
I didn't answer.
He didn't seem to mind the silence.
"Berun dropped you off, didn't he? Figures. He's the only one who still comes through that forest. Said he was getting too old for it five years ago." He chuckled. "Still going."
"He is," I said.
"Well, welcome to Newham," he said, gesturing back at the village behind him. "Don't mind the stares. That's just how we are. This village, it's small. Honest. Probably not much to impress a man like you."
I looked past him. The men sharpening tools. The women baking near open fires. Dogs chasing chickens. Children laughing somewhere down the path. The place wasn't trying to impress. It just was. And maybe that's what made it different.
"It doesn't need to impress me," I said.
Jeren blinked, then gave a short laugh. "Good answer."
He paused for a beat, then stepped back. "You heading to the chief?"
I nodded.
"I'll walk with you. People are probably staring, huh? With how you look."
"They are."
He smiled again, this time a little sheepishly. "Well, don't mind them. Most of us haven't seen someone like you in years. You'll settle in. Probably."
"Probably?"
He shrugged. "It's Newham. Some days are quiet. Some are loud. Some are just plain weird. But it's a place. And for now, it's yours too."
I didn't respond. Just started walking.
Jeren turned and led the way.
We moved past the village's edge, where the trees ended and the dirt paths branched like shallow streams.
"Watch your step," Jeren said as we passed over a crooked wooden plank acting as a makeshift bridge over a dry ditch. "Elric was supposed to fix this two months ago. Still waiting."
I said nothing.
He looked at me, grinned. "You don't talk much, do you?"
"Not unless I have to."
"Efficient. I like that. I talk even when I don't have to. Makes up for the rest of you silent types."
We walked past a smith hammering a small chisel into shape. The man paused, squinted at me, then gave Jeren a look. His face was leathered from years near the forge, creased deep at the eyes and brow. He had a square jaw half-covered in soot, and shoulders that filled the frame of his sleeveless tunic. A strip of cloth tied around his head and a heavy leather apron patched at the sides, and boots with iron toes that scraped the dirt as he shifted.
"New friend?" the smith called out.
"Something like that," Jeren replied. "Keep that chisel sharp, Marn. Might need it when Eron here breaks the village gate with his pinky."
Marn snorted and went back to work.
Jeren leaned toward me slightly. "He's all bark. Once cried when he dropped a nail on his toe."
We passed a line of children carrying buckets. One of the younger boys and pants tripped and spilled water over the path. The rest burst into laughter. One of the girls pointed at me, wide-eyed.
"Is he a soldier?"
Jeren looked at her and winked. "Nah. He's the village's new scarecrow. Keeps the crows and the bandits away."
I kept walking, but my pace slowed. Not for them. Just to listen. To let it all reach me. The clatter of buckets, the chatter, the breeze rolling over stone and thatched roofs.
Jeren kept pace easily. "They're not used to seeing someone like you," he said, quieter now. "Big. Scarred. Silent. You're practically a fable to them."
"I'm not."
"Maybe. But to them, it doesn't matter."
We passed a baker pulling loaves from a clay oven, had flour streaked on one cheek and in her auburn hair, which was twisted up and pinned with a sliver of carved wood. Her sleeves were rolled high, arms dusted white, apron stained with old dough and the faint black of ash. She nodded at Jeren, hesitated at me.
"Morning, Rena," Jeren greeted.
She eyed me. "Trouble?"
"Depends on how stale your bread is today," he said. She rolled her eyes and waved him off.
I stayed quiet.
"You really don't like small talk, do you?" he said.
"I'm not here to talk."
The dirt shifted beneath our boots as we walked.
He talked. I listened.
"So," he said beside me, "what are you? A soldier? Mercenary? Smith who wrestles metal with his bare hands?"
I said nothing.
He glanced up at me. "Ah. The quiet type. Adds to the mystery."
I kept walking.
"Not much of a talker either, huh?"
"Not anymore," I said.
He gave a small laugh. "Fair enough. First words. That's progress."
We passed a group of old women peeling vegetables outside a home. One waved at him. She sat like a rooted tree, broad, still, unmoved by passing wind or chatter. Her skin had the papery softness of age, folded at the corners of her eyes and mouth from years of sun and squinting smiles. A scarf covered most of her hair, though strands of silver slipped out in wisps
"Jeren! Who's the mountain behind you?"
"A storm cloud I borrowed from the east," he called back.
They laughed. One of them looked at me. I looked ahead.
Jeren didn't stop. "You're popular already. Elma likes men who look like they eat rocks for breakfast."
Still, I said nothing. But there was a flicker of something, something like a breath escaping through my nose. Almost a laugh.
We passed more homes. People paused. Watched. Then quickly looked away when I noticed.
Children ran past with sticks pretending to be swords. A man walked by, tunic open at the collar, sleeves rolled with fishing nets draped over his shoulder, nodding at us. Dogs barked at our heels, then lost interest.
"They'll get used to you," Jeren said.
"I've had worse," I replied.
"Yeah, I believe it," he said, glancing at the scars on my arms.
He didn't ask about them. Didn't need to. They told the story already.
"You win any of those fights?"
I looked at him.
He smiled, shrugged. "Guess you did."
We turned a corner. The homes here were larger. Stone mixed with wood. Tighter build. Older, but cared for.
"Chief's house is just up there," he said.
It was modest. Bigger than the rest, but not by much. The kind of place someone important lives in without wanting to be called important.
"You nervous?" Jeren asked.
"No."
"Good. He hates nervous people."
I stared at the house.
"You want me to go in with you?"
"No."
He nodded. "Alright. I'll be around."
I walked toward the door. I didn't look back. But I heard him.
"See you around, Eron."
Behind me, life went on. Smoke rose from clay ovens. Chickens ran. A baby cried. Somewhere, laughter rang out again.
And me, standing at the edge of it all. The outsider. Not yet part of it.
But here.
I raised my hand to knock.
I dropped the two tied leather bags from my shoulders to the ground and raised my hand to knock.
No answer.
I glanced at the side window, but didn't bother walking over to peek through. Instead, I just stood there, staring at the door. Then, it opened.
A man stood before me, blonde, blue-eyed, maybe in his forties. A little shorter than me. Dressed in the simple, formal attire of a village chief.
"Oh, Walden? Eron Walden? The commander of Astralon's army?"
"Former commander," I said. "And please. Just Eron."
"Ah, right, right. Former. I forgot you've retired. I read the letter the king of Astralon sent, it arrived nearly a year ago, before your journey began, yes?"
"Yes."
He smiled. "Well, it's good to finally meet you, Eron. I'm Jaheim Vinim. But everyone here calls me Lord Jaheim, feel free to do the same."
I didn't respond.
He nodded toward the doorway. "Shall we go inside?"
"Thank you for having me."
I crouched down, picked up the two leather bags, and slung them back over my shoulders. As he opened the door wider, I stepped in.
I'd expected something grand, luxurious, maybe. He was the village chief after all. But what greeted me was plain and modest. Furniture built from worn wood. A single hanging light. Shelves filled with old books and clay pots. It was quiet. Lived in. Human.
He closed the door behind us and walked ahead, motioning with a broad gesture toward a seat in the living room.
"Please, sit."
I set the bags down beside the chair, then sat.
He did the same, across from me. Between us, a simple square table. Nothing else.
He leaned forward, eyes sharp but not unkind. "So, Eron. I already know, at least from the letter, that you've come here as a newcomer, requesting permission to settle. But why here? Why now? You came all the way from Astralon. That's half a year of travel by wagon, through hard roads. Berun brought you, didn't he? Why go through so much, just to live in a place like this? What is it you're searching for?"
I looked at the table. Then at him.
"I came to live here for a while. To seek peace. To rest. I've led armies for ten years. Fought for two decades. All of it, every field, every siege, every command, it wore me down. Not just the body. The heart. The soul. I don't want to carry that anymore."
That was all I gave him. He was still a stranger.
He leaned back slightly, watching me. Then nodded.
"You already have a house here," Jaheim said, leaning back. "Just a short walk west of the village center. It's the one you purchased, if you remember. Cleaned, secured, stocked. Basic furniture's been set up. Food was delivered yesterday, stored in the icebox in the kitchen."
He waved a hand, as if brushing that topic aside.
"But enough about logistics. Let me ask, coming from the life you lived, as a commander, don't you think you'll have a hard time adjusting? This place, it's simple."
"I expected that," I replied. "I'm willing to adjust."
He nodded slowly, eyes scanning me again, not with suspicion, just curiosity. The kind that comes from a man who's responsible for keeping peace in a place like this.
Straight to personal questions. I suppose that was fair. Perfectly fair. I wasn't just any traveler passing through, I was a living weapon of Astralon. Or maybe, in some ways, I still am.
He had every right to know who he was letting in.
And so, the questions continued. Some formal. Some casual.
Where was I born? Did I have any family? Was I religious? What was my hobbies? My passions?
He asked if I liked dogs. If I had ever fished. If I knew how to repair a fence. Then, more serious again, if I had seen loss. If I had regrets.
I answered what I could. Brief, but honest.
He wasn't interrogating. He was measuring something. Trying to see if I could really live here, among people who had never seen war beyond stories, who feared swords not for what they were, but for what they symbolized.
And I answered. Not everything. But enough.
I wasn't here to fight anymore. That much, I could give.
Then Jaheim leaned forward slightly, folding his hands atop the table. His voice was calm, but not soft. It carried weight, the kind that didn't need to be loud to be heard.
"So," he said, with deliberate care, "if I were to let you settle here, if I gave my word as chief, and welcomed you not just into this village, but into the life we've built here, what is it that you actually intend to do, Eron?"
I held his gaze. He didn't stop there.
"Don't mistake this for a formal requirement. I've let others settle before, travelers, farmers, even drifters. But you, you're not just a man looking for new soil. You're something else. Someone else. You weren't just in the war, you were built by it. Molded by it. And that kind of forging doesn't fade just because you've left the battlefield."
His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in search.
"I've been listening to you. And I believe your weariness is real. I believe you've come here with no banners, no orders, no hidden plans. But most of what you've told me has been about what you need. About what you want. And there's no shame in that. Peace, rest, quiet, those are worthy things to seek. But I need to ask you something harder."
He paused.
"Do you know how to live in peace, Eron? Truly?"
A moment of silence passed between us. I didn't answer. He knew I didn't have one ready.
"Because this village," he went on, "is not a hiding place. It's not a grave where old soldiers bury their past and pretend it didn't happen. We are small, yes, but not blind. We grow food, raise families, marry and argue and make mistakes like any people do. But we do so freely. Without fear. Without the shadow of a sword at our backs."
He leaned back slightly, his expression calm but firm.
"I have a duty, not just to you, as a guest, but to every soul who calls this place home. The farmers. The widows. The laughing children. The old men who fought before you were born. I owe them safety. Continuity. The right to go to sleep at night not wondering if tomorrow will burn."
And then, finally, his voice softened, not in weakness, but in care.
"I see you, Eron. I see the burden on your shoulders. And maybe this is the right place for you. Maybe it isn't. But I need to know, before I give you this place, before I tell my people that the man walking through our market tomorrow is just another villager, I need to know if you are here to build something new. Or if you are only here to run from what was."
Still, I said nothing.
Because he wasn't wrong.
I had traveled half a year, carried only what I could hold, and still didn't know how to carry myself. I had blood dried into the seams of my scars. Orders echoing in my skull. Faces I remembered. Faces I'd tried to forget.
What do I plan to do?
I looked down at the wood grain of the table between us. It was hand-made. Sturdy. Unpolished. Like the village itself. Not pretending to be anything more than what it was.
I opened my mouth. A word rose, something vague, safe, diplomatic. But I stopped. Let it fall away.
"I don't know yet."
Jaheim didn't move. For a long moment, he simply looked at me.
Then he gave a small nod, measured, respectful.
"That," he said, "is a beginning."
He reached for a clay pitcher on the shelf behind him, poured two cups of water, and placed one in front of me.
"We don't need heroes here," he said. "We need neighbors."
Then he sat back, letting the words settle like dust in a quiet room.
I finished the water in one slow sip. Cool. Clean. Unfamiliar in how gentle it was.
Jaheim stood, and I followed. He walked me to the door, opened it, and sunlight spilled in.
"I'll send someone to check on you in a few days," he said. "Not to watch you. Just to make sure you're eating."
I nodded.
He extended his hand. Not as a chief to a former commander. Not as a judge to a stranger. But as a man. Simply that.
I took it.
"Welcome to Newham," he said.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Not harsh, but steady. It carried the scent of dirt, grain, and the faint sweetness of firewood smoke.
The walk to the house was quiet. Jeren was nowhere in sight, and I was grateful for that. I wasn't ready for more questions, or smiles.
The path turned west, as Jaheim had said. I passed low fences, small plots, stacked woodpiles. The sounds of chickens, the distant clatter of buckets. No one stopped me. A few looked. Some nodded. None stepped forward.
The house came into view. Modest. Stone foundation, timber frame, sloped roof. The door was latched but unlocked.
I stepped inside.
The air smelled faintly of lemon and ash. Someone had cleaned, thoroughly. The shelves were bare but dustless. A single table. Two chairs. A bed, folded with linen that didn't belong to me. A small oil lamp. A window with the curtain pinned open, letting in the late light.
I dropped the bags by the wall. My shoulders ached from the weight, but not just from the road. I walked to the window, rested a hand on the sill, and looked out. Past the trees. Past the fields. Into nothing. Into quiet.
I breathed.
For the first time in a long while, I breathed not to survive, but simply because I could.
Then I sat down at the table. Both hands on the wood. Palms flat. Eyes closed. No sword at my side. No armor on my chest. Just breath. Just stillness. And in that stillness, a thought came, clear and unfamiliar.
Maybe this is the beginning of a different kind of fight.
A quieter one.
But no less real.