The road stretched like a thread of dust between hedgerows, fields, and low stone walls, winding out from Greystone into the wider world. Shithead had walked its first miles often — to the mill, the shrine, the farthest fields — but never past the ridgeline where the hills gathered like sleeping beasts. Now, mounted on a mare that shifted restlessly beneath his weight, he crossed that boundary for the first time.
The morning sun gilded the village roofs behind him. The willow by the stream was the last thing he saw before the bend swallowed Greystone from sight. For a moment, his throat tightened. He touched the cord on his wrist — five carved beads pressing into his skin — and pressed on.
Ser Kaelen rode ahead, steady in the saddle, his honey-colored warhorse surefooted even on loose stones. The paladin's cloak caught the light, silver sun crest flashing as though it burned with its own fire. He had spoken little since dawn, and Shithead, shifting awkwardly on his own horse, found the silence as heavy as armor.
Day One
The first stretch was farmland. Furrows of barley and rye ran golden under the sun. Children chased chickens between cottages; dogs barked at the passing riders. Farmers straightened from their hoes to stare, some tipping their caps to Kaelen, some narrowing their eyes at Shithead's tusks.
He kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. The whispers of Greystone had followed him. He could hear them even now, though he tried to drown them in the clop of hooves. Orc blood. Trouble waiting to happen.
By midday, his thighs burned. He had thought himself strong, used to long days in the fields, but riding was another trial altogether. His back screamed, his knees ached, his fingers clenched white around the reins. He shifted again and again, but nothing brought ease. His mare snorted as if mocking him.
Kaelen glanced back only once. "You ride poorly," he said, voice flat.
Shithead flushed. "I've never ridden this far."
"Then learn quickly. The road is long."
They made camp that night by a stream. Kaelen built the fire with efficient movements: gather, strike, catch. Shithead tried to mirror him, fumbling with the flint until sparks finally kissed tinder. His reward was a gruff nod.
They ate Tomas's pie, half-squashed but fragrant, washing it down with stream water. Shithead devoured his share in minutes; Kaelen ate with measured bites, as though even supper was a discipline.
When the fire burned low, Shithead asked, "What's your name?"
"Kaelen," the paladin said simply. After a pause, he added, "Ser Kaelen, of the Order of the Silver Sun."
Shithead rolled the name on his tongue. "Why me? Out of everyone?"
Kaelen's eyes held steady across the flames. "Because you stood."
"That's all?"
"That's everything."
Shithead lay awake long after, staring at the dark canopy of stars. The beads pressed into his wrist, grounding him. He dreamed of wolves again, but this time he did not stand alone.
Day Two
They broke camp before dawn. The road dipped into rolling meadows, green waves dotted with yellow wildflowers. Bees droned, larks wheeled high above, and the air smelled of clover. Shithead marveled at the sky, so wide it seemed to swallow him whole. For the first time, he realized how small Greystone truly was.
At midday they overtook a caravan: a wagon creaking under barrels, mules laden with cloth, children chasing after. The traders greeted Kaelen with respect, nodding low to the silver sun crest. When they noticed Shithead, some smiles stiffened. One little girl pointed openly at his tusks before her mother pulled her close with a murmur.
Shithead's chest tightened. He had thought leaving Greystone meant leaving whispers behind. But they rode with him still.
Kaelen must have noticed his silence. "Do not waste yourself on the stares of strangers," he said. "If they see only tusks, let them. You know what you are."
Shithead touched the charm on his wrist. What I am is not alone, he thought.
That evening, Kaelen cut two lengths of branch and handed one to him. "Balance," he said, striking with sudden swiftness.
Shithead stumbled back, barely raising his stave in time. They sparred in the fading light — Kaelen precise, Shithead clumsy but fierce. Each fall drove dirt into his palms, each bruise a lesson. When at last Kaelen nodded once, Shithead's chest swelled as though he had been knighted.
Day Three
The hills rose higher, clothed in oak and ash. The road narrowed, stones jutting, shadows long beneath the trees. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. Shithead's horse struggled on the steeper inclines, and he found himself dismounting often, leading her by the reins with sweat soaking his back.
They passed a shrine at midday, its stone god eroded beyond recognition, moss spilling over cracked features. Kaelen dismounted, knelt, and pressed a hand to the altar. His lips moved in words too soft to catch. When he rose, he only said, "The gods are quiet here."
That night rain swept down. Their fire hissed out in the downpour. Shithead huddled under his cloak, shivering, while Kaelen sat upright beneath a tree, still as stone, as if rain could not touch him. Shithead envied that strength, vowing he would learn it someday.
Day Four — Trouble on the Road
The morning dawned gray, the road muddy beneath their horses' hooves. They rode in silence, the drip of water from branches marking time.
By midday, voices carried faint ahead — sharp, raised, not of trade or travel but of fear. Shithead straightened in his saddle, heart pounding.
They rounded a bend and saw a wagon halted in the road. A family huddled beside it — a man, woman, and boy no older than ten. Before them stood four men with blades drawn, their clothes rough, their stances mean.
Bandits.
The boy clutched his mother's skirts, eyes wide. The leader sneered, waving his knife toward the wagon. "Tithe for the road. Pay, or bleed."
Kaelen reined his horse to a stop. His cloak shifted, silver sun crest gleaming even in the gloom. "Enough."
The bandits turned. One spat. "Keep riding, knight. This ain't your concern."
"It is my oath," Kaelen said, his voice steady as steel. "Lay down your blades. Walk away, and no blood need be spilled."
The men laughed. The leader stepped forward, swagger in every motion. "Big words. But four against one…" His eyes flicked to Shithead. "…and a half-breed boy? Doesn't seem fair."
Shithead's blood boiled, but Kaelen lifted a hand — not in anger, but in command. "I will not ask again."
For a heartbeat, the forest held its breath. Then the leader lunged.
Steel flashed.