The village of Emberstead had returned to a fragile calm after the last funeral pyres faded into ash. For days, smoke had clung to the air, a bitter veil that reminded all of the goblin raid and the cost of survival. Now, only the blackened earth outside the palisade bore silent witness, though villagers still cast their eyes toward it when they passed, as if afraid the ashes might whisper the names of the fallen.
Merchants filled the square with life again, their wagons groaning under crates of salted meat, rough-spun cloth, and bundles of herbs gathered from the nearby hills. The smell of pitch and tar clung to the air as wheel hubs were sealed, ropes tightened, and horses fed their last measure of grain before the road.
Arin lingered near the gate, listening. He caught fragments of talk—rumors traded like coin.
"…they say the southern road's no longer safe. Two caravans gone missing, no trace but blood on the stones…"
"…the Crown still hasn't cleared that dungeon north of Greystone. Beasts crawling closer every season…"
"…bandits, worse than goblins if you ask me. Goblins kill quick. Bandits take everything first."
Dungeons. Arin's ears caught that word above the rest, unfamiliar yet heavy with meaning. A farmer explained to a trader's boy that dungeons were "wounds in the world," where monsters spawned endlessly and treasure gleamed in the dark for those reckless enough to chase it. Once, he said, Emberstead's own adventurers had gone to such places, but too few had ever returned.
The younger folk whispered the tales with awe; the older spoke them with caution. Arin felt both at once.
Behind him, Emberstead stirred with quieter rhythms. Women drew water from the well, children chased one another between houses, and men worked to repair what the attack had broken. But their eyes lingered on the road where the caravans gathered, knowing that safety ended at the palisade.
Bren passed by once, carrying a sack of grain toward the wagons, his expression the same steady calm Arin had seen on the battlefield. Elira stood at the well, speaking softly with two widows, her hand resting on one shoulder as if to anchor the woman against grief. They looked different now, no longer only defenders of the village, but pillars holding Emberstead steady in the aftermath.
Arin's spear rested against his shoulder, smooth wood warm beneath his palm. He had been granted coin, a place, even kinship in Emberstead—but his gaze returned to the dirt road winding away into the world. Beyond lay danger, yes, but also growth. His Status Window burned at the edge of thought, a reminder that numbers alone did not grant survival, yet without them, he would not last long.
He exhaled slowly. The village had given him rest. The road would demand more.
The sun leaned westward when Arin reached the village gate. The caravan stood ready, wagons loaded, horses snorting clouds into the cooling air.
Bren and Elira waited near the palisade, watching him approach. Their faces bore no surprise—only the steady acceptance of those who knew he was never meant to stay.
"You're leaving then," Bren said, voice even, as though naming what was already true.
Arin adjusted the strap of his pack and nodded. "I am. Emberstead has its guardians. I was only ever passing through."
Elira studied him for a moment, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes softened only by weariness. "The road is harsher than anything you've seen so far. Don't mistake one victory for proof you're ready for what's out there."
"I know," Arin said quietly. He didn't add that staying had never felt like an option. Emberstead's walls had sheltered him, but they were not his home. The fire in him pulled toward something larger—unknown, but necessary.
Bren reached to his belt and pulled free a broad-bladed knife, worn smooth from years of use. He offered it handle-first. "If your spear breaks, this will keep you breathing. Just don't brandish it unless you're willing to draw blood."
Arin accepted it with both hands, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you."
Elira stepped closer, her hand falling firm on his shoulder. "Then listen well: don't chase dungeons yet. Not until you're ready. They don't forgive mistakes."
The weight in her words was heavy, but Arin didn't question it. He thought briefly of asking why, but the grief in her eyes silenced him. Instead, he only said, "I'll remember."
The caravan leader called, merchants gathering their reins. It was time.
Arin gave the pair one last nod. "I won't forget Emberstead."
He turned then, walking toward the wagons. He didn't look back. The village had given him shelter, but not belonging. What lay ahead would decide whether he could carve a place for himself in this world.
That evening, as the caravan camped beyond sight of Emberstead's walls, Arin sat apart from the circle of firelight. The chatter of merchants drifted behind him—trade gossip, prices, rumors of dangers along the highway—but his focus lay elsewhere.
At his call, the Status Window opened, numbers glowing faintly in the dark.
---
Arin's Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 6
HP: 25/25
MP: 7/7
Strength: 10 → 13 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 10 → 14 (Max: 83)
Agility: 10 → 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
---
He had split his points with survival in mind: endurance for the road, strength to keep his spear steady, agility for when retreat was the only answer.
The changes were subtle, but he felt them—the steadying of his breath, the shift in his balance, the weight of his spear settling more naturally into his hands. It wasn't enough to make him a veteran, but it was enough to keep him alive.
The road ahead was vast, dangerous, and unknown. For the first time since arriving in this world, he was walking it on his own terms.
The caravan was a moving town—forty souls strung along the dirt road, wagons creaking like weary beasts, the air thick with horse musk and the grit of travel. Arin stayed close to the front, where the man who led them strode with an unhurried, steady gait.
"Name's Darrin," the caravan master said at last, his voice carrying the weight of command. The number [Level 14] shimmered faintly above him. His eyes cut to Arin, measuring, though not unkindly. "I hear you've got a spear and the will to use it. Good. Keep your ears sharp, your feet sharper, and you'll earn your keep."
Arin inclined his head. "I'll do my part."
A chuckle rumbled from behind them. A scarred figure with a weatherworn face fell into step, his longsword clinking at his hip. [Level 13]. "Don't let the old man fool you—he only pretends not to smile." The man grinned wide, the scar tugging his lip oddly. "Roth. Guard captain. If I shout, you run. Don't stand there wondering why."
Arin smirked faintly. "Understood."
The second wagon rolled closer, and with it came a woman walking as lightly as a shadow, bow in hand though unstrung. Her eyes swept the trees, sharp and restless, and only after a long pause did she tilt her head toward Arin.
"You keep staring, boy," she murmured, her voice like the twang of a bowstring. [Level 12] hovered over her. "I'll think you're hunting me instead of game."
Arin stiffened. "I wasn't—" He caught himself, then softened. "Just… curious. I've not traveled with many archers."
Her mouth quirked in something close to a smile. "Then learn quick. Name's Lysa. If arrows fly, keep your head low. I'm not fond of friendly corpses."
Arin gave a short nod, hiding his grin.
A heavy tread came up behind, and a shadow fell across him. The man was broad as an ox, a tower of muscle and sweat with a shield slung across his back wide enough to cover two men. [Level 11] flickered above his head.
"Hadrik," he said simply, voice gravel-deep. "If steel starts ringing, stand near me. My shield's a wall, and walls don't break easy."
Arin glanced at the great slab of iron strapped across his back and believed it. "Arin," he returned.
By nightfall the caravan had circled into camp, wagons forming a loose ring. Firelight painted weary faces, and laughter and argument rose in uneven bursts. Arin found himself beside a girl with a healer's satchel slung over her shoulder. She was bent over a cooking pot, adding herbs with careful fingers. The faint [Level 9] glimmered above her brow.
"You're not from Emberstead," she said lightly, without looking up.
Arin hesitated. "That obvious?"
Her lips curved in a knowing smile. "Everyone else carries a place on their shoulders. You carry questions instead. I'm Mira. I mend what steel breaks—flesh, bone, sometimes pride." She tapped the vials clinking at her hip. "Hope I won't be stitching you back together anytime soon."
"I'll try to make your work easy," Arin said, and she laughed softly.
Across the flames, a plump merchant leaned back on a barrel, spinning some exaggerated tale. "—and I told the man, silk worms don't care about curses! But did he listen? Not a whit!" His hands flew as if conducting his own words, eyes sparkling. The faint [Level 5] shimmered over him.
Catching Arin's glance, he beamed and raised a hand in greeting. "Joren, trader of fine cloths and finer words! If you need a cloak or a story, you've found the right man."
Next to him, a wiry youth stacked bundles of iron tools with determined grunts. His palms were blistered, his hair unkempt, but his gaze was sharp. [Level 7].
"Silas," he said when he noticed Arin watching. His voice was quiet, but steady. "I sell my father's tools. They're heavier than they look, but honest steel always is."
The night settled deeper, fire snapping and smoke curling to the stars. Talk shifted, darker now. Roth leaned forward, shadows cutting across his scarred face.
"Bandits prowling the southern stretch," he muttered. "Took a whole caravan last week. Stripped the wagons bare. No bodies left."
Mira's ladle stilled in the pot. "No bodies?"
"None," Roth said flatly.
Lysa snorted. "If it was only bandits, I'd count us lucky. If a dungeon gate cracked nearby, we'll be walking into worse than thieves."
Arin's breath stilled at the word dungeon. He remembered Elira's face in the firelight, the broken sword Bren had carried. His knuckles whitened on his spear.
"Dungeons sour the land before they open," Hadrik rumbled, steady as stone. "Air grows wrong. Beasts warp. Mana seeps into your teeth. Until then, I'll take my chances with men and blades."
But the fire burned quieter after that. Even among laughter and weary banter, the word lingered like a shadow.
Arin sat silent, listening, memorizing each voice and name. He was no longer walking Emberstead's narrow paths. He was stepping into the greater world—one filled with blades, secrets, and depths yet unseen.
The morning came cold and gray, the fog clinging low across the road as if reluctant to part. Wagons groaned into motion, oxen snorting clouds of white into the dawn. Arin walked near the second wagon, his spear balanced across his shoulder, boots crunching over ruts hardened by countless wheels before.
Travel settled into a rhythm: the creak of wood, the slap of reins, the distant chatter of birds startled from the trees. Sometimes silence pressed in, heavy and watchful; other times the road carried voices like drifting smoke.
Mira walked beside him for a while, her healer's satchel bumping lightly at her side. She hummed under her breath, an old tune Arin didn't know. When she caught him listening, she smiled.
"My mother's song," she explained. "For luck. Not sure if it works, but it passes the time."
Arin tilted his head. "Then keep singing. Luck's not something I'd turn down."
She laughed softly, brushing back a loose strand of hair before drifting back toward the wagons.
From ahead, Roth's voice rose sharp, breaking the calm. "Eyes left! Fox den."
Arin's gaze snapped to the brush. A vixen darted out with kits tumbling after, skittering across the path before vanishing into the opposite thicket. Roth's scarred face eased a fraction. "Not all movement's a blade in the dark," he said, half to Arin, half to everyone.
Lysa, striding light as a shadow nearby, twitched her bowstring hand with impatience. "Foxes now, bandits later. Keep sharp, captain."
"Always," Roth replied, but his grin was edged.
By midday, the caravan broke for rest. Merchants unstrapped crates, guards posted watch. Joren set about weaving an outrageous tale of a duke's daughter who had once mistaken him for a prince. His arms carved great arcs in the air, drawing laughter from those close enough to listen.
Silas didn't laugh. The boy stacked iron tools by the wagon, his jaw tight, sweat running down his neck. Arin watched a moment before stepping closer.
"Need a hand?"
Silas shook his head. "I can manage." He paused, then added in a quieter voice, "Can't ask anyone else to carry my father's work. It has to be me."
Arin nodded, recognizing the weight behind those words. He didn't press further.
The road stretched again, shadows lengthening across the dirt as the day waned. The company pressed forward, wary of the rumors Roth had spoken the night before. Each face, each voice was different, yet bound by the same road and the same dangers.
Arin walked among them, listening, learning. Each step took him further from Emberstead, further from the quiet village lanes—and deeper into the wide, uncertain world waiting beyond.
The next day brought clearer skies, the fog burned away by the sun, yet unease rode with the caravan.
It began with the birds.
They were loud at dawn, a chorus in the trees, but as the morning wore on, their voices thinned until silence smothered the branches overhead. Roth noticed first, his scarred face turning toward the woods, lips pressed thin.
"Too quiet," he muttered.
Hadrik shifted his shield higher on his back. "Wolves?"
"Wolves leave tracks," Roth said grimly. "And the foxes we saw yesterday wouldn't linger if wolves were near. This is something else."
Arin felt the stillness too. Even his boots on the dirt seemed louder than they should have been, every crunch and scuff echoing unnaturally. He kept his spear angled, gaze flicking between trees, his senses stretched thin.
Lysa broke the silence with a sharp whisper. "South stretch, wasn't it? The one stripped bare?"
Roth didn't answer, which was answer enough.
That night, the fire was smaller, guarded as if too much light might draw unwanted eyes. Joren still spun his tales, though his hands moved tighter, his voice lacking its usual swagger. Mira busied herself with herbs, though her glances toward the dark treeline betrayed her unease.
Arin sat close to the flames, every crack of branch beyond the circle setting his grip firm on his weapon. Silas, seated nearby, polished a small hammer with slow, nervous strokes.
"Feels like the world's holding its breath," the boy said softly.
Arin glanced at him, then at the silent woods beyond. "Then we'd best be ready when it exhales."
No one argued.
The road ahead promised more than trade and travel. Somewhere beyond the still trees, something waited—and the caravan was walking straight toward it.
The night was deep when the attack came.
A sudden shriek tore through the silence, high and guttural, answered by a chorus that rose from the treeline. Shadows broke loose from the dark, darting low and fast—two dozen kobolds, their crude blades flashing in the firelight, yellow eyes gleaming with hunger.
[Level 5]… [Level 6]… [Level 4]. The numbers flickered above their snarling heads as they broke into the fire's glow. Arin's gut tightened—not one rose beyond him, yet the sheer swarm pressed in like a tide. Numbers could kill just as surely as strength.
"Wake! To arms!" Roth's roar cut through the chaos as he ripped his sword free, the scarred captain barreling toward the first wave.
Arin was already on his feet, spear leveled. The first kobold lunged, and he met it with a thrust that sank clean through its chest. He yanked the weapon free as another darted around the corpse, jaws snapping for his leg.
Hadrik surged forward like a wall, shield slamming into the creature with bone-cracking force. "Stay behind me!" he bellowed, holding the line as more kobolds crashed against his shield.
Lysa's bow sang, arrows loosed with sharp precision. Each shaft found a throat or an eye, dropping kobolds before they reached the fire's glow. Still, for every one that fell, two more pressed forward, yipping and snarling.
Joren, pale and sweating, ducked behind a wagon, clutching a knife he clearly didn't know how to use. "Gods above—there's too many!"
"Hold steady!" Darrin barked from the center, voice like iron. The caravan master wielded a heavy axe, his swings wide and punishing, breaking kobold skulls like melons.
Mira dragged the wounded back from the fray, her hands already slick with blood as she muttered prayers and crushed herbs into gashes. Silas hovered near her, hammer in hand, striking at any kobold that broke through the guard line, fear in his eyes but steel in his grip.
Arin planted his feet beside Roth, spear blurring as he struck and withdrew, struck and withdrew. The kobolds were relentless, their levels low but their numbers overwhelming, their shrieks echoing like drums in the dark.
The fire snapped and roared, sparks scattering into the night. Shadows danced over snarling faces and flashing steel. The caravan had no walls to hide behind, no gates to bar. Only grit, steel, and each other.
And as the kobolds swarmed, Arin realized this was no skirmish—it was survival.
The kobolds pressed in with reckless fury, a wall of snarling teeth and rusted blades. For a heartbeat, it seemed they might overwhelm the circle of wagons.
Then the veterans answered.
Roth fought like a storm given flesh. His scarred face twisted in a battle-grin as his longsword cut through a kobold's guard, then backhanded into another's throat. His voice never stopped, barking sharp orders that shaped the chaos into something solid. "Hadrik—left! Lysa, the flank!"
The shieldbearer moved as commanded, his slab of iron sweeping aside three kobolds at once. Their blades scraped uselessly against his wall of steel, and his counterstrikes fell with the certainty of a smith's hammer.
Lysa's arrows never missed. Each shaft threaded through the melee, burying into kobold eyes, necks, or open jaws mid-snarling cry. She shot as if she had more than one set of hands, her expression calm, almost cold.
Darrin waded into the thickest knot, his axe a brutal answer to the swarm. "Stand firm! They break if you hold!" he roared, cleaving through bone and sinew.
Arin thrust and turned, breath ragged, his spear keeping kobolds from circling too close. He fought in the gaps, filling spaces where the veterans could not reach. Each kill came harder than the last, but he kept moving, kept striking.
Joren cowered, but Mira dragged him upright, pressing a torch into his hands. "Light, not fear!" she snapped, shoving him toward the ring. The merchant stumbled forward, torch flaring. Kobolds hissed and shrank from the flame, breaking their press just enough to ease the line.
Silas, teeth clenched, swung his hammer with surprising force. The blow crushed a kobold's skull clean, leaving him staring at his own trembling hands. Then, with grim resolve, he stepped into the fight again.
Bit by bit, the tide shifted. The swarm faltered under the cohesion of seasoned steel. Where kobolds had surged with wild hunger, now they hesitated, snapping and darting but no longer charging as one. Their shrieks grew shriller, sharper—panic edging their cries.
Roth cut down another, his blade slick with black blood. He spat into the dirt, eyes narrowing. "They're breaking."
As if on cue, a half-dozen kobolds scattered, yipping back into the treeline. Others followed, their pack-cry turning from hunger to retreat.
The last one fell to Lysa's arrow, its body twitching in the firelight before going still. The clearing rang with silence, broken only by harsh breathing, the hiss of torches, and the low moans of the wounded.
The caravan stood bloodied, but alive.
Arin wiped his spear, chest heaving. The numbers still flickered in his memory—kobolds weak in level, yet nearly deadly in mass. His grip tightened on the haft. Alone, he would've been torn apart. With them, they had stood.
And he understood: this road was not Emberstead's, and survival here was not given—it was earned, step by step, fight by fight.
The night air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid smoke of burning torches. The clearing looked less like a battlefield and more like a butcher's yard, kobold bodies sprawled in dark heaps.
Roth was already moving through the ring of wagons, voice firm, commanding but steady now. "Count the living. See to the wounded. Lysa, check the perimeter. We hold here until dawn."
The guards answered without hesitation.
Darrin dragged the carcass of a kobold away from the wagon wheels, his axe still wet. He didn't complain, didn't pause, only cleared the ground so the healers could work. His movements were practiced, as if this was far from his first such night.
Hadrik lowered his battered shield with a grunt, dented nearly beyond recognition. He set it down carefully, as though it were a child that had survived with him, then turned his attention to a merchant clutching a torn arm. Without a word, he wrapped a strip of cloth and tightened it with soldier's precision.
Mira knelt by another guard, a boy younger than Arin who bled from a cut across the scalp. Her hands were gentle but quick, binding the wound while murmuring something low and soothing. She offered a waterskin after, her face lined with exhaustion but eyes calm.
Silas crouched near the fire, hands trembling as he scraped kobold gore from his hammer. He muttered to himself, the words too soft to catch, but when Joren sat beside him with a wineskin, the merchant accepted it in silence, taking a long pull before handing it back.
Arin stood at the edge of the circle, spear point resting in the dirt. His breath was steadying now, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving behind a cold clarity. He hadn't panicked. He had struck true. Yet what stayed with him most was not the kills, but how the veterans had moved together—as if every strike, every step, had purpose.
He caught Roth's gaze briefly. The captain gave a short nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—before turning away to speak with Lysa, who had returned from the treeline with her bow still strung.
No words of praise. No thanks. Only the silent expectation: do it again, when the road demands it.
Arin exhaled, gripping his spear tighter. He wasn't one of them—not yet—but he had stood among them tonight. That, perhaps, was enough.
The caravan settled into uneasy quiet. Torches burned low, and the forest pressed in dark and watchful. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled, but none dared come near the blood-soaked ground.
Sleep would not come easy. But dawn would, and with it, the road ahead.
The sun crept over the horizon in pale gold, washing the blood-stained earth in softer hues. The camp was already stirring when Arin rose. Smoke from rekindled fires curled into the morning air, mixing with the scent of damp earth and iron.
The wagons creaked back into line, horses stamping restlessly as handlers soothed them. Scars of the night lingered—splintered shafts in the dirt, scorched patches where torches had burned low—but the caravan moved with practiced resolve.
Roth walked the line of guards, inspecting shields, blades, and bandages alike. His voice was gruff but steady. "Tighten ranks today. Kobolds rarely hunt alone—last night was a taste, not the meal."
Lysa adjusted her quiver with quick, efficient hands, eyes fixed on the treeline as though dawn itself might conceal another ambush. Hadrik trudged behind the lead wagon, shield freshly strapped and gleaming with hastily hammered repairs. Mira lingered near the rear, checking poultices and murmuring to a limping guard she had patched in the dark hours.
Merchants spoke in hushed tones, their usual boasts and tall tales silenced by the memory of claws scraping wood, of shrieks in the night. Even Joren, ever the spinner of stories, offered only a thin smile when someone caught his gaze.
Arin walked near the front, his spear resting against his shoulder. His body ached, but more than that, he carried the weight of knowledge—the faint glimmers of [Level 4–8] he had glimpsed above the kobolds. Not weaklings, not for numbers in the dark. And though he kept it to himself, the truth was clear: they were walking through land already thick with danger.
The road stretched on, endless and uncertain. Yet with every creak of the wagons, every measured step of his companions, Arin felt himself stepping further from the boy who had left Emberstead.
The caravan pressed forward. Whatever lay ahead, they were not turning back.
After the third day since the kobold attack, the caravan had settled back into its rhythm. Wheels ground over stone and dirt, hooves thudded against the packed earth, and the creak of leather harnesses carried on the wind. The scars of the ambush had faded into silence, yet beneath the caravan's steady march lingered something taut—like a bowstring drawn but not loosed.
Arin began to notice it in the spaces between words. Mira, usually quick to tease, had fallen quiet, her eyes often drawn southward as though she expected shadows to rise there. Joren, for all his bright chatter, sometimes let slip a phrase in a tongue Arin didn't recognize, only to laugh too loudly when pressed.
During a midday halt, as the wagons circled for rest, Arin shared a seat on a rock beside Hadrik. The shield-bearer chewed through a strip of dried meat with slow determination. His silence was comfortable—until Arin caught the man's gaze drifting to Roth, the scarred captain.
"You and Roth fought together before?" Arin asked carefully.
Hadrik grunted. "Aye. Too many times." He tore another bite, jaw flexing. "But scars aren't always from steel." His tone ended the matter there, though the heaviness of it stayed.
Later, as dusk painted the sky, Arin walked beside Lysa at the flank. She moved with a predator's grace, gaze sharp on the treeline, though her voice came soft enough only for him.
"You watch people," she said without turning. "Careful eyes. Dangerous habit, unless you know when to look away."
"I just want to understand," Arin admitted.
Lysa's mouth quirked faintly, but her eyes never left the woods. "Then understand this—no one here walks the road for the reason they say. We carry more than goods. More than scars. Some things… aren't meant to be told until steel is at your throat and you've no choice but to trust."
Her words left Arin thoughtful, unsettled.
That night, when campfires crackled low, Arin overheard Mira and Roth speaking in low tones near the wagons. The healer's voice was sharp with restrained anger.
"You promised me Emberstead would be far enough," she hissed.
Roth's reply was a growl, steady but firm. "And I'll keep my word. But the road doesn't forgive pasts, Mira. You know that."
Their voices died as others drew close, but the echo of them lingered.
Arin lay awake long after, staring at the stars above the canvas of his tent. Secrets wove through this caravan like unseen threads, binding people together—or pulling them apart. He realized then that survival wasn't only a matter of steel against monsters. It was knowing who stood beside you when the dark pressed in.
And by tomorrow, the caravan would reach its next destination—the town that marked the end of this leg of Arin's journey.
The dawn of the fourth day broke crisp and golden, sunlight spilling across the rolling fields as the caravan crested a low ridge. Beyond the rise, spread across the valley below, was the town of Redcrest.
Unlike Emberstead's humble sprawl of timber homes and farmland, Redcrest bristled with stone walls, watchtowers, and a wide, iron-banded gate. The air itself seemed alive with the hum of trade—smoke plumes from forges, banners fluttering above the gatehouse, and the distant clamor of hammers striking steel. Carts and wagons lined the approach road, merchants and travelers jostling in a slow tide of color and sound.
Arin felt his chest tighten. He had thought Emberstead busy, but this was a world apart—loud, guarded, alive with currents he did not yet understand.
"Redcrest," Darrin announced, his voice carrying as the caravan slowed. "Keep sharp. A town this size holds both coin and trouble in equal measure."
Roth barked orders to the guards, splitting them to form a tighter ring around the wagons. Lysa slipped ahead with an archer's poise, scanning rooftops and alleys as if enemies lurked behind every stone. Hadrik's hand rested heavy on his shield strap, and Mira quietly checked her satchel, fingers brushing vials of pale light. Even Joren, for all his bluster, had gone quieter, his eyes wide as he muttered about market stalls and silks to sell.
For Arin, it was not only the sight of Redcrest that weighed on him, but what it meant. Emberstead had been a place of recovery, of borrowed belonging. Here, there would be no familiar faces watching over him, no gentle excuses for his inexperience. This was where he would have to stand on his own.
As the caravan rolled toward the gate, he adjusted the strap of his spear and squared his shoulders. Whatever secrets the caravan held, whatever dangers waited in Redcrest's streets or beyond its walls—this was the path forward.
Arin's Status Window
Name: Arin
Level: 6
HP: 25 / 25
MP: 10/ 10
Strength: 13 (Max: 76)
Endurance: 14 (Max: 83)
Agility: 12 (Max: 71)
Dexterity: 7 (Max: 68)
Intelligence: 9 (Max: 34)
Willpower: 8 (Max: 32)
Unallocated Points: 0
Ability: Level Perception
Current Equipment:
Armor: Worn Leather Cuirass
Shield: Small Wooden Shield
Weapon: Iron-Tipped Spear
Other: None