The sun scorched without mercy, its heat relentless as I swung the axe—up, down, splitting the thick wood with a satisfying crack. I twisted the blade in my hand, a flicker of dexterity, and caught Rodar’s approving smile from across the field. He plunged his scythe back into the earth, his laborers working beside him. The land was reviving—green, vibrant, alive again.
Word of Dakor’s curse on these fields had reached me. When he arrived, he’d slaughtered every worker to assert his dominance, a paranoid tyrant lording over the land while hiding. Two survivors had fled, gathering twelve fighters to reclaim the fields, only to be cut down by the veteran swordsman. Each tale from Rodar and Darah painted Dakor as a demon with a blade. I knew it well—he was the most formidable foe I’d ever faced. His skill and will could best me in a duel, as they had before. My rage and focus were all that kept me in the fight.
Dakor was a plague on every land he touched. Seeing the fields bloom again soothed me, especially knowing my hands helped restore them. Yet worry gnawed at my fleeting peace.
Panting, I surveyed the green expanse, my mind wrestling with my place in it. This wasn’t my life. A month had passed, yet I couldn’t leave the haven of this cabin. I tried, time and again, but something anchored me. The peace, the quiet, the sense of family—and her. The strange woman.
Her mystery was deeper than Keiya’s, darker, more alluring. I, the wanderer who craved unraveling secrets, was hooked. I’d blamed her for Dakor’s escape, but that resentment faded. She was defiant, stubborn, bold—everything Keiya wasn’t. We weren’t friends, barely spoke, yet her glances, sometimes absentminded, sparked something in me. I sensed I intrigued her too, but pride kept us apart, two egos too stubborn to yield.
Her presence stirred guilt. How could I chase happiness while Dakor, Keiya’s killer, still breathed? In pensive moments, her final moments haunted me, an oath unfulfilled. This wasn’t home, no matter its comforts.
“Hard work, aye,” Rodar said, approaching with a smile. “I wonder if I had your energy in my youth.”
“You built this,” I said, gesturing to the fields. “That took strength.”
“Not strength,” he said, his smile fading. “Talk. Negotiation, pleas—that’s what birthed this. And still, I struggle to keep it.” His voice grew heavy, his eyes distant with sorrow.
I waited as he gathered himself. “I was never a fighter,” he continued. “My brothers—elder and younger—were warriors. They saw me as nothing, a farmer who couldn’t wield a blade. They rode over me, tossed me aside.” He rubbed his face, a bitter laugh escaping. “I was weak then, and I fear I still am.”
I knew little of their past; they rarely spoke of it. But his pain was raw. “You don’t need a sword to achieve greatness,” I said, patting his shoulder. “You’re a good man. That’s more than most can claim.”
“Am I?” he asked, eyes piercing. “Do you believe violence isn’t always the path to justice?”
I offered a faint smile, no answer. His question cut too close.
“I thought so once,” he said, voice low. “It consoled my weakness. But things changed…” He trailed off, then pressed on. “I was in town when Darah sent our boy, Pean, to the market. He returned to find her bruised, bleeding, beaten by the neighbor’s sons. Enraged, he stormed out. I came home to chaos, Darah barely conscious. She told me everything. I ran to find Pean, but he was gone. Hours later, he burst in, covered in blood, trembling. ‘I killed them, Father,’ he said. He’d slain the neighbors’ sons.”
My heart raced, anger rising. Rodar’s voice broke. “We had to save him. We were planning his escape when the mob came, led by Fralous, our neighbor. Their eyes burned with malice, torches in hand. ‘An eye for an eye,’ Fralous growled. I begged, Darah wailed, but they threw her aside. They seized Pean, beat him, spat on him, then stretched him out like a butcher’s kill.” Rodar’s hands covered his face, his voice trembling. “They slaughtered my son before my eyes, and I couldn’t lift a hand.”
My knuckles whitened around the axe, fury surging. “They killed him for seeking justice,” Rodar said. “Revenge always goes too far.” A tear fell, and he wiped it away. “Pean’s death taught me vengeance doesn’t heal. It doesn’t undo the past. It only fuels more pain.”
“How do you bear it?” I asked. “How are you still strong?”
“Strong?” He laughed, bitter. “Only in heart, perhaps.”
“Then you’re the strongest kind,” I said, gripping his shoulders. “The sun shines on your home again.” He pulled me into a warm embrace, drawing comfort from my words.
A cloaked man’s shout broke the moment, his strides urgent, his face pale with fear. “What is it?” Rodar asked, concern creasing his brow.
“News from Amlyxone,” the man said. “A cavalry troop—semet out for Kedrone this morning. Not Karmadin’s. Four houses raised it to aid Dakor. Seven hundred strong”