The road leading away from Kryndal isn't paved with promises, but with packed earth and stones. Yet, every step on this uncertain path feels lighter than any I ever took on the nobles' marble. The sky above me is a vast and changing thing, no longer a simple square of blue glimpsed between the high walls of the barracks. For the first time, I am breathing air that doesn't taste of fear or soot. It is the air of freedom, and it is as sharp and cold as the truth.
My journey takes half a day. I follow the old north road, a dirt serpent winding into the wooded hills at the foot of the mountains. The map I bought from a merchant in Kryndal, a simple, crude parchment, is my only companion. It shows the capital as a black inkblot, and the Whispering Ruins, further north, are marked with a simple skull icon. Between the two, a name is written in clumsy letters: Whisper-Rock.
I spot the village as I round a bend in the path. It is no fortress like Kryndal. It is a hamlet, a handful of wood and stone houses clinging to the hillside as if afraid of tumbling down the slope. Smoke escapes from a few chimneys, a welcoming plume in the cool evening air. There are no walls, no armored guards. Just a time-worn wooden palisade, more symbolic than effective.
My arrival does not go unnoticed. The few villagers who are outside—a woman hanging laundry, an old man mending a net—stop to watch me pass. Their looks aren't hostile, but curious and wary. A stranger, especially one wearing leather armor, however discreet, is an event here.
I feel the weight of their stares, but it is different from what I knew. This is not the contempt of nobles. It is the caution of simple folk who live on the edge of the wilds.
A group of children playing with a rag ball stop short, half-hiding behind a water trough. The ball rolls to a stop at my feet. They watch me with wide eyes.
I bend down slowly and pick up the ball. It is dirty and poorly stitched. It reminds me of something, a distant memory from the orphanage, before my hunger became a monster, before the other children began to fear me. We used to make the same balls from scraps of cloth.
A little girl, braver than the others, takes a step forward. "That's ours, Mister."
I hold the ball out to her. "I know."
She takes it hesitantly, then her gaze falls on the Steel-rank plate hanging from my belt. Her eyes widen. "Are you an adventurer? A real one?"
The word sounds strange to my own ears. "I'm trying to be."
"Did you come to hunt the monsters?" asks an older boy. "The Bone Lady?"
The Bone Lady. The Skeletal Guardian. The legend has a name here. A name from a children's story.
"Maybe," I answer evasively. "But first, I need a place to sleep. Is there an inn here?"
The little girl points to a building slightly larger than the others in the center of the village. A wooden sign, faded by the rain, depicts a leaping trout. "The Silver Trout Inn. Mam Anya runs it."
"Thank you."
I turn and head toward the inn, feeling the children's eyes following me. This simple, innocent interaction has left a strange impression on me. An echo of normalcy in a life that has never had any.
The inside of the inn is clean and warm. A fire crackles in a large stone hearth. The place is nearly empty, save for a pair of lumberjacks drinking silently in a corner. Behind the counter, a woman in her fifties is wiping mugs. Her graying hair is tied in a severe bun, but her eyes, though tired, are sharp and intelligent. This must be Mam Anya.
She sizes me up the same way the others did, but with more experience. Her gaze lingers on my plate, then on my face.
"An adventurer," she says. It's not a question, but a statement. "You're young. And a long way from the city. What are you looking for in Whisper-Rock? Besides trouble?"
"A room. And a hot meal."
"I've got that. Room's upstairs. Two coppers a night. Stew's hot. One copper. Pay in advance. And no trouble. This village has enough ghosts without you adding to them."
Her directness is refreshing. I place the coins on the counter. "No trouble."
She serves me a plate of steaming stew and gives me an iron key. I sit at an isolated table and eat in silence. The stew is simple, made of root vegetables and small pieces of meat, but it is nourishing. It tastes like a real meal, not the slop from the barracks.
As I'm eating, the inn door opens and the little girl from before runs in.
"Grandma! I saw an adventurer! He—" She stops short when she sees me. "Oh. It's you."
"Lyra, what have I told you about running in my hall?" Anya scolds gently.
Little Lyra ignores her and approaches my table, her eyes shining with curiosity. "Are you really going to hunt the Bone Lady? They say she guards a treasure of magic books."
"Lyra, leave the mister alone," Anya says, but without much conviction.
"That's a dangerous story," I tell the little girl. "You shouldn't take legends lightly."
"But is it true? Does she exist?"
I look at Anya. She sighs, putting down her cloth. "The Guardian is no legend, boy. She's a certainty. My own grandfather saw her. He tried to enter the ruins with two companions. He was the only one who came back. Missing an arm, and with his mind half-broken. Those ruins are a tomb. No one has set foot in them for fifty years."
Her tone is grave, a clear warning.
"Aren't you scared?" Lyra asks me, her face just inches from mine. "You're big, but you don't look that old. How old are you, Mister Adventurer?"
The question is so direct, so innocent, it catches me off guard. No one has ever asked my age. I was given tasks, orders, insults. My age never mattered.
I think about it for a second. The years in the orphanage, then at the barracks... they passed in a haze of hunger and survival.
"I'm seventeen," I reply.
The word sounds hollow. Seventeen. I feel as though I've lived a century.
Lyra wrinkles her nose. "That's almost as old as my cousin Jonas! And he's afraid of spiders!"
I can't help but let out a very faint smile. It might be the first time in years.
I finish my meal and go up to my room. It is small, but clean. The bed is hard, but it has a real mattress. Through the window, I can see the lights of the village go out one by one, giving way to an impossibly clear sky, riddled with stars.
I take out the map of Kryndal and its surroundings and spread it on the bed. I bought it from a cartographer in the city before I left, using some of Roxis's money. It is far more detailed than the first. It shows the forests, the rivers, the trails. Whisper-Rock is the last bastion of civilization before a large expanse of dense forest marked as the "Echoing Woods." And beyond that, the Whispering Ruins.
I didn't come here to charge headfirst into death. I came to prepare. This village is my base of operations. I will spend the next few days training in the Echoing Woods, getting used to this new environment. I will talk to the villagers, learn their stories, their games, their fears. I will understand the legend of the Guardian not as an adventurer, but as a local.
The Skeletal Guardian protects a library of skills. It is a treasure that could change my destiny. But to devour a legend, you must first understand it. Patience is a weapon, and I have all the time in the world.