II-12: A New Sun
He walked through the dense forest, boots crunching over leaves and twigs that snapped like tiny bones, the damp air heavy with the scent of pine and earth that reminded him way too much of summer camp. His upper body was wrapped in a thick gray cloak, the last thing he'd gotten from Northbank before ditching that mess of a place.
Something to cover his fancy clothes and his face, to make him look less like some rich kid lost in the woods. To keep people from looking at him like an easy mark, like some dumb tourist who'd wandered off the beaten path.
The trees stretched up forever, their tangled branches forming a canopy that barely let through thin strips of light. Ser Stonehall had talked about this place before, calling it the Karhold Forest, supposedly packed with wildlife and crawling with more than a few bandits who probably thought they were Robin Hood, without worrying about who was rich or poor. Easy for them to hide in, just like the Lonely Hills. Perfect spot for an ambush.
Greg felt Ash padding along beside him, the little kodiak cub sniffing at everything like the world's furriest detective, his black fur blending with the shadows between trees.
A week out from Northbank, and the memory of that feast still twisted his gut. Chief Hod's whole scheme—using Hyla, trying to trap him—it made his blood boil just thinking about it. He wasn't sticking around to play medieval sitcom dad, raising a kid they'd force on him just to keep him tethered to their village.
Stick around, raise a possible kid, he thought, his face scrunching up like he'd bitten into a lemon. And if she didn't have one right away, they would have probably kept trying until she definitely did. Until I definitely had one. The thought made his skin crawl.
He knew it too well.
Just to avoid being the bad guy, he would've stayed put like an idiot.
He would've tried to do the right thing, tried to make something work out of that mess.
Tried not to ghost on a family the same way his dad did, leaving nothing but an empty spot at the dinner table and a bunch of unanswered questions.
But that wasn't him—not when they were trying to play him at least.
A low growl ripped out of his throat before he could stop it, sounding more animal than human, and he spun around like a top, his fist connecting with the nearest tree trunk. The bark exploded under his knuckles, bits of it spraying everywhere as the impact shot up his arm like an electric shock. A slight dart of pain bloomed across his hand, but it was the good kind, the type he actually wanted—something sharp and real to focus on instead of the mess in his head.
He glared at the tree, grinding his teeth together, his breath coming out fast and angry like he'd just run a mile. Almost a full week later, and I'm still fucked up about this whole thing. He pushed out a long breath through his nose like an angry bull. I should have just stayed with Gwenna back in Wintermoss. At least she wasn't trying to use me like some medieval sperm donor.
A confused whine from Ash cut through the red fog in his brain. The cub was sitting there watching him with big worried eyes and his head tilted sideways like a confused puppy, probably wondering why his human was trying to fight a tree.
Greg forced himself to breathe slower, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. "Get it together, man," he muttered under his breath, feeling stupid. There was no point getting worked up over Northbank now.
It was done, over with, ancient history. Fuckin' donezo.
He couldn't change what went down, and anyway, he had bigger stuff to deal with, like the trail he was following that seemed to go on and on forever. It had been about a month now since he started, honestly.
He started this whole thing chasing down some psycho who murdered a little girl, and he still had no clue how much longer this wild goose chase would take.
After a minute of standing there like an idiot, he shook off the anger like water and kept walking. But then, through the wall of trees ahead, he caught sight of something that made him pause—a village.
He stopped dead, squinting at it. Bigger than Northbank but still too small to be a proper town, he could tell. Wooden walls, half-crooked and scarred with arrows, wrapped the settlement like a bandage. Gates hung crooked, blackened stains smeared at their base. Whatever hit this place had hit it hard.
Greg spotted arrows still stuck in the walls everywhere he looked, some snapped in half like toothpicks, others buried deep in the wood like they were trying to hibernate. The gates hung kind of crooked, looking rough after whatever fight went down, but there wasn't any sign of bad guys hanging around now.
Just this weird quiet, like the whole place was playing dead.
"Another one," Greg muttered to himself, sighing like a deflating balloon. It wasn't like he could just walk past. He wasn't a fan of sleeping on a forest floor and he had no idea when he'd bump into another village again.
"Be prepared," he quoted the motto of the group his mom never let him join, something about her not trusting the scoutmasters. He really wasn't sure why, he honestly thought Scoutmaster Brad was pretty cool. Bit hairy, though.
Even if he wanted to just grab his stuff and bolt, it wouldn't hurt to check if they had anything worth trading for. Northbank had been a total disaster, but maybe this place would be different.
Maybe.
He tugged his gray cloak tighter around his body like armor and headed toward the gates, Ash following close behind like a fuzzy shadow. The air got thicker as they approached, heavy with the smell of smoke and something metallic that made his nose wrinkle. Blood. Great.
As Greg stepped closer to the gate, it loomed over him like something out of a horror movie, towering and jagged, its wooden beams hacked and bruised in ways that screamed 'recent attack.' Arrows stuck out everywhere like some giant evil porcupine had shed all over it, wedged deep into splintered wood, while bigger holes gaped open where axes or something worse had torn through. Nobody had bothered fixing those yet, which probably wasn't a good sign.
He squinted up at the gate in the dying light, noticing dark stains splashed across the bottom that definitely looked like blood, all dried and black now, mixed with spots that looked burned, like someone had desperately slapped out fires before they could really get going. This place got hit hard. Really hard.
Greg's boots crunched over the small pebbles lining the path, the ground all messed up with broken bits of wood and what looked way too much like bone fragments for comfort. Don't think about it, don't think about it. The village behind the wall wasn't looking much better – rooftops sagged under patches of new thatch that stuck out like a sore thumb against the old, gray stuff that had probably been there forever.
Up on the gate, two archers watched him approach like hawks eyeing a mouse.
Both had faces that looked like they'd been carved from granite, their eyes drilling down at him like he was something gross they'd found on their boots. Their jaws were locked tight enough to crack nuts, faces all dark in the fading light as they kept glancing between him and Ash, who was just sniffing around like they were on a regular walk in the park.
"Halt! What's your business?" one of the archers shouted down, voice steady but rough like he'd been gargling gravel. The way he said it made it clear he'd probably been yelling the same thing at everyone for days, waiting for the wrong answer.
Greg stopped, rolling his eyes just a tiny bit – enough to get the attitude out but not enough for the guys with the pointy sticks to notice from way up there. Here we go again. "Just passing through," he called back, keeping his voice casual like this was totally normal. "Looking to refill my supplies, maybe stay a night." His hand dropped down to scratch behind Ash's ears, partly to keep the cub close and partly to keep himself from fidgeting.
The two archers did that thing adults do when they're having a whole conversation without actually talking – trading looks and tiny head movements that probably meant something if you were over twenty. Finally, the second archer gave this super slow nod like he was underwater, and the first one turned back to Greg, still looking at him like he might be hiding a bomb or something but willing to let him try explaining himself. "Approach," he ordered, waving his bow in a way that definitely meant one wrong move and you're a pincushion.
Greg kept his walk nice and steady, face blank as a new notebook, as he got closer to the gate. He could practically feel their stares burning holes in him, like they were trying to x-ray him for weapons or something. The whole vibe was setting off warning bells in his head, making doubt start creeping in like a bad smell.
Maybe stopping here was a mistake.
Maybe he should've just stuck to the trees.
The first archer, built like a linebacker with a beard that looked like it could sand down furniture, leaned over the wall like he was trying to get a better look at a bug. His face was hard as a rock, but his eyes kept jumping to Ash like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. "Name and where ye hail from, boy?" His voice came out rough as tree bark, like he'd been shouting orders since before Greg was born.
"Greg." He swallowed his last name like a bad pill, super aware of how his pack was weighing on his shoulder. Gotta remember – nobles have last names here. Don't need that kind of attention. "Coming up from Northbank." He paused for a second, trying to figure out how much to say without setting off any more alarm bells, and went with the vague route, "—started around the Lonely Hills." Not technically a lie.
The second archer, skinnier than his friend and wearing a helmet that had definitely seen better days, gave this slow nod that didn't look convinced at all. "Not many travelers round these parts as of late," he said, voice dropping low like he was sharing a secret, eyes narrow as paper cuts behind his beat-up helm. "Especially the young ones. Wot brings ye this way?"
Greg could feel the weight of that question hanging in the air between them like a loaded gun. He shrugged, trying to play it cool even though part of his brain was screaming at him to make a run for it. "Just... decided to travel, that's all," he said, letting his voice trail off with a half-shrug that he hoped looked casual enough.
The first archer kept staring at him like he was trying to read Greg's mind through his skull. After what felt like forever, he finally grunted, waving one hand in a 'get moving' gesture that looked about as welcoming as a dentist appointment. "Keep yer wits about ye, boy. Things be rough these days."
Greg gave them both a short nod and stepped through the gate, still feeling the weight of their stares on his back as he walked forward.
The blond boy stepped through the opened gate and into the village, immediately hit by a smell that he was growing used to every single time he entered a village, the scent that screamed 'medieval times'—wood smoke mixing with the nasty combo of mud and wet straw and other less pleasant smells. The place buzzed with activity, but not the happy kind. More like the 'we're all tired but gotta keep going' type he'd seen all over the North.
Men and women shuffled along the muddy main path like they were half-dead already, some of them pushing carts loaded with firewood that whined like dying cats with every step. The wheels cut deep lines into the ground that looked like mini-rivers, filled with rainwater that made the whole sky look even grayer in reflection. A bunch of local merchants had set up some simple market stalls, rickety tables all covered with cloth that seemed a single wash away from falling apart into string. Their stuff wasn't much better—dried meat that could probably double as shoe leather, and vegetables that looked like they'd been forgotten in the back of the fridge for way too long, all wrinkled and sad-looking. Even still, the women haggled over prices in whispers like they were trading state secrets.
Greg's eyes swept over the displays like a food critic who already knew he wasn't going to enjoy anything he ate. It wasn't exactly what he would have liked, but these people were clearly trying to make something out of nothing. Better than starving, I guess.
He checked out each stall, hoping to spot something useful, but everything was about what he expected from a village that wasn't quite a town. What he really needed was a tavern—somewhere with actual food, maybe some heat, and a place to crash that wasn't the ground. Again.
Hollow Hill Tavern
, declared a sign that looked like it had seen better decades, hanging over a building that seemed to be one bad blizzard away from falling to the ground. The place looked as inviting as the rest of the village.
Solid enough, though, and better than spending another night under a tree, waking up covered in morning dew.
He pushed the door open and walked in, pulling down his hood to let his messy hair and that floppy green hat of his stick out. The hat was another one of those things that made zero sense—it stayed put no matter how fast he ran or how much he jumped around, like it was superglued to his skull, even though he knew he could just plop it off whenever he wanted.
"Magic," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at how stupid that still sounded after three months.
The tavern was quiet but tense, the usual northern suspicion sharper here, darker—fresh scars turned caution into hostility.
He felt eyes on him, lingering longer than he liked, and in the dim light he could see these people had definitely seen better days. Half of them looked like they'd lost a fight with a meat grinder—arms wrapped up, bruises all over, faces marked with purpling welts. Whatever went down here, these guys definitely didn't win the participation trophy.
He scanned the room until his eyes landed on the barman in the back—a guy built like a refrigerator with arms that could probably snap baseball bats, sporting a mustache that seemed to be trying to eat his face and a forehead with more lines than a college ruled notebook. His shirt was stained, sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms as solid as the oaken beams overhead.
The barman caught him looking over and gave him the world's smallest nod, his face doing that thing people often tended to do when they're trying to be polite but really don't want to deal with you. "Welcome to Hollow Hill Tavern," he rumbled, voice deep and slow, like a rock rolling down a hill. "What'll it be?"
"Stew, bread, some meat if you've got it," Greg replied, lazily dropping a few copper coins on the counter. The barman snagged them faster than Greg expected a man like him to move, barely looking back at the teenager as he pocketed them and turned away like the conversation was already over.
With food supposedly on the way, the blond teenager shuffled over to an empty table in the corner and dropped into a seat like his strings had been cut, using his arms as a makeshift pillow. The room hummed with low voices, bits and pieces of talk floating over from a table not far ahead, clear enough to eavesdrop on without looking obvious about it.
"Aye, messenger they sent for help was found yesterday, weren't he?" some guy muttered, his voice carrying through the general noise like a bad smell. "Dead at the village door. Warning carved into his chest."
"Aye, that's right. 'Hollow Hill will fall,' it said." Another voice chimed in, sounding like they'd been gargling sandpaper. "They're set on finishin' us."
Greg's ears perked up like a cat hearing a can opener, trying to catch every word over the background noise of mugs hitting tables and the fire crackling away. Bandits. Because of course it's bandits.
"Why ain't they just leaving, then?" a third guy asked, voice sharp with worry.
"Shrouds," someone else whispered like they were telling ghost stories, "Led by Cedric the Shroud himself. Mean bastard, that one."
"Heard one of the three we killed was Cedric's brother," the first guy added, dropping his voice even lower. "Probably come for revenge now."
"Aye. Revenge." Another one mumbled, sounding about as excited as someone getting a root canal.
Greg stayed still as a statue, soaking it all in like a sponge.
"And we've got... what? Ten guards left? Four and ten other men who can fight a bit."
"...Aye."
"Then..."
"Aye..." A man burped loudly, "We're fucked."
Greg frowned.
Twenty-four guys. He'd seen enough village guards by now to know what that meant - most of them probably couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag, and the rest weren't much better. That really wasn't much firepower, not against serious bandits with actual combat experience. He felt a knot twist in his gut like a snake, a sense of "been there, done that" he couldn't shake off. This village was in deep trouble, and with their messenger doing his best lawn ornament impression at their front door, they probably didn't have long before the bandits came back for round two.
Just then, the barman materialized next to him like a ninja (if ninjas were built like brick walls) with a steaming bowl of what looked like actual food on a wooden tray that had seen better decades. The thick stew smelled way better than it looked, and there was even some meat and bread on the side. He set it down with a nod that made his massive mustache twitch like it was trying to escape his face. "Here ye are."
Greg gave him a quick nod back. "Thanks." Appreciate the customer service.
He tore off a chunk of the bread, then passed the meat down to Ash, who was doing his best impression of a furry shadow under the table. The bear cub gave it a sniff and shot Greg a look that clearly said, seriously? This is what we're eating now?
The little drama queen nibbled on it anyway, though Greg could practically feel the judgment radiating off him. The cub was obviously missing the fancy boar meat from last week's feast-turned-disaster.
As Greg spooned up some stew, letting the warmth spread through his stomach like a heated blanket, he caught himself looking back at the villagers again and again. If he played it smart, he could just peace out and let them deal with their own problems. I'm not some wandering hero from an RPG, he reminded himself for like the millionth time.
Still, the thought kept bugging him, sticking in his brain like that one song you can't get rid of, while he watched them huddle together like penguins, voices low and desperate. Isn't that kind of exactly what you are, though?
Pretty soon he'd scraped the bowl clean, using the last bit of bread to mop up whatever was left at the bottom before popping it in his mouth like a medieval chip.
Greg sat there staring into his empty bowl like it might give him the answers to life, trying to convince himself to just get up and walk out. Just leave, dude. Not your circus, not your monkeys.
He didn't owe these people jack.
He wasn't some social worker here to fix everyone's problems.
Still, he couldn't drag himself away yet. Ash was still working on his food like he was trying to make it last forever, and even though Greg knew that was the lamest excuse ever, he was sticking to it.
So he stayed glued to his seat, eyes jumping back to the group of guys at the far table like a nervous tic. They were starting to break up now, their doom-and-gloom session apparently over as they got ready to head out.
Just leave, Greg. You so don't need this drama in your life.
He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, the weight of his choices sitting on his chest like a boulder. Before his brain could talk some sense into him, his body was already moving, walking toward them like it had a mind of its own. Damn it. Why am I like this?
"Excuse me," he said, his voice coming out softer than a whisper in church, but somehow still enough to get their attention.
Five pairs of eyes locked onto him like security cameras, their expressions ranging from "who let this kid in?" to "what's this idiot want?" That classic northern suspicion was written all over their faces, but with an extra helping of "what's this outlander punk thinking, butting into our business?"
Greg cleared his throat, feeling the awkward settle over him like a really uncomfortable blanket. "...Uh, I heard you had a bandit problem." Smooth, Greg. Real smooth.
One of the men, skinny as a rake with this weird beard-but-no-mustache combo that looked like his face was wearing a Halloween costume, squinted at him, eyes like a suspicious rat. "Aye... what of it?" His voice scratched out like sandpaper on wood.
Greg shuffled his feet, taking in their collection of bandages and bruises that made them look like they'd lost a fight with a meat grinder. "I think... I think I can help you...a little." Why did I say that? Why did those words come out of my mouth?
Another guy, tall enough that he likely would need to hunch over going through doors, with a face that seemed stuck in permanent sneer mode, barked out a laugh that sounded about as friendly as a car alarm. He stepped closer, looming like a slasher villain. "Can ye, lad?" His words dripped sarcasm like honey gone bad. "Reckon ye'll part the seas next, will ye?" He looked back at his buddies like they were all in on some hilarious joke.
Greg squeezed his hands into fists, trying to keep his cool while every part of him screamed to just walk away. This is why you don't try to help people. They always pull this exact same crap.
"Wait, just listen—" he started, but guy number three waved him off like he was shooing away a fly.
"Let 'im be, Wyll," the man cut in, his voice smooth as butter but twice as slippery. His eyes did a slow once-over of Greg, pausing for more than a second on the fancy green tunic peeking out from under his cloak. "Look at 'im, 'e's a lordling. 'e don't know no better. Apologies, m'lord." The words might've sounded polite, but the way he said them made Greg feel like he was being patted on the head.
The fourth guy in their little party, who looked about three sheets to the wind, let out a snort that was half laugh, half hiccup as he used the table to keep himself vertical. "Lordling or not, 'oo cares, Cole? We're all fucked 'ere. 'Ow'd 'e even get through?"
The first guy—skinny McWeirdbeard—finally piped up again, his voice going all thoughtful like he was solving a puzzle. "Shrouds must not care who comes through... only who leaves out."
Greg could feel the irritation building in his chest like a pressure cooker about to blow, frustration eating at him as they talked like he wasn't even there. They're ignoring me.
"Listen!" he snapped, his voice cracking through the quiet tavern.
Every head in the room turned toward him, the sudden burst of sound silencing the low murmur of conversations. The weight of their stares pressed against him, making his skin crawl under the attention.
The men stared at him, their expressions shifting from mild curiosity to shock at his outburst. Even the barman looked over, thick eyebrows drawn together as he paused his endless mug-wiping.
Greg rolled his eyes, hating the familiar feeling of having to prove himself again. "I. Can. Heal. You."
His eyes swept over their injuries—bruises darkening their skin, cuts bandaged over and still barely healed, the slight hitches in their movements that spoke of deeper hurts. All signs of a fight they'd barely survived. He knew he could fix most of it, perfectly even, like it was never even there.
For a moment, silence filled the room like smoke.
Then Wyll's laugh shattered it, harsh and mocking. The others joined in, their voices echoing off the wooden walls. Only the wiry one with the hard eyes stayed quiet, watching Greg with an intensity that made him want to look away.
"Heal us?" one of them said, voice thick with scorn. "What, ye'll wave yer hands and make it all go away, lordling?"
"Oh aye," another chimed in with a sneer. "Go on then! Show us yer magic, m'lord. Might as well make us all rich while yer at it."
"What's next, eh? Ye gonna fly, too?" the drunk one added, still swaying on his feet.
Greg's eye twitched, frustration building in his chest. They weren't listening. They never listen.
He drew in a deep breath, feeling the familiar surge of power building in his stomach as he centered himself. Fine. They want proof? Let's give them proof.
He raised his hand, palm up, focusing on the magic he'd been practicing alongside his Signs and water control. A soft, golden light began to form, swirling into a dense ball, less focused than his usual attempts but it would work. "Group Heal," he muttered, letting the magic flow out in a controlled burst.
The light exploded outward, washing over the five men in a warm, glowing wave. Startled shouts filled the tavern, chairs scraping back as people jumped to their feet, eyes wide with shock and fear.
When the light faded, Greg lowered his hand, assessing the results. Their bruises had vanished, the deeper injuries—cuts, swollen joints—looked better, though not completely healed. Most of their limps had eased too, their movements smoother.
"Still too weak," Greg muttered, noting how the group version pulled more energy for less effect than healing one person.
The tavern had gone silent again, everyone staring at him. The laughter had died, replaced by a mix of awe and unease that made his stomach twist.
The first man, the one who hadn't laughed, finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "What... are ye?"
Greg just shrugged, feeling the familiar exhaustion settling into his bones. "Someone who wants to help. Take it or leave it."
"No."
Greg blinked, frowning as he stood before the village chief. The man's massive gray beard flowed down to his stomach, doing little to hide his bulk. His bald head shone in the dim light, skin weathered and dark from years under the sun.
The chief's face looked carved from old leather, deep lines etched by harsh winters and harder decisions. His shoulders and arms spoke of a lifetime of labor, but his face held something worse—a coldness that came from years of watching people die. His eyes cut through Greg like frost, sharp and dismissive as he leaned back in his makeshift throne. Shadows from the few candles on the walls made his expression even harder to read.
Greg crossed his arms, glaring back despite the sweat stinging his eyes and dampening his hair. "Whaddya mean, no?" His voice came out tight with confusion and growing anger.
Not even ten minutes had passed since he'd healed their remaining fighters—the guards and militia who'd been laid up with wounds that should have taken weeks to heal.
It hadn't been easy, either.
Sure, the first heal—a Group Heal—had worked on the lighter stuff, fixing up the bruises and small cuts like magic band-aids, but for the ones who were suffering from more than simple bumps and bruises, he'd had to dig deeper.
Way deeper.
An hour of it, working one by one, each heal draining more than the last.
But he'd managed, even though his energy reserves were running lower than his old Zune's battery life.
His head still spun like he'd just gotten off a really bad carnival ride, a deep ache spreading through his body as heat built up in his muscles. He'd never pushed his magic this far before, never had to heal this many people one after another, and honestly, he was really hoping he wouldn't have to do it again anytime soon.
His hands trembled where they hung at his sides, fingers still tingling from channeling so much power through them. Every inch of his skin buzzed with leftover energy, like static electricity trapped under the surface. His whole body felt too tight, uncomfortably hot from the inside out, waves of heat rolling off him in pulses. The little stars of power that usually floated around his core had gone quiet, but that weird magical hum still echoed through his bones, an aftershock from pushing so much energy through his system at once. He wasn't totally wiped out, but there was this heaviness to his limbs, like he'd been running full throttle for hours and now couldn't quite cool down.
Greg tried flexing his fingers, watching them respond just a split second too slow. The numbness wasn't complete, just enough to be annoying, like his body was lagging behind his brain's commands. His head didn't exactly hurt, but there was this pressure building behind his eyes—a warning that he'd pushed harder than usual. He'd never actually hit bottom with his magic before, never drained the core of power in his stomach completely, and even this time, he doubted he even got halfway, but the more he pulled on it, even tapping into those smaller stars that orbited the main one, the more he felt it on his body.
It didn't exactly hurt, but the warmth wouldn't fade, sticking to him like a fever.
He dragged his hand across his face, wiping away the sweat that kept trying to drip into his eyes. His vision was a little fuzzy around the edges from all the heat still trapped in his system, but he kept his glare focused on the chief. The exhaustion sucked, but he could handle it.
Nothing that would knock him out. Still, the tired ache in his bones served as a good reminder that even his powers had limits, even if he hadn't quite found them today.
He'd done everything they'd asked for.
And what did he get? Brushed off like yesterday's news.
Greg stood his ground, aware of the twenty-five newly-healed men hovering behind him like they were afraid he might vanish if they looked away. Their presence felt weird, protective almost, like they'd adopted him without asking.
After Wyll and his group had dragged the chief over to see what Greg could do, explaining everything they'd witnessed, the guy had just waved it all away like Greg was some street performer doing card tricks.
Then Greg, trying to actually be helpful for once, had offered to stick around and help fight off the bandits, figuring having someone with actual powers might come in handy.
That's when the chief had dropped that single, gruff, dismissive "No" on him.
Greg blinked hard, waiting for more words that didn't come. "I don't get it," he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice. "I can help. Why not let me?"
The chief's face might as well have been carved from granite. "Don't know ye, don't trust ye."
Greg blinked again, his tired brain struggling to process the stupid. He hadn't gotten the man's name before this whole thing started but now, he also didn't even really care, the man clearly not worth knowing. "But... why? I just healed half your men! You think that's something bandits would do?"
The chief's eyes narrowed to slits, his massive frame leaning forward in his makeshift throne. "Don't care what ye think ye can do. Outsiders like you... dangerous folk." His eyes flicked to the soldiers standing behind Greg, then back, colder than before. "Magic's a tool for thieves an' deceivers. His eyes narrowed to slits, fixing Greg with a stare colder than the winter wind. "I won't 'ave it 'ere."
Greg felt his jaw tighten until his teeth hurt, but he forced his voice to stay steady. "Look, I'm not here to trick anyone. I'm here to help, alright? Bandits are your problem; I can deal with them. Why not just let me?"
One of the soldiers, Wyll, spoke up from behind Greg, his voice eager as a kid at Christmas. "Aye, Chief, lad worked wonders on us. Me shoulder… it ain't felt this good since me mam died." The way he said it made Greg sound like some kind of miracle worker.
The chief's expression hardened even more, his jaw clenching visibly. "Aye, 'til he turns them magicks on us."
"Chief," another soldier added, rubbing his newly-healed leg. "I'm telling ye… feels like I never took that arrow to the knee."
The chief shot a glare at his men that could have frozen fire, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "And what price d'ye think that comes with? Ye think magic like that's free?"
Another soldier jumped in, his voice stronger now that he could actually stand straight. "But Chief, ye seen the lot of us, walkin' like we ain't been hurt a day in our lives." He gestured proudly to his leg, which just hours ago had been a mess of splints and bandages. "Let the lad do what he came 'ere to do, save us some bloody trouble."
Greg could see the chief's face swelling up like a balloon about to pop, the man growing redder with each passing second. Even in the dim light of the hall's scattered candles, the blood rushing to the chief's face was obvious, veins starting to stand out on his thick neck. He tilted his head, watching the display, a touch of a smirk sneaking onto his face despite his exhaustion. His legs felt a bit worn, but he kept his stance steady. "Right," he said with a slight shrug, leaning into the chief's glare like it was nothing. "So let me actually help you."
The chief's voice dropped low, rumbling out like thunder. The sound echoed off the hall's thick wooden beams, making the air itself feel heavy. "Help, or worm yer way into our trust?"
Greg's smirk faded as fast as it had come. The familiar weight of frustration settled in his chest, heavy and cold. Sweat still beaded on his forehead from all the healing, his tunic clinging uncomfortably to his back. "Look, what do you think I'm going to do? Kick you out and take over? Trust me, I have better things to do. I just want to help."
"Help?" The chief barked out a laugh that sounded more like a sword hitting stone. "Ye come here, outta nowhere, throw magic around like it's nothin', then say ye want to help? Out of the good of yer own heart, I reckon?" He leaned forward in his makeshift throne, eyes narrowing to slits in his weathered face. "Magic like that comes with a price. Either blood or loyalty. And ye ain't got no blood ties to this place." His voice scraped like gravel against wood, each word harder than the last.
Another soldier stepped forward, his movements slow and careful like he was approaching a wild animal. "Maybe we should let 'im, Chief. He's not lyin'. I felt it, saw it with me own eyes. Might be the only chance we 'ave against Cedric's lot."
The chief's eyes snapped to the man with enough force to make him step back, hard and unyielding as the walls outside. The wooden chair groaned as the large man shifted his weight forward. "Aye, and once we've dealt with Cedric, what then? Ye think he'll just walk away? Or will he stay, and ye'll be followin' his orders next?" His gaze locked back onto Greg, voice dropping even lower, dangerous as a snake. Firelight reflected in his eyes like sparks. "I ain't lettin' no strange lordling put me on my knees in me own village."
The chief's face twisted up like he'd bitten into something rotten as he looked over Greg's shoulders again at his men. The smell of wood smoke and sweat hung thick in the air between them. "Look at ye lot listenin' to a green lad 'stead of yer own chief, eh?" His eyes drilled into each man standing behind Greg before snapping back to the boy in question. Greg could hear the soldiers shifting uneasily behind him, boots scraping against wood. "Don't need yer help, don't want yer help."
Greg just blinked, planting his feet firmer on the wooden floor. He could feel his muscles already recovering from the healing, and it helped as he kept his stance solid. Even a little bit tired as he was, he wasn't about to back down from this oversized bully. His head throbbed a little with each heartbeat, but his voice stayed steady. "Maybe your men disagree. Maybe you should actually think about what's best for them, yeah? Just maybe?"
The chief's eyes went dark as storm clouds, the candlelight making shadows dance across his face. "Ye think me a fool?"
Greg raised an eyebrow, the words managing to slip out of their cage before his brain could catch up with his mouth. Exhaustion had a way of killing his filter. "...you don't want me to answer that?"
The chief shot up like someone had lit his chair on fire, the motion so violent that the wooden seat scraped against the floor with a sound that set Greg's teeth on edge, nearly tipping over backward. His face had gone from red to purple, nostrils flaring wide. The candles flickered wildly from the sudden movement, sending shadows jumping across the walls. "WHAT WAS THAT, BOY?" His voice crashed through the hall like thunder, making several of the men behind Greg jump. The sound bounced off the walls, making the small space feel even more cramped.
Greg just stared back at him, tired and done with this whole thing. The constant throb behind his eyes made it hard to care anymore. "...You don't want to fight me either. I promise that. It won't end well for you."
That did it. The chief's face darkened another shade, jaw clenching so tight Greg could hear teeth grinding from where he stood. A vein pulsed in his forehead like it might burst. "GET OUT OF ME VILLAGE!" he roared, voice splitting the air. The sound made Greg's ears ring in the enclosed space.
Wyll stepped forward, desperation written all over his face as he raised a hand. Candlelight caught the fresh pink flesh on his arm where an arrow wound had been hours before. "Chief, it's almost night. Ye know the bandits have been attacking anyone that leaves."
The chief's fury doubled, his whole body shaking with it. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. "LET THE BOY FIGHT THEM OFF BY HIS LONESOME THEN!" he spat, eyes burning like hot coals in his face. "OUT WITH YE!" His finger stabbed toward the door like a spear, veins standing out on his neck.
Greg stared, jaw tightening as exhaustion and frustration churned in his gut. He'd healed their men, pushed himself past his limits, and this was the thanks he got? His fists clenched at his sides. 'Right. Sure,' he muttered, voice flat. 'Good luck with the bandits, then.' He grabbed Ash, turned on his heel, and marched toward the door, the chief's glare burning into his back.
The bear cub — growing too big to be hauled around like this — growled his complaint at being moved, warm fur pressing against Greg's chest. He ignored it, already moving toward the door with slow, measured steps.
He could feel the tension crackling in the air behind him, the chief's glare burning holes in his back as the wooden floorboards creaked under each step.
But he didn't care anymore. So done with this medieval drama.
The evening air hit his face as he stepped outside, sharp and cold after the stuffy hall. The sudden temperature change almost made him shiver as his skin began to cool down proper in the cold air. Wyll came rushing after him, breathing hard, boots pounding against the packed earth. "M'lord, please," he begged, voice tight with worry. "'E don't know what 'e's saying. Chief's a proud man, just slow to trust. Give 'im some time."
Greg paused just long enough to glance back over his shoulder, catching Wyll's desperate look and feeling a little bad at not staying to help. The fading sunlight painted long shadows across the man's worried face. "I've had bad experiences with chiefs, man," he said, voice coming out low and tired. "I'm not staying when one at least lets me know he's gonna be weird about me."
"M'lord, it's not safe to go alone," Wyll called again. "There's been talk of monsters, devils, beasts with no names!"
Greg rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine, man." Nothing a little Sanctuary spell can't keep me safe from.
With that, he kept walking, Ash's warm weight settled against his chest as the cub yawned and made himself comfortable. Greg's boots crunched over loose stones as he made his way toward the village gate, each step taking him further from another disappointment. The setting sun painted everything in shades of orange and red as he walked out.
As he finally slipped out past the village gate, his footsteps crunching over the small stones littering the path, Greg froze as he felt his pulse slow and his soul stretch out again in all directions.
The feeling was normal by now, despite how sporadic its appearances were. Like a muscle stretching after being cramped too long, something inside him reached out into the darkness. He didn't feel any new strength or skill pouring in, nothing obvious, but there was… a shift.
Something was definitely different, but he didn't know what.
He also wasn't sure it was him that was different either.
Greg blinked, jolted back to reality as Ash let out a startled grunt, the cub landing on his paws with a small thud. The bear shook himself, fur rippling, and looked up at Greg with wide, almost questioning eyes. There was something different about his gaze—sharper, more aware. The cub's muscles tensed, his head swiveling as a low growl rumbled from his chest.
"Uh… sorry, bud," he muttered, still staring at the cub, who seemed just as off-kilter as he was. Ash glanced down at his paws, then around, like he was seeing the world in a new light, his dark eyes glinting with a strange, sharp intelligence Greg had never seen before. The bear's muscles tensed and relaxed under his fur, movements more precise than usual.
"What was th—"
The words dried in his throat as the air shifted—silent, tense. Greg's breath hitched as the faint rumble of hooves cut through the evening stillness. It grew louder, faster, a steady drumbeat of menace. He spun toward the sound, heart hammering in his chest.
Then they appeared: six riders, cloaks streaming like black wings, charging from the trees. Shadows followed in their wake—men on foot, their boots pounding against the earth in a relentless rhythm. The glint of steel caught the dying light, sharp and deadly.
Instinct kicked in before his brain could catch up.
A sharp whistle cut through the chaos, sharp and deadly. He didn't have time to think, to breathe as his hand moved on its own, snapping up.
The arrow struck his palm like a thunderclap, impact reverberating up his arm as his fingers closed around the shaft. For a heartbeat, everything froze—Greg staring at the arrow in disbelief, his breath caught in his chest.
"Holy shit," he whispered, more in disbelief than anything else. The arrow trembled in his grip before he tossed it aside, adrenaline surging through his veins.
The riders were close now, too close, and he could see their faces twisted into hungry snarls, eyes fixed right on him like wolves spotting prey. Their armor clinked with each horse's stride, metal and leather creaking in a rising chorus of threat. He glanced back, half-laughing again, a reflex he couldn't control as his pulse pounded in his ears. "Holy shit!"
His hand darted back to his bag, fingers fumbling over the familiar hilt. The smooth white grip felt warm against his palm as he pulled free his sword, the white blade catching the light. "Let's go!"
10k Words - 100 GP
Roll: Dragon [Wizards of Waverly Place] {Control} (100 GP) - Dragons in this world can be enchanted to look like ordinary animals, and now, you can bring one of them with you. Pick a real-life animal such as a dog, a cat, or even a platypus. You now have a dragon companion that is enchanted to look like that animal.
Grimoire Points: 650