The pain faded first, then the noise. The shouting, the iron, the sound of fire and water, all gone. When Aros opened his eyes, there was no battle, no smoke, no blood. Only a house of pale wood surrounded by fields of tall grass, the light of early summer stretching across the floorboards like gold spilled from the sky.

  He knew this place. The southern edge of Legonia. The end of Dromo. The house where the sun always rose too early and set too gently, where he and his mother had lived when the world was small and kind.

  The air here was different: softer somehow, filled with the smell of warm grain and clay. Bees floated lazily over the tall yellow stalks outside, their hum blending with the steady whisper of the wind. The sound of it pressed at the windows like the sea.

  Alea Kevis stood by the window, sleeves rolled to her elbows, kneading dough with quiet precision. The rhythm of her hands was almost hypnotic: fold, press, turn, fold again. She didn’t look up when she spoke.

  “Did you break the snare again?”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Aros said, holding the cracked wooden frame in both hands. “The rope was rotten.”

  “You don’t need traps,” she said. “We have bread.”

  “In the city, they have meat.”

  Alea smiled faintly, still kneading. “In the city, they have everything. That doesn’t make them happier.”

  He frowned, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other. “Then why can’t we live there?”

  Her hands slowed. “Because we can’t.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  “No,” she said softly. “It isn’t.”

  He waited for more, but none came. His mother had that way of ending conversations, gently, without argument, like closing a book halfway through.

  Aros turned toward the open doorway. Beyond it, the world seemed impossibly wide. The grass rolled like waves, green giving way to yellow, yellow to silver, until it all faded into the pale shimmer of the horizon. Sometimes he thought he could see the sea from here, though his mother said it was too far.

  He didn’t believe her.

  That afternoon a horse approached down the dirt path, hooves dull against the dry earth. The sound carried long before the rider appeared, as if the world itself was warning them. Aros ran outside before she could stop him, his feet kicking up dust.

  The man who dismounted wore a long brown cloak and gloves too clean for a farmer’s work. His beard was trimmed, his boots unscuffed. The leather reins gleamed, the horse’s mane brushed and oiled.

  “Evening, Alea,” he said, pulling a burlap sack from his saddle.

  “You’re early,” she answered, drying her hands on her apron. “I thought you’d come tomorrow.”

  “The lord sent me sooner. Said you might need extra grain.”

  He turned his gaze toward Aros and smiled faintly. “He’s growing fast.”

  Aros stood a little taller. “Are you the lord’s messenger?”

  “I am.”

  “Does he bring food to everyone like us?”

  The man’s smile held steady. “Of course. Lord Carlus looks after all his people.”

  It sounded rehearsed, like a prayer said too often.

  The man bowed, mounted again, and added, “He asked about you both. Said he’ll be sending a letter soon.”

  Alea didn’t answer. She watched him leave until the dust settled and only the wind moved again.

  Later, when the sun dipped low, Aros wandered out behind the house with his toy bow. The fields were thick with buzzing insects and the hum of heat. The smell of dry earth and wild fennel clung to his skin.

  A squirrel darted from a thicket and stopped near his feet. Its fur was gray, its tail twitching like a flame. He froze, heart pounding, then ran.

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  He chased it past the fence, through the dry weeds, across the creek bed where stones shone like coins under the fading sun. His laughter bounced off the trees and startled a flock of birds into flight.

  When the squirrel vanished, he realized he had no idea where he was. The woods looked different from this side, taller, darker, as though they belonged to someone else. The air here was cooler, touched by the smell of moss and something faintly metallic.

  That was when he saw the man.

  He was standing on the path, brushing the dust from a fine blue cloak. His hair was brown, streaked with gray, his beard neat, his boots shining. There was nothing out of place about him, except his face.

  He looked like Aros.

  Not exactly, but enough that the boy’s stomach twisted. Same eyes, same jaw, the same narrow line of the mouth when he didn’t smile.

  “What are you doing out here?” the man asked gently.

  “I was chasing it,” Aros said, pointing to the trees. “The squirrel.”

  “A brave hunter,” the man said, amused. “Did you catch it?”

  Aros shook his head.

  “No one ever does,” the man said. “They always slip away.”

  He stepped closer, and Aros noticed how polished his ring was, how his cloak smelled faintly of oil and clean metal. The man carried the scent of cities, of smoke and marble and something sharp that didn’t belong in the countryside.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Aros.”

  The man crouched, his hand resting on the boy’s shoulder with a strange familiarity. “Aros,” he repeated. “That’s a good name. Strong.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lord Carlus of Legonia.”

  Aros blinked. “The lord?”

  “That’s right.”

  He studied the boy’s face for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his calm expression. “Your mother lives nearby, doesn’t she? Alea Kevis.”

  Aros nodded. “You know her?”

  “Of course,” Carlus said. “She’s been under my care for many years.”

  Aros hesitated. “She said we’re not part of the city.”

  Carlus’s smile softened. “You’re part of it more than you know.”

  The words meant nothing to him, but they carried a weight he could feel in his chest, like a storm he didn’t yet understand.

  Carlus stood, brushed the dust from his cloak, and looked toward the west. The horizon was bleeding gold into the clouds, the last light turning the wheat fields to fire. “Tell your mother I’ll visit soon.”

  Then he walked past him, back toward the path that led home. The boy turned, watching the sunlight glint off the man’s shoulders, and for a fleeting second he thought he was looking at himself, older, distant, and somehow doomed.

  When Aros reached the house, his mother was standing at the door, her face pale, her hair unbound.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  “He said he was the lord,” Aros replied, still catching his breath.

  Alea’s voice dropped. “What did he tell you?”

  “Only that he will come soon.”

  She didn’t move for a long time. Her hands trembled slightly as she pressed them against her chest. “Go inside,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Just go.”

  He obeyed, but turned halfway, watching her start gathering things: a few clothes, a jar of grain, the small wooden cross that hung by the bed. She moved quickly, without thought, as though following an old pattern.

  He wanted to ask again, but something in her silence stopped him. The air itself felt tighter, charged. Even the cicadas outside had gone still.

  From the window, Aros saw the road stretching empty under the bruised sky. The same path he had run down hours ago now seemed endless and foreign.

  Then came the sound of hooves, distant but approaching. The same rhythm as before, but slower, heavier.

  Aros pressed his hands against the glass. The fields that had seemed infinite now felt small, trapped between the forest and the road, a stage with nowhere to run.

  His mother’s voice came from behind him, whispering something he couldn’t make out, maybe a prayer, maybe his name. She touched the back of his head and then his shoulder, as though measuring him for the last time.

  Outside, the wind shifted. The sky turned darker, though the sun had not yet set.

  And then the memory tore apart.

  The sound of horses became thunder. The air thickened with smoke again. Pain bloomed in his stomach like fire.

  Aros opened his eyes to the night. The forest canopy swayed above him, black against a dying moon. Someone was holding his hand: small, trembling fingers, warm against the cold. Gemma.

  For a heartbeat, he thought it was Alea, and he almost said her name.

  But no words came. Only breath, thin and uneven.

  The smell of smoke still clung to his hair. The grass beneath him was damp. Somewhere nearby, water ran through the stones like the faint memory of the creek behind his house.

  He wondered if it was the same water, flowing endlessly between past and present, carrying pieces of him through time.

  He closed his eyes again. The pain returned, but softer now, like a reminder that he was still here, still alive.

  The last thing he heard before sleep took him was Gemma whispering his name, hesitant, almost like a prayer.

  And for a moment, just before the dark claimed him, he thought he could smell bread baking.

  The smell of smoke still clung to his hair. The grass beneath him was damp. Somewhere nearby, water ran through the stones like the faint memory of the creek behind his house.

  He wondered if it was the same water, flowing endlessly between past and present, carrying pieces of him through time.

  He closed his eyes again. The pain returned, but softer now, like a reminder that he was still here, still alive.

  The last thing he heard before sleep took him was Gemma whispering his name—hesitant, almost like a prayer.

  And for a moment, just before the dark claimed him, he thought he could smell bread baking.

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