Days in Woodhaven passed with their familiar rhythm. The shrine pulsed with blue light each morning, disgorging new Adventurers who stumbled through their first steps in this world. The village guides offered their endless instructions, merchants sold their basic wares, and at the forge, Cain and his father crafted weapons for eager hands.

Yet something had changed. Though the routines remained the same, Cain found himself watching the sun's position with increasing anticipation as each day progressed. By mid-afternoon, his eyes would drift regularly to the forge door, waiting for a flash of autumn-red hair.

EmberHeart never failed to appear.

"How's the lip?" she asked on the second day after the confrontation with SlayerKing, leaning against his workbench with casual ease.

Cain touched the spot where the cut had been. Already it had healed to a faint pink line, soon to disappear entirely. "Better. Thank you again for your help."

"I've been thinking about what you said," EmberHeart replied, lowering her voice though Edric was occupied with a customer across the shop. "About feeling like you've seen things before that couldn't have happened."

Cain glanced around nervously before responding. Such thoughts felt dangerous, though he couldn't explain why. "It's probably nothing. Just strange dreams."

"Maybe," she conceded, though her expression suggested otherwise. "But I've been talking to other Adventurers about the village. Did you know there was a raid here recently? A group called the Crimson Grins."

The name sent an electric jolt through Cain's body. Crimson Grins. Red tabards. Laughing skulls. His mother dissolving into particles of light. The images flashed through his mind with such intensity that he nearly dropped the dagger he was polishing.

"Cain?" EmberHeart's voice seemed to come from far away. "Are you alright?"

"I—" He steadied himself against the workbench. "I don't know why, but that name... it feels..."

"Familiar," she finished for him, her eyes widening. "You do remember something."

"I can't possibly remember," Cain insisted. "I wasn't... I mean, I don't recall any raid."

"According to other Adventurers, it happened three days ago. The Crimson Grins attacked the village, harassed the Natives, and killed several, including—" she hesitated, watching his face carefully, "—including your mother."

Cain felt the blood drain from his face. "That's impossible. My mother is fine. She's in the square right now, teaching newcomers about healing, just as she does every day."

"Of course she is," EmberHeart nodded. "The New Dawn reset everything. No Native in Woodhaven remembers the raid. But you just had a reaction to their name."

"I don't—" Cain began, but was interrupted by his father's approach.

"If you're not purchasing anything, perhaps you could continue your conversation elsewhere," Edric said to EmberHeart, his tone polite but firm. "We have work to complete before sunset."

"Of course," EmberHeart replied smoothly. "I was actually hoping to commission a special dagger. Something with a curved blade, suitable for a rogue's off-hand."

Edric's demeanor softened slightly at the prospect of business. "Such work requires specific materials and time. It would cost more than our standard wares."

"I've been completing tasks in the forest," EmberHeart said, producing a small pouch that clinked with coins. "I can pay."

While they negotiated the commission, Cain tried to calm his racing thoughts. The Crimson Grins. He had never heard the name before EmberHeart mentioned it, yet it produced such a visceral reaction. And the flashes of memory—if they were memories—felt so real. His mother dying. But how could he remember something that no Native was supposed to recall after a New Dawn?

Over the following days, EmberHeart's visits became a fixture of Cain's routine. She would appear each afternoon, sometimes to check on the progress of her commissioned dagger, other times simply to talk. Gradually, their conversations extended beyond the forge as she convinced him to take short walks through the village during his breaks.

"You've lived here your entire life," she remarked one day as they strolled past the well in the central square, "but how much of Woodhaven have you actually seen?"

Cain considered the question. His existence had always centered around three locations: the forge, their cottage, and occasionally the square when delivering lunch to his mother. The other areas of the village—the meadow behind the tavern, the small orchard to the west, the quiet shrine to The Divine Laws at the north end—were places he passed but never visited.

"I never had reason to explore," he admitted. "My duties are at the forge."

"All work and no curiosity," EmberHeart teased. "There's more to life than duty, Cain."

Was there? The notion seemed foreign yet strangely compelling. Natives had their functions, their designated roles that served the Adventurers passing through. The concept of exploration for its own sake, of curiosity without purpose, felt almost rebellious.

Yet with EmberHeart, he found himself venturing to new corners of Woodhaven, seeing familiar surroundings through fresh eyes. She showed him the perfect spot behind the bakery where wildflowers grew in vivid clusters. She led him to the top of the village's single watchtower, where they could see beyond the palisade walls to the forests and mountains beyond.

"That's where I go each morning," she told him, pointing to a wooded area to the east. "The wolf dens. Standard early tasks for building experience."

Cain noticed the number floating above her head had changed. "You're level 6 now."

"Almost 7," she said with a hint of pride. "I've been working hard."

He studied her equipment, noting the improvements since their first meeting. The simple leather armor had been reinforced with metal plates. A short bow was strapped to her back alongside his crafted dagger. Her boots bore enchantments that left faint green footprints that faded moments after she passed.

"You're advancing quickly," he observed.

Something like guilt flashed across her face. "Not quickly enough, according to some. Most Adventurers are out of Woodhaven by level 5. The tasks here don't provide much experience beyond that point."

"You'll be leaving soon," Cain said, the realization striking him with unexpected force.

EmberHeart leaned against the watchtower railing, her gaze fixed on the distant mountains. "I should have already left. The next settlement, Riverton, has level 10-15 content. But..."

"But what?"

She turned to him, her expression softening. "I've grown fond of our talks, Cain. Of your company." A slight flush colored her cheeks. "Most Adventurers I've met only talk about quests and gear and leveling strategies. You see the world differently. You notice things they don't."

She hesitated before continuing, "And yes, I'm curious about why you seem different from other Natives, about the memories you shouldn't have. But it's more than that." Her hand briefly touched his on the railing. "I consider you a friend. Maybe the first real one I've made in this world."

Other Adventurers began to notice.

"You're still here?" a passing level 12 warrior asked EmberHeart one day as she and Cain sat on a bench near the shrine. "What are you doing, grinding wolves for weeks? You'll never advance that way."

"I have my reasons," she replied coolly.

The warrior glanced at Cain, then back to EmberHeart. "Wait, are you hanging around because of a Native? That's... weird, even for roleplayers."

"I don't think it's any of your business," EmberHeart said.

The warrior shrugged. "Your wasted time, I guess. But you know they're not real people, right? Just saying." He walked away without waiting for a response.

Cain felt the familiar sting that came whenever Adventurers discussed Natives as if they weren't present or couldn't understand. "What did he mean by 'not real people'?"

EmberHeart sighed. "Some Adventurers see Natives as... less than themselves. Just parts of this world rather than beings with thoughts and feelings."

"Like SlayerKing," Cain murmured.

"Yes, though he's an extreme case." She hesitated. "Does it bother you? Hearing Adventurers talk that way?"

"It always has," Cain admitted.

“Let’s stop talking about these mongrels. Now can you remind me how to best sharpen my blades?”