The tavern was warm, almost stifling, a soft orange glow flickering across the wooden walls from lanterns hung unevenly along the beams. The murmur of evening conversations washed together into a restless tide—voices rising, falling, clashing. Too many emotions, too many stories in one cramped room.

  Reid and Arttu sat at a small table tucked into a corner, the shadows gentler there, but not gentle enough.

  Reid lifted his head, forcing a polite tone.

  “Hey, what do you have to eat?”

  The bartender, a broad man with tired eyes and a rag over one shoulder, listed the options while counting them off on thick fingers.

  “We’ve got tomato soup, chicken soup, lentil soup… a few porridges… and a meat bowl if you want something heavy.”

  Reid turned toward Arttu, his voice softening into something almost fragile.

  “What do you want to eat, Arttu?”

  But Arttu didn’t answer.

  He just lowered his head. Quiet, small. His dark hair slid over his eyes like a curtain trying to hide the storm inside. His hands were balled in his lap, his breathing too thin to hear even from across the table.

  He didn’t understand why they were here.

  Why his home wasn’t his home anymore.

  Why everything warm in his life had been stolen in a single hour.

  Why the world was still spinning when his had stopped.

  Reid swallowed, the ache in his chest tightening.

  “One chicken soup,” he murmured to the bartender.

  He hesitated.

  “…make it two.”

  He placed twenty routs on the counter without looking at the coins. The bartender nodded and shuffled away.

  The wait should have been short.

  But the silence made every passing second feel like a full minute.

  Around them, the tavern was alive—too alive. A man laughed loudly at the far table, his voice slurred. Another spoke about a sister who’d passed last week, blaming the gods. Someone argued about taxes and the king’s new policies. Another bragged about a meal he’d eaten that morning.

  Ordinary things. Mundane things.

  The sounds of a world that kept moving.

  But each stray voice made Arttu flinch, shoulders tightening as if the words were stones being thrown at him. His fingers twitched. His breathing shortened.

  And every time Arttu recoiled, Reid felt something inside him break again—quietly, invisibly, like cracks forming in a frozen lake.

  When the soups finally arrived—simple bowls of steaming broth with thin strips of meat—the bartender placed them down gently, as if sensing something fragile at the table. Reid thanked him with a nod, voice barely audible.

  He lifted his spoon. The moment it touched his lips, he blinked.

  It was good.

  Shockingly good, even.

  Warm, rich, comforting—the kind of taste that should belong to a peaceful night, not a shattered one.

  He realized only then how long it had been since he’d tasted anything that made him feel… present.

  He wasn’t even hungry. His stomach was a tight knot of grief.

  But the soup reminded him that he was still alive.

  He glanced sideways.

  Arttu hadn’t moved.

  His spoon lay untouched.

  His eyes were fixed on the bowl, wide and empty, as if staring at something he didn’t deserve to touch.

  Dry tear marks streaked his cheeks like scars.

  Reid breathed slowly, then forced a smile onto his face—too bright, too big, too fragile. He stretched it until it felt like something real, even if it wasn’t.

  “The soup is really tasty,” he said, voice light, almost cheerful. “You should eat it.”

  The effect was immediate.

  Arttu’s eyes snapped up—fear, confusion, hesitation all swirling inside them. It was the look of someone starving who didn’t believe the food was meant for him.

  Then, slowly, as if afraid it would be taken from him, Arttu reached out. His fingers trembled as he lifted the spoon. He tasted the soup.

  And then another spoonful.

  And another—faster, almost desperate.

  Like a child who’d forgotten warmth and found it again.

  Reid’s forced smile softened into something real. His chest loosened. The crushing anxiety that had been strangling him finally eased, just a little.

  His world was ash.

  Burned. Lost.

  Buried under three fresh graves.

  But across the table from him, sipping soup with trembling hands, was the last burning spark left to him.

  His brother.

  His promise.

  Reid felt his heartbeat steady for the first time since that night. He remembered the frozen forest years ago, Arttu asleep in his arms, the snow trying to swallow them whole. He remembered the vow he made, the vow that still lived in him, clear as fire:

  No matter what happens—

  no matter what the world tries to take—

  I will protect him.

  I will protect him.

  I will protect him.

  And as Arttu ate, quietly and desperately, Reid realized:

  He didn’t need to say the promise aloud.

  He was living it.

  Every step.

  Every breath.

  Every moment that kept Arttu alive.

  Some time later, the door of the tavern opened again.

  A woman stepped inside, wrapped in a dark scarf despite the warmth of the room. Thin glasses rested on her nose, catching the lantern light as she scanned the interior once—measured, careful—before her gaze settled on a single table.

  She approached slowly.

  Reid noticed her only when the chair beside him shifted.

  “Hello, Reid.”

  Her voice was calm, practiced—but sadness clung to it, soft and unmistakable.

  Reid turned, recognition dawning a heartbeat later.

  “…Lady Mirvana.”

  Mirvana Tenzel gave a small nod. Then her eyes moved to Arttu.

  “Hello, little man.”

  She tried to smile. Tried to sound normal.

  But grief lived between her words.

  Arttu stiffened immediately and slid closer to Reid, his shoulder pressing against his brother’s arm. He didn’t look at her.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Mirvana noticed—but didn’t comment.

  She folded her hands together on the table and spoke quietly, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

  “We held another meeting with King Rucon after you left.”

  Reid straightened.

  “The conditions we discussed will now be enforced.”

  She took a breath.

  “You are not permitted to stay within city limits,” she said evenly. “You may enter a city, but only for a maximum of three hours at a time. During that period, a royal guard will be stationed nearby to observe you.”

  Her eyes flicked briefly toward Arttu.

  “This duration may be adjusted in extreme circumstances. Illness. Injury. Emergency.”

  She paused.

  “But the final condition remains unchanged.”

  Her voice lowered.

  “If Arttu ever harms a citizen of the kingdom—intentionally or otherwise—he will be executed.”

  The words landed heavy and final, like a blade set down on stone.

  Mirvana’s expression tightened.

  “My sister, Lunia, insisted on this. She called it… ‘the price of safety.’”

  Reid’s jaw clenched. Arttu’s fingers dug into his sleeve.

  Then Mirvana continued, carefully.

  “However—”

  She looked up, meeting Reid’s eyes.

  “If Arttu’s cursed energy is ever brought under control, or purged entirely, all restrictions will be lifted.”

  A faint spark entered her voice.

  “Sir Baranor proposed this. The king accepted immediately.”

  For the first time since she arrived, Reid breathed.

  “But until then,” Mirvana added gently, “you should remain out of sight as much as possible.”

  She leaned back slightly.

  “You are still a knight, Reid. A wandering knight. Your duties remain unchanged. If you encounter threats—cult activity, cursed beings, violations—you are expected to intervene and report as you always have.”

  Her gaze softened as she looked at Arttu again.

  “And you…” she said quietly, offering him a small, careful smile. “You are also a knight now. A wandering knight.”

  Arttu blinked.

  “In fact,” she added, “you are the youngest knight Aquilonis has ever recorded.”

  Arttu didn’t respond at first. His fear lingered, heavy and instinctive.

  But when he glanced up and saw Reid smiling at him—proud, gentle, unbroken—something eased inside him.

  Just for a moment.

  A faint smile appeared on Arttu’s face.

  Mirvana stood.

  “Well,” she said softly, adjusting her scarf, “I should go.”

  She hesitated, then added—her voice barely above a whisper:

  “Please… do not break these rules. Not even slightly.”

  Her eyes darkened.

  “Lunia has eyes all over Aquilonis.”

  The way she said it wasn’t dramatic.

  It was frightened.

  Then she turned and walked away, disappearing into the tavern crowd—leaving behind the unmistakable sense that even now, even here, they were being watched.

  Reid returned to the castle gates with Arttu at his side, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—for one last moment. One last word. One last farewell to the people who had been anchors in the storm.

  The guards noticed them immediately.

  As Reid stepped forward, the spears crossed in front of him with practiced precision.

  “I am sorry, Sir Reid,” one of the guards said, his voice respectful but unyielding. “We have been ordered not to permit your entry into the castle.”

  Reid stopped.

  For a moment, something in his chest tightened—not anger, not surprise, just understanding. He had known this would happen. The king had been merciful, but mercy still had boundaries.

  He bowed his head slightly.

  “Then please,” he said quietly, “inform Sir Harven and Lady Emilia that we have departed.”

  The guard hesitated only a second before nodding.

  “Of course, Sir Reid. As you command.”

  That was it.

  No final embrace.

  No last conversation.

  No chance to explain, or promise, or say the words he had buried too deep.

  Reid turned away from the castle without looking back.

  And so, they left Aquilonis.

  There was no caravan waiting for them. No escort. No clear destination.

  Just the road.

  They left on foot, walking past the outer walls and into the open land beyond. Reid held Arttu’s hand tightly at first, as if afraid the world might take him away the moment he loosened his grip.

  Where would they go?

  The question lingered, unanswered.

  At least Priscilla, Reid thought. I can show him where he was born.

  He glanced down.

  Arttu walked beside him quietly. He wasn’t smiling—but he wasn’t crying either. His face was calm, distant, as if he had accepted the weight of the world and decided not to fight it anymore.

  And yet… his hand never left Reid’s.

  A faint, tired smile touched Reid’s lips.

  “I guess,” he murmured to himself, “we’ll walk.”

  The journey was gentler than Reid had expected.

  They passed windmills turning lazily in the breeze, wide fields of grain bending under the sun, farmers pausing in their work to watch them pass. Life went on—quiet, stubborn, indifferent to loss.

  They walked for days.

  Some nights they stayed in taverns—places filled with laughter, arguments, and half-told stories. Other nights were heavier, filled with silence and shadows. Arttu slept close to Reid, always close.

  In one tavern, their table was near a group of men whispering urgently.

  “Did you hear?” one said. “Another army wiped out. Just… gone.”

  The speaker’s voice trembled.

  “It’s that elf, right?” another murmured. “They say anyone who sees him dies instantly.”

  A third scoffed.

  “Huh? If everyone who sees him dies, then how do we even know about him?”

  The first man frowned.

  “That’s just a saying, you dumbass.”

  Their laughter was uneasy, forced.

  Reid listened without comment, finishing his drink in silence. When he stood and took Arttu’s hand, the voices faded behind them.

  But the unease stayed.

  Not far from the road, they found her.

  An old woman stood beside a shattered caravan, its wheels splintered, its wooden frame torn apart as if by deliberate cruelty. Bags of wheat lay spilled across the ground, trampled into the dirt.

  She looked small. Tired. Alone.

  Reid slowed his steps and approached carefully.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said gently. “Is everything all right?”

  The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were clouded with exhaustion, but sharp enough to take in both Reid and the boy behind him.

  “Bandits,” she said after a moment. “Came while I was transporting wheat to my village.”

  She sighed, resting a hand against the broken caravan.

  “They told me to step away. I did. Then there was a boy—red hair, spiky, with a scar on his face. Couldn’t have been more than fourteen. Seemed like their leader.”

  Her voice tightened.

  “His men told him there was no gold. Just wheat.”

  She gave a bitter laugh.

  “He didn’t like that.”

  The woman mimicked the boy’s voice mockingly:

  ‘If the treasure ain't gold, then the caravan gets broke’

  “They destroyed everything.”

  She looked down at her hands.

  “I tried to stop them. They threatened to cut my hair off if I interfered.”

  She scoffed softly.

  “Cut my hair off.”

  Reid’s expression darkened, something cold flickering behind his eyes.

  The woman noticed—and quickly raised a hand.

  “Please,” she said. “They’re just children. They don’t know what they’re doing. Don’t hurt them, boy.”

  Reid caught a glimpse of Arttu’s face.

  The boy was watching him closely—wide-eyed, uncertain, fear quietly gathering in his gaze. It was subtle, but Reid saw it instantly. And just as quickly, he changed.

  The shadow in his eyes vanished, replaced by a gentle smile so bright it almost hurt to wear.

  He turned back to the old woman and spoke softly.

  “Please, ma’am. Stay here. I’ll find a way to fix your caravan. Where can I find the nearest village or tavern?”

  The woman’s expression softened, relief loosening the lines on her face. She lifted a hand and pointed down the road.

  “My village is just ahead,” she said. “My grandson—Alu—is there. He built this caravan himself. If you could inform him…”

  Reid nodded without hesitation.

  “Of course.”

  He turned to Arttu and crouched slightly so their eyes met.

  “Hey,” he said lightly, as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. “Could you stay here with this granny for a little while?”

  Arttu’s fingers tightened around Reid’s hand, instinctively, fear answering before thought.

  But Reid’s smile didn’t waver. It was warm. Certain. Safe.

  Slowly—reluctantly—Arttu let go and stepped closer to the old woman’s side.

  “I’ll be back,” Reid promised. “Just a moment.”

  Three hours passed.

  When the sound of wheels finally reached them, Arttu looked up first.

  A caravan emerged from the road, lanterns swaying gently at its sides. It stopped near the broken remains of the old one, and before anyone could speak, a young man leapt down.

  “Grandma!”

  He ran to her and wrapped his arms around her tightly, holding on as if afraid she might vanish again. For a moment he said nothing. Then his voice broke into something sharper.

  “What were you thinking?” he demanded, pulling back just enough to look at her. “You could’ve been hurt. I told you not to leave the village—we were all looking for you!”

  The old woman laughed, warm and unbothered, and patted his arm.

  “Oh, Alu, don’t be angry,” she said. “I was bored.”

  Then she smiled wider and gestured toward Reid and Arttu.

  “And if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have met these two fine gentlemen.”

  She looked at them fondly.

  “Come back to the village with us,” she said. “We have room in our home.”

  Reid instinctively shook his head.

  “No, we wouldn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Disturb?” she repeated, almost offended. “You helped me when I needed it most. There’s no disturbance in kindness.”

  Alu looked at Reid then, really looked at him, and nodded.

  “You’re welcome,” he said simply.

  They worked together, loading the scattered wheat into the repaired caravan. The road to the village was short, lanterns lighting the path as dusk settled into night.

  The village was small. Quiet. Warm.

  That night, laughter filled the house.

  Food was shared. Stories were exchanged. A fire crackled gently in the hearth. Arttu ate slowly at first, then more freely, his shoulders relaxing bit by bit.

  And Reid—Reid felt something ache inside his chest.

  Not pain.

  Longing.

  It felt like the Wandering Flame.

  Like the nights he used to come back during academy holidays. Like Arttu’s fifth birthday, when Fiona had shoved his face into the cake, laughing so hard she’d fallen over. Like that one night they played hide and seek and couldn’t find Fiona anywhere—until she burst out laughing from inside a grain sack.

  Their home had been loud. Clumsy. Warm.

  Reid stared into the firelight, the glow painting the room in gold, and for just a moment—just a fragile, dangerous moment—it felt like that warmth had found him again.

  Even for just a moment. It was still warmth.

  And it made him happy.