Act II — The Road of Oaths
Greystone had grown with him.
When Shithead was a boy, the square had seemed as wide as the world, its cobbles endless, its cottages towering. Now, at sixteen, he looked around and realized the village hadn't changed so much as he had. He could walk from the willow by the stream to the smithy in under ten minutes. He could see the ridge behind the fields and know exactly how far his legs could carry him before dusk. Greystone was still Greystone — the same thatched roofs, the same well-worn lanes, the same voices echoing through its market — but he was no longer the boy who had hidden behind his mother's skirts.
He was taller than most grown men now, broad in the shoulders, his strength plain to anyone who saw him heft a sack of grain as easily as a child carried a loaf. His tusks had grown more pronounced, curling forward just enough to mark him at a glance as different. Some nodded to him with respect when he passed. Others muttered the same words that had haunted him since childhood. Orc blood. Trouble waiting to happen.
In truth, the years had been a mixture of both.
The Growing Years
At twelve, he had worked the harvest fields for the first time, swinging a scythe beside Maren until his arms ached. By thirteen, he had outpaced most boys his age in strength, drawing both admiration and suspicion. By fourteen, he had been given his first true blade by his father, forged by Alan's master at the smithy. "A tool first, a weapon only if you must," Maren had said when he placed it in Shithead's hands.
At fifteen, he and Mira had dared each other into the old quarry again, climbing higher, braver than before. That same year, Tomas had nearly drowned trying to ford the stream, and Shithead had hauled him out, sputtering and cursing, while Alan laughed until he cried. Lysa had begun tending the sick with herbs and poultices, her calm hands earning her respect even from Garrick's bitter tongue.
The Willow Pact had held through it all. They met less often than when they were small, but each time they gathered beneath the willow, the laughter came back, and the world shrank to their circle. They had once sworn to keep each other's secrets. Now, at nearly grown, that vow carried the weight of friendship that had weathered storms.
The Village
Greystone itself had changed in small ways. The smithy had grown busier, its new tiled roof proof of good trade. Two cottages had sprung up along the road toward Westmarch, home to families who'd come seeking land to till. The tavern had added another room, though Tomas swore the ale hadn't improved. The old oak by the square had been cut down after a storm split it, and children now played around its stump as if it had always been there.
With growth came more voices, more mouths, more eyes. Some saw Shithead as a boon — strong hands, steady work, a lad who could carry twice what others could. Others looked at him and saw only tusks. Garrick's glare had never softened, though his cane grew heavier each year. More than once, Shithead had caught whispers when he passed the well: He'll turn on us one day. Wait and see.
But he also had allies. Widow Tamsin never failed to slip him a candied ginger when he helped her with her stall, patting his hand and calling him "my oak tree." The baker's wife saved him the heel of bread loaves. Children still too young to know whispers from truth often chased him through the square, laughing when he pretended to be a lumbering giant.
Greystone was a village divided, but it was home.
Training in the Shadows
Through it all, the memory of the paladin in the thicket never left him.
The words — Bravery is not in victory. It is in standing when others would fall — had carved themselves into his bones. Shithead trained as if every swing of his arm might one day matter. He sparred with Alan using wooden staves, learning not just to strike but to block, to endure. He practiced alone with his father's blade, repeating drills until his muscles screamed. He studied how to move quietly through the forest, how to listen for sounds in the underbrush.
He wasn't taught, not truly — no knight had guided his hand — but he learned by watching, by remembering, by trying again and again until even Mira admitted he had improved.
"You fight like someone's watching," she teased once, tossing him a stick.
"Someone is," he'd answered, though he wasn't sure who.
The Day of Return
It was nearing the end of summer when the rider came.
The market was busy that evening, merchants calling out their wares, the smell of roasting fowl drifting through the square. Shithead stood at the well, filling buckets for Elira, when the sound of hooves cut through the din. People turned, murmuring, parting to make way.
The rider was tall, armored, his cloak heavy despite the warmth. Upon it gleamed the crest of the silver sun.
For a moment, Shithead thought he had dreamt it again — the sword flashing, the cloak snapping, the wolves retreating. But this was no dream. The paladin dismounted, his boots striking the cobbles with authority that silenced the square.
Whispers rippled. Children pointed. Adults stared. Some bowed their heads in respect. Others only muttered.
The paladin's eyes swept the square, then fixed on him. As if the years had not passed. As if he had ridden here for this moment alone.
He approached, slow, deliberate. Shithead's throat tightened, his hands damp against the bucket's handle. He straightened, every muscle taut.
"You've grown," the paladin said, his voice the same as before — steady, weighty, like stone carried in water. "Do you remember me?"
Shithead swallowed. "Yes. From the forest."
The man nodded once. "You stood when no one else could. You bore a name with pride." His gaze flicked to the tusks, the broad shoulders, the worn handle of the blade at Shithead's belt. "Have you kept standing?"
Shithead's voice faltered, but he forced the words out. "I've tried."
The paladin studied him for a long moment, then drew a sealed letter from his cloak. He pressed it into Shithead's hand.
"The Order of the Silver Sun has need of those who try," he said. "We take only those willing to walk the road of oaths — a path of hardship, of sacrifice, of service. It will take you from this place, from your family, from all you know. But it may make of you more than Greystone ever will."
The parchment was thick, the seal unbroken, the weight of it more than the buckets he carried.
The paladin's eyes narrowed. "Will you come?"
The square seemed to fade around him. He no longer heard the merchants' calls or the chatter of children. He no longer saw Garrick scowling in the corner or Tamsin smiling faintly by her stall. He felt only the letter in his hand, heavier than any barrel he had lifted, brighter than any ribbon he had claimed.
Behind him, he thought of Elira's warm hand on his cheek, of Maren's steady voice, of laughter under the willow. Ahead — a road he did not know, a sword he had only imagined, a vow he had never spoken but always felt waiting.
The sun dipped low, setting the crest on the paladin's cloak ablaze.
Shithead closed his fingers around the letter.