Time stretched, each second a small eternity. The distant sounds of battle had ceased, replaced by a silence that felt heavier, more ominous. I stood frozen in the clearing, the iron tip of my spear pointed at the ground, my knuckles white around the shaft. Every rustle of leaves, every call of a night bird, made my heart stutter.
Had I miscalculated? In the novel, Kaelan had won this fight, but it had been a close, brutal thing that left him wounded and shaken. But I'd introduced a new variable: Elara. Her rage, her power unleashed after years of dormancy… what if she hadn't arrived in time? What if her intervention had caused a different, worse outcome?
The wait was agony. I was an extra again, sidelined while the main characters decided the plot. The powerlessness was a physical ache.
Then, a figure emerged from the tree line.
It was Elara. She moved slower now, her posture not of a flowing shadow but of a person carrying a great weight. And she was not alone.
Half-supporting, half-dragging him was Kaelan. His new leather armor was slashed and stained with blood. A deep gash on his forehead dripped crimson into his eye, and he favored his right leg, his arm slung over his mother's shoulders for support. His face was pale, etched with pain and the shock of his first real brush with mortality. But he was alive.
Behind them, the woods were silent. The bandits were not following.
Elara's gaze found me immediately, a complex storm of emotions in her eyes—lingering fury, sharp relief, and a deep, simmering suspicion. She had seen the ambush site. She had seen the number of men. She knew the odds her son had faced alone. And she had seen me, a stranger who had predicted it all.
Without a word, she helped Kaelan towards the cottage door. This time, she did not close it. Light and warmth spilled out into the clearing.
I remained by the woodshed, uncertain. I was part of the story now, but my role was undefined. A few minutes later, Elara emerged again, carrying a basin of water and clean cloths. Her eyes flicked to me.
"Inside," she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. "You will explain yourself. And you will help."
This was it. The invitation across the threshold. I leaned my spear against the woodshed and followed her in.
The cottage interior was spartan, but not austere. A fire crackled in a stone hearth, casting dancing shadows on walls hung with a few simple, well-made tools. A single table, two chairs, a straw-packed bed in the corner. It was the home of someone who had renounced comfort but not cleanliness. Kaelan was slumped in one of the chairs, his head in his hands.
Elara set to work with a soldier's efficiency, cleaning his wounds. The gash on his head was nasty but shallow. The more serious wound was a deep slash across his thigh. She didn't flinch, her hands steady as she cleaned and began to stitch it with a needle and thread she produced from a small kit.
I stood awkwardly by the door, feeling like an intruder on an intensely private moment.
"Who were they?" Kaelan asked, his voice hoarse.
"Scum," Elara replied, not looking up from her work. "Hired blades. Their purpose was to test you. To see if the stories about me had a successor worth noting." Her voice was cold, each word a chip of ice. "They found their answer."
Kaelan winced, though whether from the needle or her words, I couldn't tell. "How did you know? How did you find me?"
This time, Elara did pause. She lifted her gaze from her son's leg and looked directly at me. The question hung in the air, charged and dangerous.
All of her suspicion was now focused on me. I was the unknown. The coincidence.
"He told me," she said quietly.
Kaelan turned to look at me, confusion and a dawning wariness on his face. "You? Who are you?"
This was the moment. I had to tread carefully. The truth was impossible. A lie too flimsy would see me thrown out, or worse.
"My name is Zane," I said, keeping my voice calm and respectful. I met Elara's gaze, not Kaelan's. I needed to convince her. "I was on the road when I overheard them. Two men, at a roadside inn. They were drinking, boasting about an easy job—jumping a guild rookie for a payday from some noble who had a grudge against the boy's family." I layered the lie with a kernel of truth the novel had provided—the ambush had been commissioned by a rival noble house.
I continued, my story weaving closer to her. "I thought it was just talk. But when I saw them later, hiding near the ford, I knew it was real. I tried to warn the city guards, but they didn't believe a stranger. I had no way to find you, Maestra, to warn you directly. So I… I came here. I thought if I could reach you, you might believe me. I was on my way when the boar chased me into your garden." I bowed my head slightly. "I am sorry my warning was not clearer or sooner."
It was a gamble. I was presenting myself as a morally upright, if slightly incompetent, bystander. A good Samaritan who had bumbled into the situation.
Elara's eyes narrowed. She was weighing every word. "You overheard them. At an inn." Her tone was flat, disbelieving.
"They weren't exactly subtle," I said, injecting a note of wry observation. "They mentioned the 'Sword-Saint's pup.' I put it together."
The mention of her old title made her flinch almost imperceptibly. It was a risk, reminding her of the past she was hiding from.
Silence descended upon the cottage, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Elara finished tying off the bandage on Kaelan's leg. She straightened up, wiping her hands on a cloth.
Kaelan looked from his mother to me, his expression a mix of gratitude and confusion. "Thank you," he said, the words genuine. "If you hadn't said anything…"
Elara cut him off. "Go to sleep, Kaelan. You need rest." Her voice allowed no argument. She helped him to the bed in the corner, where he collapsed into an exhausted sleep almost instantly.
Then she turned to me. The cottage felt suddenly smaller, the air tighter.
She walked to the hearth and poured a cup of tea from a pot hanging there. She didn't offer me one. She simply stood, sipping it, her back to me for a long moment.
When she turned around, her expression was unreadable. "You have quick reflexes for a traveler. And a convenient memory."
"I grew up on the streets of Ravenhall, Maestra," I said, calling on the original Zane's memories. "Listening is a survival skill."
"Yet you left your city to look for work, armed with a spear you are proficient with, and found yourself at my door on the very day my son was attacked." She took a slow sip of tea. "The world is full of coincidences. I do not trust them."
She was cornering me, and I had no good answer. I had no proof. Only a story.
Before I could formulate a response, she set her cup down with a quiet finality. "You will stay tonight. In the woodshed. In the morning, you will leave. Whatever your purpose here, it is done. My son is safe. Your debt, if there was one, is paid."
She walked to the door and held it open for me. Dismissed. Again.
I had gotten further than I'd hoped, but I was being pushed back out. I had to leave her with something. A question. A seed.
I walked to the door but paused on the threshold. I looked back at her, meeting her guarded gaze.
"I am glad he is safe, Maestra," I said, my voice quiet. "But hired blades don't act without a patron. The man who paid them… he wanted to see what your son was made of. Now he knows." I let the implication hang in the air. This isn't over. "A warning often comes before the real attack."
Her eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous. She knew I was right.
"Goodnight," she said, her voice cold, and closed the door.
I stood outside in the cool night air, the bolt sliding home once more. I had been dismissed, but I had planted a seed of doubt. I had made myself a useful, if suspicious, variable.
I retreated to the woodshed, my mind racing. It wasn't a victory, but it wasn't a defeat. I was in the story. And tomorrow, I would have to find a way to stay in it.
The script was changing, one careful word at a time.