The scent of roasted meats and simmering stews filled the air as the last rays of the sun bled over the mountains. The village square glowed under a canopy of lanterns strung between wooden beams and crooked trees, each one swaying softly in the evening breeze like stars dancing just above their heads.
Sid blinked as he stepped into the square, pausing mid-step when he saw the crowd gathered. Dozens of familiar faces — wrinkled farmers, laughing children, smiths with soot on their cheeks — all turning to greet him with warm eyes and wide grins.
"I… what is this?" Sid asked, dumbfounded.
A stern hand clamped onto his shoulder from behind.
"Close your mouth, young master," came the crisp voice of Maelin, who stood with perfect posture in a clean, ironed coat despite the dusty path behind them. "You're not a fish. And this isn't a funeral. Walk proud."
Sid turned and offered her a sheepish smile.
"You knew about this?"
"I arranged it."
She straightened his collar with the same firm, motherly precision she'd shown his entire life. "They may be simple villagers, but they know what it means to send off someone who matters."
He didn't know what to say. So he did as she told him: he walked proud.
The night came alive with laughter, music, and warmth.
Plates piled high with food were passed around as children darted between the tables, giggling. Someone strummed a beaten lyre. A girl from the herb field handed Sid a small, steaming bun and whispered, "For your journey." A boy he'd once sparred with elbowed him with a grin, "Try not to trip over your own sword out there."
Everyone laughed. Even Sid.
Maelin moved among the villagers like a shadow — efficient, respectful, but never far from Sid's eye. Every time he caught her glancing at him, her stern expression softened just enough to make his chest ache.
Dante stood in the background, leaning against a tree with arms crossed, observing. Occasionally, someone offered him a drink, and he nodded curtly, accepting with minimal words. He stayed distant — a looming figure at the edge of the light — and no one pressed him to join.
As the night deepened, the village elder, bent with age but sharp in tongue, stood atop a crate with a wooden cup raised high.
"Ahem," he cleared his throat. "I'd like to say something before we all get too drunk to remember it."
Laughter rippled.
He turned to Sid. "Boy, we've watched you grow. You've trained like a demon, eaten like one too, and nearly destroyed down my shed twice."
A few cheers and teasing jeers echoed.
"But you've also earned every scar and smile you've got. Tomorrow, the world gets a piece of you. But never forget — a piece of you stays here. In this valley. With us."
He raised his cup. "To Sid."
"To Sid!" the villagers echoed, raising theirs.
Sid stood stunned. Then slowly lifted his own cup, voice thick but steady.
"Thank you… all of you."
They drank. And for a moment, Sid didn't feel like a boy leaving home.
He felt like someone worth missing.
Later that night, after most of the lanterns had dimmed and the fires had dwindled to embers, Maelin approached him under the crooked willow tree.
"Still awake?" she asked.
Sid looked up from where he sat on the grass, arms wrapped around his knees. "Couldn't sleep even if I wanted to."
Maelin sat beside him, smoothing the skirt of her uniform.
"You were always like this the night before anything important. First duel, first sword, first trip outside the village wall. Restless as a fox in a henhouse."
Sid chuckled. "Guess I haven't changed."
Maelin reached into her coat and pulled out a neatly folded piece of black silk.
"This," she said, handing it to him, "was yours before you were even old enough to stand. I wrapped you in it during every storm, every fever, every nightmare you had."
Sid unfolded it slowly, hands trembling. It was soft, faintly worn. Still held the scent of lavender and old wood.
"I want you to take it with you," she said. "Not because you need it. But because it needs you."
Sid stared at her, jaw tight.
She cleared her throat. "And… well. I suppose I'll allow one hug."
He laughed through his nose and pulled her close. She held him like she always had — strong, unshaken, unbreakable.
"You've done me proud, young master," she whispered. "Now go make the rest of the world say the same."
The hilltop was silent save for the rustling of leaves when Sid found his grandfather sitting on the old stone bench beneath the stars.
They didn't speak at first. Just sat side by side, the stars above them scattered like silver dust.
Eventually, the old man broke the silence.
"You were always chasing something," he said. "Even before you knew what it was."
Sid smiled faintly. "Still am, I think."
His grandfather nodded. Then, slowly, he pulled something from his sleeve — a folded piece of parchment, old and creased.
"You remember this?"
Sid unfolded it. His eyes widened. A crude, crayon-drawn map of Dusk Valley, with arrows pointing to things like 'Secret training rock', 'Best hiding tree', and in the corner, a shaky scrawl:
"My future."
"I found it under your pillow once," his grandfather said. "Never threw it away."
Sid's throat tightened. "I… I didn't know you kept it."
"I keep everything that matters," the old man said. "Even if it doesn't look like much."
They sat together a while longer.
Then, just before Sid stood to leave, he said softly, "I'm nervous, yet excited. Mixed feelings hard to understand."
His grandfather didn't look surprised. Just placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Good," he said. "Means your heart's still beating. Go see the world. Experience it. Learn from it."
Sid hugged him. For a long, long time.