The months passed quietly.

  I worked the fields alongside the people of Deermarch, shoulders straining as I helped pull the plow through stubborn soil, hands raw from planting new grain where the earth had been turned fresh. Old Nan barked orders from the edge of the field like a general, while Gramps laughed and pretended not to hear her.

  Their granddaughter, Sophie—about Mara’s age—often sat nearby with her mother, weaving by the fire. I’d catch her glancing up at me, cheeks red as she looked away too quickly, fingers fumbling with the thread as she worked on a new cloak meant for me. I never said anything about it. Some things didn’t need words.

  At night, Deermarch came alive.

  We feasted together—long tables, rough bread, roasted roots and meat, laughter spilling into the open air. When the plates were cleared, we danced beneath the stars, clumsy and joyful, hands linked without fear. At the end of each feast, a small portion of our harvest was set aside and offered to the Lord.

  Not that He needed it.

  But the gesture felt right.

  At least, that’s what I thought.

  Azazel came and went as he always did, appearing from the border with someone new in tow—usually gaunt, wounded, or simply hollowed out by the road. He was always glad to see me, clapping my shoulder, asking how I’d been. Sometimes he brought news from the Empire. Sometimes only stories—strange ones, half-finished, about places that didn’t feel real until he spoke them aloud.

  Raphael spent his evenings with the children, telling stories the clergy never dared to speak. Stories where the Father walked among the lowly. Where mercy wasn’t bought. Where strength meant standing still for those you cared for when the world demanded you burn.

  Life was peaceful here.

  And sometimes, when the wind moved gently through the fields and laughter carried from the square, I thought—

  Maybe this is the world Mara wanted.

  Quiet.

  Free.

  Peaceful.

  The thought ached worse than any wound.

  I would sit alone after the feasts, fingers brushing the necklace she’d made for me, wishing—foolishly—that she were still here to see it.

  To see me.

  And though Deermarch gave me rest, and work, and people who cared…

  Some part of my heart still stood by a lake, skipping stones,

  Waiting for someone who would never answer back.

  The season stretched longer than I expected.

  I mentioned it once, quietly, as we walked the fields at dusk.

  “The Father’s time is different,” Raphael said, as if that explained everything.

  Figures.

  I left Deermarch before dawn the next day and climbed the familiar path toward the cave. Near the tree that stood just below the mountain’s shoulder, I set a small memorial—stones stacked carefully at its base, the necklace tucked safely beneath them.

  For Mara.

  Raphael had come with me. He’d picked wildflowers along the way and placed them beside the stones without a word. We stood there for a moment, the wind moving gently through the branches.

  "She would've liked it here". I whispered to the wind.

  Raphael smirked suddenly.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Have you forgotten, Thomas?” he said.

  Before I could answer, smoke caught my eye.

  Thin pillars of fire flickered on the horizon—down near Deermarch.

  My blood went cold.

  I ran.

  The SIN was already in my hand as I tore down the path, breath burning, heart hammering so hard it drowned out every thought. By the time I reached the edge of town, my pulse was roaring in my ears.

  Gun raised. Ready.

  There was no danger.

  Only light.

  Torches lined the square. Fires burned in careful circles. Music spilled into the air—laughter, clapping, the thrum of drums. The people of Deermarch turned toward me, smiling, cheering.

  Raphael finally caught up, breathless and laughing.

  “Are you pranking me again?” I demanded, still shaking.

  “Nonsense, Thomas!” he said, wiping his brow. “You forgot—it’s your name day.”

  Before I could protest, hands caught my arms. Sophie laughed as she pulled me forward, the crowd closing in around us. Someone pressed a cup into my hand. Someone else set a crown of woven vines atop my head.

  Music swelled.

  Feet moved. Hands spun me around. I found myself laughing—really laughing—for the first time in longer than I could remember.

  As we danced beneath the firelight, surrounded by voices and warmth, I felt something loosen inside me.

  For one night, the past did not claw at my throat.

  For one night, I was not hunted, or broken, or alone.

  I was just Thomas.

  And the world, for once, was kind enough to celebrate that.

  Gramps chuckled, shaking his head. “Should’ve seen the look on yer face. You looked ready to kill everyone in Deermarch.”

  Sophie laughed, slipping in beside him. “He’d probably kill you first,” she said sweetly, “but you’re already one foot out the door, Gramps.”

  “Cheeky girl,” Gramps muttered, though he was smiling.

  Before I could answer, arms wrapped around me from behind and hauled me into a crushing embrace.

  “Happy Name Day, mon,” Azazel said, laughing as he clapped my back.

  I barely had time to breathe before he pulled away and rummaged in his coat.

  “I got yah someting.”

  He held out a small, ornate scythe—its handle carved with simple patterns, the blade polished and clean.

  “So yah can help Ol’ Nan with de harvest dis year,” he said proudly.

  I stared at it, then sighed. “Thanks, Azazel. More chores.”

  Sophie grinned and hooked her arm around my shoulder. “Nonsense, Thomas. You’d tackle it all in one day.”

  I snorted. “That means everyone gets a feast while I’m out gathering grain by myself, huh?”

  She tilted her head, pretending to think.

  “No promises,” she said, then winked.

  Laughter rolled through the square again, easy and unguarded.

  And standing there—scythe in hand, friends pressed close, firelight dancing across familiar faces—I realized something quietly, without fanfare:

  For the first time since everything was taken from me,

  I wasn’t waiting for the night to end.

  ***

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  The fire burned low, embers glowing soft and red as the noise of the celebration drifted farther away. It was quieter here, just the crackle of dying flame and the night settling in around us.

  Sophie sat beside me, watching the fire a little too closely.

  After a moment, she reached for a small cloth bag at her side. Her fingers fumbled with the tie.

  “Oh—I’m so bad at this,” she muttered.

  I glanced over. “At what?”

  She shot me a look, then huffed and shook the bag once like it had offended her.

  “I made you something special for your Name Day, Thomas.”

  I smiled gently. “You didn’t need to get me anything.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said quickly. “Stop trying to be humble. I made it special—you’re ruining the mood.”

  I laughed. “Fine. Let me guess. A boot.”

  She groaned.

  “No—wait,” I added, widening my eyes theatrically. “Two boots.”

  She pouted. “It’s not a boot, you eggshell.”

  Before I could answer, she reached over, plucked the crown of vines from my head, and set it aside. Then she pulled the gift free from the bag and placed it carefully on me.

  A leather hat.

  Wide-brimmed, stitched by hand, the leather dark and soft, catching the firelight along its edges. I lifted it off my head slowly and turned it in my hands, tracing the seams with my thumb.

  I looked at her and smiled.

  “Thank you.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest, eyes bright. “You like it?”

  “I love it.”

  Her breath released in a small, relieved laugh.

  “It’ll make it easier for me to harvest alone,” I added lightly, “while you go out and eat all our grapes again.”

  She swatted my arm. “Hey!”

  I chuckled, then sobered and met her eyes.

  “But I’m serious,” I said. “I really love it, Sophie. Thank you.”

  She smiled then—soft, shy, and proud all at once.

  The fire crackled quietly between us.

  And for a moment, under the open sky, it felt like the world wasn’t asking anything of me—

  only offering something back.

  ***

  The next day Raphael asked me to follow him just after dawn.

  I was still sore from the night before, head thick with laughter and wine, the smell of smoke clinging to my clothes. I reached for my satchel out of habit, but Raphael shook his head.

  “Bring your sword,” he said.

  I frowned. “Can’t this wait? My Name Day was yesterday, Raphael.”

  He didn’t slow. “Unfortunately, young Thomas, it cannot.” He glanced back at me. “Consider this your gift, then.”

  That made me stop.

  We reached a flat stretch of ground beyond the fields, dew still clinging to the grass. Raphael turned and faced me.

  “Strike me,” he said calmly. “With your sword.”

  I blinked. “You’re serious?”

  He said nothing.

  “No more joking around?” I pressed.

  Raphael stood in silence, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes steady.

  Then he spoke.

  “Strike me,” he said again, “as if I were one of the Church men who took your family.”

  My grip tightened on the hilt.

  “I won’t,” I said.

  Raphael moved.

  He stepped in fast—too fast—and drove a fist toward my face. I barely dodged, the rush of air brushing my cheek. My eyes widened.

  He wasn’t playing.

  Before I could recover, his knuckles slammed into my chest plate.

  The impact felt like being kicked by ten donkeys at once.

  The breath tore out of me. I flew backward and hit the ground hard, the world flashing white at the edges. My ribs screamed as I tried to suck air back into my lungs.

  Raphael stood over me, unmoved.

  “Again,” he said evenly.

  I staggered to my feet, heart pounding now—not with anger, but focus.

  He hadn’t drawn a blade.

  He hadn’t raised his voice.

  And he’d just reminded me of something I’d nearly forgotten:

  Peace does not mean safety.

  And restraint does not mean weakness.

  I lifted my sword, this time not in anger—

  —but in attention.

  I lunged for his gut.

  It felt right—low, fast, meant to end things quickly. Raphael wasn’t there when the blade passed through the space he’d occupied. He stepped aside like he’d been expecting it, and his fist drove into my chest again.

  The impact knocked the breath out of me. I stumbled back, boots skidding in the dirt.

  Before I could reset, I rushed him—anger flaring now, frustration tightening my grip. I swung hard, putting my weight behind it.

  This time, the blade whispered past his head.

  Two small strands of his hair drifted down between us.

  For half a heartbeat, I thought I’d done it.

  Raphael bent, calm as ever, and plucked a reed from the creekside at our feet. Thin. Green. Barely more than a stem.

  I stared at it.

  He raised it just as my next slash came in.

  The reed tapped my blade aside.

  Not blocked.

  Redirected.

  The steel slid away from him like it had been guided elsewhere.

  My mouth fell open.

  Before I could react, Raphael stepped inside my reach and struck my chest again. Pain flared. I staggered back, coughing, vision blurring.

  Raphael didn’t pursue.

  He simply lifted the reed and pointed it at me.

  “Again,” he said.

  The gesture wasn’t mocking.

  It was an invitation.

  My heart hammered as I raised my sword once more, suddenly aware of every mistake I was making—my shoulders too tense, my feet planted too firmly, my anger telegraphed in every movement.

  Raphael waited.

  Not braced.

  Not guarded.

  Just… present.

  And for the first time, I understood:

  He wasn’t overpowering me.

  He was letting me defeat myself.

  Raphael moved like water.

  Every strike I threw was met with the reed—never head-on, never force against force. He slipped past my blade, guiding it away with small, precise motions, his feet gliding over the dirt as if the ground itself carried him.

  I growled and pressed harder.

  My swings grew wider. Faster. Sloppier.

  Raphael kept moving—stepping, turning, yielding—his body never tense, never rushed. The reed flicked and tapped, deflecting steel with something that shouldn’t have been possible.

  My frustration boiled over.

  I rushed him again, everything in me screaming to end it.

  Raphael shifted his weight and hooked my ankle with his foot.

  The world flipped.

  For a heartbeat, all I saw was sky—blue and empty—before the earth rushed up to meet me. I hit hard, the impact driving the breath from my lungs in a sharp, painful burst.

  I lay there, staring up, every muscle screaming.

  Raphael stepped into my view, calm as the morning air.

  “You need to stop relying on your anger to fight, Thomas,” he said evenly.

  I groaned, trying and failing to sit up.

  “It will only get you so far.”

  He held out a hand—not as an offer of victory, but of instruction.

  I took it, wincing as he pulled me to my feet.

  Sweat dripped down my face. My chest ached where he’d struck me again and again. My arms felt heavy, useless.

  But something else burned now too—not rage.

  Awareness.

  For the first time, I realized how loud my anger made me.

  How predictable.

  And how easily someone like Raphael could use it against me.

  He met my gaze, serious now.

  “Again,” he said.

  Not because I’d failed.

  But because the lesson had only just begun.

  After several more brutal attempts, Raphael finally stepped back.

  My arms shook. My chest throbbed where he’d struck me again and again. Every movement sent a flare of pain through muscles I hadn’t known I owned.

  We walked back toward the town together, my steps slow and uneven. Raphael rested an arm across my shoulders as if I weighed nothing at all, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

  Old Nan spotted us first.

  She laughed loud and sharp. “Looks like you gave that boy a good beating, Raphael.”

  Gramps leaned on his staff beside her, grinning. “Aye. Walkin’ like he’s twice his age now.”

  I groaned as Sophie tossed an apple at me. I caught it on instinct and immediately regretted it.

  “That was cruel,” I muttered.

  She smiled, unapologetic.

  Raphael chuckled. “He’s a good student,” he said easily.

  Then his voice dropped, just for me.

  “Remember what I taught you today,” he murmured. “We’ll keep training—after your work in the fields.”

  I nodded, jaw tight. “Yes.”

  By the time we reached his home, the smell of dinner drifted through the open door. Warmth spilled out to meet us, welcoming and ordinary.

  I stepped inside slowly, body aching, apple still in hand.

  I hurt everywhere.

  But beneath the bruises and the soreness, something new had taken root—quiet, steady, and stubborn.

  Not rage.

  Discipline.

  And as I sat down to eat, I knew this was how it would be now:

  Work.

  Pain.

  Learning.

  And for the first time, that felt like enough.