The morning of his leaving dawned clear and sharp. The sky was the pale blue of fresh-washed linen, the air crisp with the hint of autumn. Greystone stirred slowly, smoke curling from chimneys, the smell of bread mixing with damp earth.
Shithead stood in the cottage doorway, his pack slung over one shoulder. It wasn't heavy — a bedroll, a waterskin, a change of clothes, the blade Maren had given him. Yet it felt as though he carried the weight of the whole village.
Elira fussed over the straps for the third time. "Too loose. It'll cut your shoulder raw." Her fingers trembled as she tightened the leather.
"Ma," Shithead said softly. "It's fine."
"It's not fine," she snapped, though her voice broke. She smoothed his tunic, straightened the pack again, then cupped his face with both hands. "Eat whenever you can. Don't let yourself go hungry. And keep your feet dry. You'll walk farther than you think."
He leaned into her palms, tusks pressing gently against her skin. "I'll be all right."
Her eyes shimmered. "You're my boy. You'll always be my boy."
Maren waited by the hearth, silent as ever. When Elira finally stepped back, wiping her eyes, Maren came forward. In his hands was a small bundle wrapped in cloth.
"I made this for you."
Shithead unwrapped it carefully. Inside lay a whetstone, smooth and gray, its edges worn by Maren's years of sharpening. Beside it, a small carving of oak, no bigger than his palm, shaped into a simple shield.
"For your blade, so it stays true," Maren said. "And for your heart, so it remembers where it came from."
Shithead swallowed hard. "Da… I don't know what to say."
"Then don't." Maren set a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Just listen once more. Strength alone won't make you a man. Strength without wisdom breaks more than it mends. You'll be tested. Remember this: choose when to stand, and when to bend. The oak breaks in the storm. The willow survives."
Shithead nodded, throat tight. He tucked the whetstone into his pack, the carving into his pocket.
When he stepped outside, the Willow Pact was waiting beneath the great tree. The morning light dappled through its branches, casting shifting shadows over their faces.
Alan stood first, grinning as always, though his eyes shone damp. He held out a dagger, its hilt plain but sturdy. "Made it myself. Master says it's not perfect, but it's yours. A blade from Greystone, for when yours breaks."
Shithead took it reverently. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," Alan said, clapping his back. "Just don't get killed before I get famous. I want people to know the paladin carried my work."
Mira was next. She pressed a small leather pouch into his hand. "Coins. Not much, but enough for a meal or two if you get stuck. And a lockpick." She winked at his startled look. "Don't ask. Just know that someday, you'll need to open a door quietly."
He shook his head, smiling despite himself. "You'll get me arrested."
"You'll get yourself arrested. I'm just helping." But her grin faltered, and for a moment her hand lingered on his. "Don't forget us, Shi-theed."
"I couldn't if I tried."
Tomas lumbered forward, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He thrust a bundle at Shithead. Inside was a meat pie, slightly squashed but fragrant. "For the road," Tomas said, voice thick. "You'll need it more than me."
Shithead laughed, pulling him into a hug. "You'll starve without this."
"I'll manage," Tomas said, trying to sound gruff. Then he whispered, "Come back, all right? Don't go off and be some shining hero forever. Come back."
Last was Lysa. She stepped forward slowly, carrying something wrapped in linen. She unfolded it to reveal a small charm: a cord strung with five wooden beads, each bead carved with a simple symbol — a hammer, a braid, a pie, a flower, and a tusked smile.
"The Pact," she said softly. "One bead for each of us. Wear it, and you'll never walk alone."
Shithead looked down at his wrist. The ribbon was still there — frayed, faded, the prize of a boy's contest long past. He untied it slowly. For a moment he held it, remembering the festival laughter, the pride of standing stronger than the other boys. That victory had been his alone.
Now he folded the ribbon carefully, tucking it deep in his pack. Then he tied the charm around his wrist in its place. It sat snug against his skin, each bead pressing into him — Alan's hammer, Mira's braid, Tomas' pie, Lysa's flower, and his own tusked grin.
No longer a mark of what he had won for himself, but of what they had given him.
His chest ached. "It's perfect."
They all stacked their hands once more beneath the willow, just as they had when they were children. Shithead's was at the bottom, grounding them; Mira's quick fingers above; Alan's callused grip; Tomas' broad palm; Lysa's gentle touch at the top.
"The Willow Pact," they said together.
For a moment, the world was still.
Then the sound of hooves carried across the square. The paladin waited at the edge of the village, his cloak of silver sun bright in the morning light.
It was time.
Elira and Maren joined him there. His mother kissed his cheek one last time, tears streaking hers. His father squeezed his shoulder, steady as stone. "Walk tall, son. And walk wise."
Shithead turned once more to the willow, to the faces of his friends, to the cottages and fields of Greystone. Every detail seemed sharper, as if the village wanted to etch itself into his memory before he left.
Then he closed his fingers around the beads at his wrist, squared his shoulders, and walked to the waiting horse.
The paladin handed him the reins. "Are you ready?"
Shithead looked back one final time. Elira's eyes shining. Maren's steady gaze. Mira's smirk hiding tears. Alan's grin forced wide. Tomas chewing his lip. Lysa's quiet smile. The willow swaying, whispering in the morning breeze.
"I'm ready," he said.
He mounted, the leather creaking beneath him. The paladin turned his own horse, and together they rode out, the village fading behind.
The road stretched before him, long and uncertain. But the charm pressed against his wrist, the whetstone heavy in his pack, the memory of voices echoing in his heart.
For the first time, Shithead was leaving Greystone.
For the first time, he was stepping onto the road of oaths.