The caravan limped into the city of Nerath's Crossing two days after the ambush.
It should have been a triumphant arrival—safe wagons, intact goods, guards alive. And yet the air was heavy. Too many had died on the road. Too many shallow graves had been left behind.
The merchants whispered their gratitude, bowing low to the adventurers who had stood firm. But their eyes lingered too long on Arin, as if measuring him, weighing him, seeing something that hadn't been there before.
Blood.
The whispers spread faster than fire in dry grass. By the time they reached the guildhall, the story had already been twisted into legend.
"They say a boy barely grown cut down three men alone.""No, no, it was five, and the girl beside him is a demon with a blade.""Two kids who fought like seasoned killers… can't be natural."
Arin heard the words, felt them press against his skin like invisible thorns. He wanted to deny them, to shout that it hadn't been bravery or skill—it had been fear, desperation, instinct.
But the blood on his hands didn't care about truth.
In the Guildhall
The Ravenhollow branch guildhall was rowdy as always. The smell of sweat, steel, and ale clung to the air. Yet when Arin and Lyra stepped inside, conversation faltered. Heads turned.
Arin felt the weight of their stares and fought the urge to shrink under them.
"Ah, the heroes return!" A booming voice split the silence. Guildmaster Garron—broad-shouldered, with a beard streaked with gray—strode forward. His grin was wide, but his eyes sharp as a hawk's.
"Three bandits down by your own hand, eh, boy?" Garron clapped a meaty hand on Arin's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. "Not bad for a fresh Rank 3."
"I—" Arin opened his mouth, but words caught in his throat. He wanted to say it wasn't like that, but Garron was already turning to the crowd.
"You hear that, lads? This one's growing fangs faster than expected. Keep your eyes on him!"
The guildhall roared with laughter and cheers. Tankards were raised. The tension broke.
Arin forced a smile, but inside, his stomach twisted. He didn't want to be a hero. Not like this.
Beside him, Lyra stood silent, arms folded, her expression unreadable. She neither basked in the attention nor shied from it. She was stone, unshaken.
Arin envied her.
The Weight of Killing
Later, when the noise of the hall had dulled into the night, Arin sat on the balcony overlooking the city. The lights of Nerath's Crossing flickered below, torches marking streets and lanterns glowing in windows.
He stared at his hands again, though they had been scrubbed clean days ago.
The memory didn't wash away so easily.
"Still thinking about it?"
Lyra's voice pulled him from the spiral. She leaned against the railing beside him, moonlight glinting off her silver hair.
Arin sighed. "It doesn't leave me. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. The way he looked at me before he fell."
"You'll see them all," Lyra said. Her tone wasn't cold—not this time. Just… matter-of-fact. "Every one you kill stays with you. That doesn't fade."
Arin turned to her, searching. "Then how do you live with it?"
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "I remember why I did it. And who I protected."
Arin blinked. There was something in her voice he hadn't heard before—something fragile beneath the steel.
But before he could ask, she pushed off the railing, her mask of calm slipping back into place.
"You need to decide if you can bear it, Arin. Because this won't be the last time."
Her footsteps faded into the guildhall, leaving him alone with the night.
Arin clenched his fists. He didn't want to bear it. But he knew he had to.
Rivals in the Shadows
Not everyone in the guild was celebrating their survival. In the corner of the hall, two older adventurers—scarred men in worn armor—watched with narrowed eyes.
"Kids like them, stealing glory already?" one spat into his mug."Guild'll shower them with favors, just you watch. Meanwhile, we bleed for scraps.""Hmph. They won't last. No way two brats climb higher without someone knocking them down a peg."
Their voices carried no further, lost in the drunken din. But resentment had taken root.
And resentment in the guild often turned deadly.
A Night of Resolve
Back in their shared room, Arin lay awake on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling beams. Lyra's steady breathing filled the silence.
Ten months. Almost a year since they started. They'd fought goblins, wolves, minor dungeon beasts. And now, humans.
He was no longer the boy who had first set out on the road, heart full of naive dreams of glory. The Great Wilderness was reshaping him, bit by bit, into something harder. Something he wasn't sure he liked.
But as he turned his head, he saw Lyra asleep—calm, steady, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword even in slumber. And something inside him steadied too.
He didn't have to like the changes. He just had to endure them. For her. For the team they were building. For the dream of becoming strong enough to survive in a world that demanded strength.
Arin closed his eyes, whispering to himself:
"I'll carry it. No matter how heavy it gets. I'll carry it."
Dawn
The next morning, Guildmaster Garron summoned them. A new assignment. A harder one.
Whispers followed as they left the hall. Some voices admiring, others envious, others laced with venom.
Arin ignored them as best he could. He had no choice now.
The road ahead would only grow bloodier. And he would walk it—together with Lyra, step by step.
But somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew: the more steps he took, the harder it would be to remember the boy he used to be.