Two years had passed, and the boy from the dead fields was gone.

The man who stood in his place bore calluses on his hands, faint scars on his arms, and a blade of his own forging strapped to his back. Tarrek moved with the kind of quiet confidence born from repetition and failure—thousands of hours spent breathing forge smoke, swinging wood and steel, and reading by candlelight until the words stopped swimming on the page.

His home, while modest, belonged to him. A single room above an old herbalist’s shop—just enough space for a bed, a writing desk, a battered chair, and the few books he’d acquired through hard bargaining or stubborn persistence.

It was enough.

The sun had barely risen over Vaelorin when Tarrek entered the temple courtyard. Pale light spilled through the arched walls, catching on the silver trim of the knight standing opposite him.

Rovan Tane gripped a practice sword in one hand, his eyes narrowed in quiet appraisal.

“Again,” he said.

Tarrek lunged. Steel met steel in a sharp clap, and the clash echoed off the courtyard walls. Rovan pivoted, stepping aside and deflecting the strike with almost lazy precision. He moved like a glacier—deliberate, unshakable.

Tarrek recovered, spun, and struck again. This time lower. Rovan blocked it. Tarrek feinted right—then came in from the left. He grazed the knight’s shoulder.

Rovan grunted, not displeased. “Good. But you telegraph with your back foot.”

“Then stop watching it.”

“That’s the problem. Your enemy will.”

They circled each other in silence. Birds chirped in the distant garden, but here in the stone ring, it felt like another world.

Rovan came at him—three quick strikes. Tarrek blocked two. The third landed hard across his ribs.

He gasped, wind knocked from him.

Rovan lowered his sword. “Pain teaches faster than compliments.”

Tarrek dropped to one knee, catching his breath.

“Did it teach you how to lose a duel with grace?” he wheezed.

Rovan let out the closest thing to a laugh Tarrek had ever heard from him—more a breath with shape than a sound. He extended a hand, pulled him to his feet.

“Every fight teaches something,” Rovan said. “If it doesn’t, it wasn’t worth the bruises.”

Tarrek nodded, sheathing the practice blade. The air was cool, but his body steamed from effort.

Rovan didn’t move. He stood there for a moment, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, gaze distant.

“I never thought I’d teach anyone again,” he said suddenly.

Tarrek looked up.

“My son,” Rovan continued, quietly. “He died of Rift Blight. Same age you were when we met. He was softer than you. Smarter, too. Always quoting old stories.” His lips curled faintly. “He’d have liked you.”

This threw Tarrek off, this was the first time he felt like he’d learned something about Rovan other than him being a knight.

He thought of his own father. A man hollowed out by grief until there was nothing to save. He wouldn’t become like that man.

Rovan’s voice tightened. “You’ve done well. You’ve become more than just another name on a grave. That… matters.”

Then, like a door closing, Rovan stepped back, his face returning to its usual sternness. “Go on. The forge waits.”

He obliged and took his things heading for his work.

He worked through the morning despite the tightness in his chest.

He assumed it was the weather—the cold air shifting too fast. Or maybe the sparring. His ribs ached where the wooden blade had struck. Still, he wasn’t about to complain.

At the forge, Brennar barely glanced up when Tarrek entered.

“Late,” he muttered.

“By five minutes.”

“Late is late. The iron doesn’t wait.”

Tarrek slipped into his apron and got to work.

He restocked the coals, swept the floor, oiled the hinges on the bellows. Then he began the day’s orders—small iron nails, a set of hinges for a gate, and a practice blade for the city watch.

He moved slower than usual. His limbs felt heavy. His head, dull. Sweat beaded on his neck even though the fire was low.

Brennar noticed.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sweating through your damn tunic.”

“I said I’m fine.”

Brennar stepped forward, shoved a calloused hand against Tarrek’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

Tarrek tried to swat the old man away, but Brennar held him there a second longer, just enough to feel the heat behind his skin.

“You’re not fine,” Brennar growled. “You’re sick.”

“It’s nothing—”

“Go home.”

“But I haven’t—”

“Go. Home.”

Tarrek blinked, startled. Brennar never raised his voice unless it was to drive off a debt collector or scold him for nearly starting a fire. But now, there was concern behind the bark. Rough, buried concern.

Tarrek hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll rest.”

He did not go home.

Instead, he wandered through the quieter streets of the lower city until he reached a squat little tavern tucked between a cobbler’s shop and a shrine to some forgotten minor god.

The Flickering Boar.

He’d never been inside before, but he’d passed it plenty. From what he heard, it was quiet. Unremarkable. Which suited him just fine.

He ordered a mug of hot tea from the barkeep, earning a strange look, and took a seat near the corner where the fire crackled low and the tables sat mostly empty. He pulled out a worn leather-bound book—the one he’d traded two iron daggers and a half-batch of nails to get from a traveling scholar.

Its title was faded, but the inside told stories of the old kingdoms—before the Light, before the Rift, before the great kings carved their towers into the bones of the land.

Tarrek read slowly. The words came easier than they had two years ago, but still stumbled sometimes. He underlined with his finger, mouthing the sentences as he went.

“You always bring books to bars, or is today special?”

Tarrek glanced up.

A man stood at his table—around his age, with a half-smile and short, tousled dark hair. He wore a faded cloak over a travel-worn vest, the kind of outfit that said “I’ve slept in too many cities to care how I look.” His green eyes sparkled with mischief.

“It’s too early to drink,” Tarrek replied.

“Other people in here would have to disagree,” the man said, sliding into the opposite chair without asking. “Although I will say, people reading dusty history tomes in taverns? They’re usually either brilliant or mad.”

“Which are you?”

“Both. Depending on the company.” He extended a hand. “Rennik Holloway. Call me Ren.”

“Tarrek.”

Ren leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You look like death wrapped in leather. Long night?”

“Long morning,” Tarrek said. “Training. Forge work.”

“Ah, one of those.” Ren sat back, nodding with mock solemnity. “A real man of muscle and grit. And here I thought you were just trying to look intellectual with your little book.”

Tarrek blinked. “I traded for this.”

Ren inspected the book further and grinned. “I know the scholar you got it from. He says it’s just historical filler. But I like a man who works for his knowledge.”

“You always this nosy?”

“Absolutely,” Ren said, unapologetic. “It’s my best and worst trait, I also tend the bar here most nights, so I hear everything. Consider me your local gossip conduit.”

“You’re a barkeep?”

“Technically,” Ren said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter. “I pour drinks, wipe tables, and pretend to listen to arguments about goats and politics. And I’m very good at pretending.”

Tarrek gave a half-smile, though it looked like it hurt his face to make it.

Ren raised a brow. “So, you’re a blacksmith and a swordsman. You trying to become a walking weapon or something?”

“I’m an apprentice. And I train with a knight a few days a week.”

“Let me guess. Old, cranky, secretly sentimental?”

Tarrek’s smile deepened. “You know Rovan?”

“He comes in sometimes. Doesn’t drink. Sits near the fire. Scares off most people just by breathing.”

“That’s him.”

Ren leaned in again. “So what’s the story? Did he save your life or something? You look like someone who crawled out of a grave and decided to start fresh.”

Tarrek hesitated.

Ren caught it immediately. “Too far?”

“No… just weirdly accurate.”

He paused, then glanced down at his tea. The steam had stopped rising.

“I lost everything,” Tarrek said, voice quieter now. “Family. Home. Left a dying town to come here. Figured I’d find something better. Or at least… not worse.”

Ren watched him, not pitying—just listening.

“Guess I did,” Tarrek added. “Found work. Found a place to stay. Someone to teach me how not to die with a blade in my hand. It’s something.”

Ren exhaled. “Damn. And I thought I was just going to make fun of you for ordering tea.”

Tarrek chuckled once, then coughed into his sleeve.

“You’re seriously sick,” Ren said, tilting his head. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Didn’t want to waste the day. I can’t afford to slack.”

“So instead of resting, you drag yourself to a bar to read about dead kings?”

“They weren’t kings,” Tarrek muttered. “Warrior and Scholar clans. Before the Light. Before the Rift.”

“Oh, ancient rebellions,” Ren said. “Now you’re really living dangerously.”

Tarrek shifted in his seat. “I like the idea that the world used to be full of people who didn’t wait around for kingdoms to tell them what to be.”

Ren nodded, softer this time. “I like that too.”

There was a pause. Tarrek sipped the lukewarm tea.

Ren stood, stretching slightly. “Well, you’ve officially intrigued me. You’re not just interesting—you’re like a quiet storm pretending to be a candle.”

Tarrek squinted. “Is that… supposed to be poetic?”

Ren grinned. “And you thought you were the only one that read books.”

He motioned toward the door. “Seriously though, get some sleep before you collapse. Or I’ll drag you to the Temple myself, and trust me, I’m not gentle.”

Tarrek stood slowly, gathering his book. “You’re really committed to harassing strangers, huh?”

“Only the ones I want to.”

Tarrek blinked, unsure what to say. “Thanks.”

“Go,” Ren said, shooing him toward the door. “And if you come back tomorrow, I’ll even let you read in peace… for about five minutes or so.”

Tarrek gave him a nod and walked to the door, dragging slightly. Before leaving, he glanced back.

Ren was watching him—arms crossed, still smiling, but with something steadier behind the eyes.

A kind of ease that Tarrek hadn’t felt in a long time.

At home, the light through the window was dimming. Tarrek dropped the book on his desk and collapsed onto the bed without even removing his boots.

His head throbbed. His body ached. The fire in his chest had grown from ember to coal.

He tried to sleep.

But something—deep, cold, and unknown—had begun to gnaw at the corners of his dreams.