The forest north of Greystone was said to be safe enough by day — hunters walked its edges, children picked berries in its shallows. But past the old stone marker where moss grew thick, parents warned never to go. Too many shadows, too many stories of wolves, even whispers of worse things.
Which made it, of course, irresistible.
Mira led the way, stick in hand, her braid swinging like a banner. "If the quarry didn't break us, nothing will. Besides, I heard Peth say the biggest berries grow past the marker."
Tomas groaned. "Biggest wolves too."
Alan shot him a look. "Don't start."
Lysa followed quietly, basket on her arm. "We'll be quick. Just to see."
Shithead trailed at the back, knife on his belt — a simple blade Maren had given him last spring to cut rope and carve wood. He wasn't supposed to carry it into play, but something about the forest pressed heavier than the quarry had.
The trees thickened as they walked, the air cooler. Birds chattered, unseen, and the crunch of leaves underfoot seemed too loud. When they passed the moss-covered stone, a hush fell. Even Mira hesitated, though only for a moment.
"There," she said, pointing. A thicket of brambles stretched ahead, fat berries gleaming dark as ink.
The children darted forward, laughing with relief. Tomas yelped as thorns snagged his sleeve. Alan grabbed handfuls of berries, staining his fingers purple. Mira dared Shithead to climb the low rock beside the thicket. Lysa began filling her basket, humming to calm her nerves.
Then the growl came.
Low, guttural, rolling through the underbrush like thunder.
The laughter stopped.
From the thicket's shadow slunk a shape larger than any dog — a wolf, its fur ragged, its eyes yellow with hunger. Another growl rumbled from behind it, and another form emerged. Two.
Tomas dropped his berries. "Saints…"
Alan grabbed his stick, knuckles white. Mira froze, breath caught. Lysa clutched her basket to her chest.
Shithead stepped forward, hand on his knife. His heart hammered, but something steadied him — the way his friends stood behind him, the way Garrick's voice echoed in his memory (orc blood), and his father's words (Your worth is in your hands).
The first wolf crept closer, muscles coiled.
Shithead drew the knife. "Stay behind me."
The wolf lunged.
He met it with a shout, slashing instinctively. The blade grazed its shoulder, enough to make it yelp and twist aside. But the second wolf sprang from the left. Alan swung his stick wildly, knocking it back for only a moment.
Chaos filled the clearing — Mira hurling rocks, Tomas screaming as he tried to help, Lysa dragging Alan away from snapping jaws. Shithead swung again, his strength keeping the wolves at bay, but he knew it wasn't enough. Two against one, their teeth flashing, their bodies circling. His knife was small, his arms already aching.
The wolves lunged together.
And then — light.
A voice thundered: "Back, beasts!"
A man strode into the clearing, tall, armored, a longsword flashing like fire in the dim light. His cloak bore the crest of a silver sun. With one sweep, he struck the first wolf aside. The second snarled, but at the sight of him it faltered, ears flattening. Another sweep of steel, and both wolves fled, tails low, vanishing into the brush.
Silence crashed after the growls.
The children stood frozen, eyes wide. Shithead's chest heaved, knife still clutched, arm trembling.
The man turned, lowering his sword. His face was stern, lined by years, but his eyes softened when they fell on the group of children. "You should not be here."
Mira found her tongue first. "We—we only wanted berries."
The man's gaze moved to Shithead, lingering on his tusks, his broad frame, his knife stained with a thin line of blood. "And you," he said quietly. "You stood against them."
Shithead swallowed. "I… I tried."
The paladin knelt, resting his sword tip in the earth. "Bravery is not in victory. It is in standing when others would fall."
The words sank deep, truer than any he had heard.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Shithead," he said, voice low but steady.
The paladin didn't flinch. He repeated it once, carefully, as if weighing it. "Shi-theed." Then he nodded. "A rare name. And rare names often carry rare destinies."
Shithead's chest tightened, the ribbon on his wrist suddenly feeling like more than a festival prize.
The paladin rose, towering, and sheathed his sword. "Go home. Stay to the safe paths. And remember — courage without wisdom is wasted. Choose when to stand, and you may yet grow into more than strength."
With that, he turned and strode away, his cloak brushing the grass, the silver sun crest gleaming until the trees swallowed him.
The children stood in stunned silence.
Finally Tomas exhaled, shaky and loud. "Well. That was terrifying."
Mira's grin returned, though thinner than usual. "We survived."
Alan looked at Shithead. "Because of you."
Shithead shook his head, still staring at the spot where the paladin had vanished. "Because of him."
Lysa touched his arm gently. "But you stood before he came. That means something."
The ribbon on his wrist felt heavier now, twined with the memory of steel flashing in the dark and words ringing like a vow. He didn't know yet what it meant, but a seed had been planted — one that would grow, in time, toward the light of the silver sun.