As the afternoon sun began to wane, Tro'go saw the ancient deadwood beginning to thin. Real forests lay ahead; living trees with green leaves and birds that sang instead of merely existing in the shadow of death. But his forward progress was interrupted by voices ahead, gruff and distinctly unhappy.

 

"So where's dis scout den?" came one voice, causing Tro'go to duck quickly into the undergrowth.

 

Creeping forward until he could see through the sparse vegetation, Tro'go spotted several mountain trolls. They were larger than he'd expected, with grey skin and crude weapons. One, who seemed to be in charge, was clearly angry.

 

"Don't ask me, Krama," another replied. "That magpie should be 'ere."

 

Tro'go's blood ran cold. The magpie. The one he'd hit with the stone. It had been a scout, leading these raiders to the village.

 

"Can't go raiding no villages if we don't know where dey is!" Krama snarled. "Stupid birds! Dunno why boss likes 'em!"

 

"What about that wild man we saw yesterday?" one of the other trolls ventured. "We lost 'im in the trees, but—"

 

"Shut it!" Krama snapped, whirling around to glare at the speaker. "Boss don't need to hear about dat. If he don't know, den he won't moan at us for losing 'im, will he? We got enough problems with dis missing scout."

 

The subordinate troll shrank back under Krama's fierce stare. "Sorry, Krama. Just thought—"

 

"Don't fink. Dat's my job." Krama turned back to survey their failed mission. "We've waited longer than we should. Pack up, boys, let's head back."

 

The trolls began gathering their weapons and supplies, grumbling among themselves as they prepared to leave. Tro'go held his breath until they'd disappeared northward, their voices fading into the distance.

 

When he was sure they were gone, he sat back on his heels, shaking. If they'd known where the village was, what would they have taken? The villagers had little of value; except for their lives, their children...

 

He swallowed hard, grateful beyond words that the scout hadn't shown up. He made a mental note to be wary of magpies in the future.

 

The encounter had left him rattled, and the evening was growing cold. He pulled on the cloak Grace's father had given him, grateful for its warmth even though it was far too long for his small frame. It dragged on the ground behind him and caught on roots and brambles. After tripping over it twice and tearing it on a particularly stubborn branch, he drew Wolf's Bane and carefully cut several inches off the bottom.

 

As he worked, he noticed the sword's grip, just bare metal where leather or cloth wrapping had once been but had rotted away over time. The excess fabric from the cloak would serve perfectly. He wound it carefully around the hilt, creating a proper grip that wouldn't slip in his hands.

 

When he was finished, he gave the sword a few experimental swings. It felt balanced, comfortable, right in his hands in a way it never had before.

 

He studied his reflection in a puddle, pleased with what he saw. Between the pot helm, the shortened cloak, and the properly wrapped sword, he appeared more like a knight than ever before. Not just someone playing at being a hero, but someone who had earned the title through deed rather than birth.

 

As darkness fell, he found a small hollow in the base of a living tree, not unlike the one where he'd found Grace. He curled up inside it, pulling the cloak around himself for warmth.

 

For the first time since leaving his home, he fell into a truly peaceful sleep, untroubled by nightmares or regrets. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new places, new opportunities to help those in need.

 

Tonight, he was simply a knight resting after a job well done.