In a small valley hidden between two ancient hills, the wind blew softly, carrying the scent of wet earth and young leaves. There were no palaces, no towers. Only old wooden houses, the morning cries of chickens, and children running fearlessly. That was where I lived for a while. I disguised myself as nothing, because I had nothing to hide, and no one needed to explain.
In this village, they didn't know me as the demon king. No one knew of the Arvellis war, of Seraphine, Lysette, or the blood that once flowed on the great altars of the old world. They knew me simply as an old man who liked to mend fences, replace thatched roofs, and occasionally sing strange songs in a forgotten language.
Every evening, I sat before the fire in the small house I had borrowed from an old widow. She had lost her husband in the war, but she held no grudge. "If I get angry, he won't come back," she said as she brewed tea. "But if I smile… at least I can make the world where my grandson grows up a little brighter."
And that's the greatest lesson I've learned after all the bloodshed.
I used to think change came from the throne, from a sword chosen by fate, or from victory on the battlefield. But now I know: true change often comes from ordinary people who choose not to perpetuate the pain.
Those who don't write their stories in stone, but weave them in small acts:
—A farmer who shares seeds with a neighbor who was once an enemy.
—A child who learns a language from another village so they can play together.
—A mother who teaches her child that skin color is no reason to be afraid.
I once led an army that shook the world. But now, I see a greater power: a grandfather who teaches his grandson to plant trees, not for their fruit, but for the shade they will provide.
That is the unwritten legacy. One that cannot be burned, cannot be forged, and cannot be stolen.
One night, a young man came to me. He recognized my face from somewhere. Perhaps from the scraps of history left in the old markets. He wasn't angry. But he asked in a trembling voice, "You... burned my village down, didn't you?"
I nodded. No defense. No excuses.
He stared at me for a long time, before finally saying, "Then... help me build a new house."
And I did. With my own hands.
We didn't talk much after that. But every morning, we laid one stone at a time. Not to remember the wound, but to ensure that something could grow on it.
That night, I wrote in my little diary:
> "There are legacies left in blood and legend.
But there are also those that grow silently—in hearts that choose not to hate."
And maybe… maybe that's what's more lasting.
A few weeks later, the house stood tall. Not grand, but warm. The roof was made of new thatch, the walls were made of fragrant pine, and in the corner of the yard grew a small tree we'd planted together—a young Arhel tree, the last surviving seedling from the north.
The young man never asked my name. And I never asked his. But every time he lit a lantern on the porch of his new home, I felt like I was lighting a small light in a future we'd never imagined.
On nights like that, when the sound of crickets mixed with the night songs from the neighboring forest, I realized that this world never truly waits for heroes.
It just needs more people willing to love silently.
Selflessly. Without titles. Without wanting to be remembered.
Because not all legacies are written in stone.
Something grows from a hug that doesn't return a blow. From the laughter of children who have never known war. From those who break the chain of revenge, even though they have a thousand reasons to continue continuing it.
And if one day I am no longer in this valley, I know there will be no statue erected, no name engraved.
But maybe, just maybe…
...there will be a child sitting under the Arhel tree,
and asked,
"Who planted this first?"
And the world, calmly, will answer:
> "Someone who has ever chosen to forgive."