The village didn't have a name that mattered to anyone outside it.
If you asked a merchant on the main road, they'd call it "that little place past the creek." If you asked travelers, they'd call it "the last stop before nothing." If you asked the people who lived there, they'd just say home and expect you to understand.
Ollie understood.
He'd spent twenty years learning the shape of it—the way the morning fog settled low over the fields, the way the chickens escaped their pen no matter what anyone did, the way the trees on the north edge leaned like they were tired of standing.
This morning, the fog was thin and the sky was clear, and the road out of the village looked almost gentle.
Almost.
Ollie stood in the small room he shared with his sister and checked the strap on his travel bag again.
The leather was fine. The stitching was fine. The clasp was fine.
His hands just needed something to hold onto.
He was seventy inches tall, black hair falling into his eyes because he'd cut it himself and hadn't bothered to tame it for today. His eyes were brown—so dark they almost looked black at night—but the daylight caught them now and made them glimmer in a way that always felt like it gave him away. His skin was warm and radiant brown, the kind that made strangers guess island blood or desert blood before they ever guessed "mud road."
He didn't look like a hero.
He looked like someone who'd spent his life outdoors—skin kissed by weather, muscle earned by repetition, lean but steady. Strong in the way hunters were strong. Not showy. Not soft.
Behind him, his sister sat on the edge of the bed with her legs tucked under her, watching him like he was doing something unforgivable.
She was young—small enough that her frame still seemed undecided, old enough that her eyes were sharp. Her face was set in an expression that tried to be angry and kept slipping into something else.
"Are you done messing with that strap?" she asked.
Ollie glanced back and tried to smile like his chest didn't feel tight. "It's stubborn," he said. "Like you."
Her eyes narrowed. "You're the stubborn one."
That hit clean.
Ollie looked down and busied his hands anyway, because if he stopped moving he might start feeling too much.
"I'll be fine," he said.
His sister's jaw clenched. Her hands balled in her lap like she was holding herself together. When she spoke, her voice didn't rise. It didn't crack into a tantrum.
It went quiet instead.
"You always say that," she whispered. "And then you walk out the door like it's nothing. Like we're supposed to just… watch your back disappear and be okay with it."
Ollie's throat tightened.
He turned fully toward her.
She wasn't crying. Not yet. But her eyes shone the way they did when she fought it.
"I'm not okay with it," she added, sharper now, not loud—just honest. "I don't want you to go. I don't care what you think you're meant to do. I don't care if Mom and Dad did it. I don't—"
Her words caught, and she swallowed hard like she hated that her voice betrayed her.
Ollie crossed the room and crouched in front of her so she couldn't avoid his eyes.
"Hey," he said softly.
She looked past him at the wall.
He waited her out, patient the way you had to be with wounded animals and stubborn people.
When she finally looked at him, her eyes were angry and scared at the same time.
Ollie took a breath, slow.
"I'm not walking out like it's nothing," he said. "It's not nothing. You're not nothing. Grandma's not nothing. This place isn't nothing."
His sister's mouth trembled once.
Ollie lifted a hand and, after a beat, rested it lightly on her knee—careful, like he didn't want to push too hard and make her snap.
"I'm leaving because I can't keep staring at the road and pretending it doesn't call me," he said. "But I'm not leaving you behind. Not in the way you're thinking."
She blinked fast. "You can't promise that."
Ollie nodded once. "I can promise you this: I'm going to be careful. I'm going to learn. I'm going to start small. I'm not going to run at danger just because it exists."
She searched his face like she was trying to decide whether to believe him.
Ollie swallowed, then reached up to his neck.
The necklace was simple—dark cord, a small charm at the center. Worn smooth from years of being touched without thinking. He'd had it so long he sometimes forgot it was there.
His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat, then he pulled it over his head.
His sister's eyes widened.
"Ollie—"
He placed it gently in her hands.
Her fingers curled around it immediately like it had weight.
"This has a protection charm," he said, voice low. "Dad gave it to me."
His sister stared at the cord like it might bite. "When?"
Ollie's eyes drifted past her, somewhere back in time. "The morning they left us with Grandma. He tied it around my neck and told me it would keep bad luck from finding me if I kept my head on straight."
His sister swallowed hard.
Ollie forced a small smile—soft, not cocky. "I figured… you could use it more than I can right now."
Her throat worked. "No. That's yours."
"It's always been ours," he said. "It came from them. It belongs with you while I'm gone."
She gripped it tighter, and her shoulders hunched like she was fighting tears with her whole body.
"And if you get hurt?" she whispered.
Ollie leaned in closer.
"Then I'll come back anyway," he said. "I'm not disappearing. I'm not them."
That line landed heavy between them.
His sister's eyes squeezed shut for a second.
When she opened them again, she nodded once, small and furious, like agreement was an insult.
"I hate you," she muttered.
Ollie let out a shaky breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Yeah. I know."
Footsteps sounded in the next room—slow, steady steps that belonged to a woman who'd lived long enough to make time behave.
His grandmother appeared in the doorway carrying a wrapped bundle of bread in one hand and a cloth pouch in the other.
She was short, but her presence filled the room anyway. Gray hair braided tight. Hands worn and strong. Eyes that didn't miss much and didn't apologize for what they saw.
She looked at Ollie, then his bag, then—briefly—the bare skin at his neck where the necklace used to rest.
Her gaze flicked to his sister's clenched hands.
She didn't comment.
Instead, she stepped in and set the bread in Ollie's arms.
"Eat on the road," she said. "And don't waste coin on overpriced travel food just because someone smiles at you."
"Yes, ma'am," Ollie said automatically.
Then she shoved the pouch into his hand.
It clinked.
Ollie froze.
"Grandma—"
"It's not negotiable," she said, and her tone had the sharp edge that meant the conversation was already over.
Ollie's fingers tightened around the pouch. "This is too much."
His grandmother stared at him like he'd said something childish.
"I always knew this day would come," she said. "You've talked about becoming an adventurer since you were tall enough to swing a stick."
Ollie's mouth went dry.
His grandmother continued, voice steady. "The money your parents send home—most of it. I saved it."
Ollie blinked. "Saved it?"
"For this," she said simply, like the answer had always been obvious.
She met his eyes. "This pouch is half."
Ollie's chest tightened. "Half?"
His grandmother nodded once. "The rest stays. For your sister. For when she's of age and decides what she wants her life to be. She'll have choices. Real ones."
Ollie looked at his sister, who was staring at the pouch like she didn't know whether to be angry or relieved.
His grandmother didn't soften her expression, but her voice lowered just a fraction.
"I'm not sending you out empty," she said. "And I'm not letting your sister be left with nothing if the world takes you."
Ollie flinched.
His grandmother didn't apologize for the words.
She didn't have to.
Silence stretched.
Then, as if she'd been holding the next part behind her teeth, she said, "Your parents wanted to bring you into it early."
Ollie's sister's head snapped up. "What?"
His grandmother lifted a hand. Not gentle. Final.
"They wanted to train you," she said. "Not just tell you stories. Train you the way they were trained. They thought if you started young, you'd be safer later."
Ollie's stomach tightened.
His grandmother's eyes hardened, the way they did when she remembered old arguments.
"I told them no," she said. "Because they barely had time to be parents when they were here. And I wasn't going to have them swoop in, teach you to swing steel, then disappear again and leave you chasing shadows."
Ollie swallowed.
"And," his grandmother added, voice quieter now, "I wasn't going to let their absence become the only thing you remembered them for. I wanted you to have a childhood that wasn't just danger and disappointment."
His sister stared at the floor.
Ollie felt something twist in his chest—not anger, not exactly. Something like understanding mixed with an ache that had never had words.
"They keep their distance because they think distance is safety," Ollie said softly, repeating it like he needed to hear it out loud.
His grandmother nodded once. "Yes."
Then she stepped toward the corner of the room.
Ollie followed her movement with his eyes and froze.
Leaning against the wall—wrapped in cloth, bound in old twine—was a sword.
Not a wooden training sword. Not a stick.
A real blade.
Ollie's breath stopped.
His grandmother lifted it and brought it to him like she was handing him a tool, not a dream.
"I bought it from a merchant passing through," she said. "Years ago."
Ollie stared at her. "You… what?"
"You think I didn't notice you waking up early to train?" she asked flatly. "You think I didn't hear that wooden sword thumping against the fence post every morning?"
Ollie's mouth opened. Closed.
His grandmother's eyes held him steady. "You've been talking about this since your parents left you here. Since you were small enough to drag a branch around like it was a spear. So I saved. And I waited."
Ollie took the wrapped sword with careful hands.
It was heavier than he expected. Not just weight—meaning.
His fingers trembled slightly as he loosened the cloth enough to reveal the hilt.
Worn leather. Simple guard. Practical. Not ornate.
A sword meant to be used.
Ollie swallowed hard.
"Grandma…" he whispered.
His grandmother's face didn't soften, but her voice did.
"You're going to become what you've been chasing in your head for years," she said. "So you'll go with something real in your hands. Not just hope."
Ollie's throat burned.
He nodded once, sharp, because if he tried to speak his voice would break.
His sister stood suddenly and shoved her hands against his chest—not hard, just enough to make him look at her.
"Don't die," she said, and her voice cracked on the last word.
Ollie's chest tightened so hard it hurt.
He set the sword carefully against his shoulder, then pulled her into a hug before she could pretend she didn't want one.
She froze for half a second, then clung to him like she hated herself for it.
"I won't," he said into her hair. "I'm coming back. I'm serious."
She didn't answer. She just held on.
His grandmother watched them for a long moment, arms crossed.
Then she cleared her throat.
"Alright," she said. "If you're leaving, leave before your courage changes its mind."
Ollie let his sister go slowly.
He took a breath, then threaded his belt through a worn leather scabbard strap his grandmother had kept with the blade. He settled the sheath against his left hip, tugged the strap snug so it wouldn't swing, and tested the weight with one careful step. The sword sat there like it belonged—heavy, steady, real.
He lifted his bag.
He took the bread.
He took the coin pouch.
And he stepped outside with them both.
The village was waking—smoke rising from chimneys, a dog barking at nothing, someone yelling at a chicken like it had committed a crime. The sun sat low like it hadn't decided whether today would be kind.
A few neighbors lingered in doorways. No one said much. In a small place, news traveled faster than sound.
Ollie walked with his grandmother and sister beside him until the houses thinned and the road widened into trees and distance.
At the edge of the village, he stopped.
This was the line between what he knew and what he didn't.
He turned back.
His grandmother stood like a fence post—solid, unbending, eyes sharp.
His sister stood half a step behind, gripping his necklace so tightly her knuckles had gone pale.
Ollie wanted to say something perfect.
Something that would make leaving feel clean.
Nothing came.
So he said what mattered.
"I'll write," he promised.
His sister swallowed hard and nodded once.
His grandmother's chin lifted. "And you'll keep your head."
Ollie nodded. "Yes, ma'am."
He took one last look at them.
Then he turned toward the road.
He walked until the village was smaller behind him, until the chimney smoke blurred, until the sounds of home thinned into quiet.
The sword rode at his hip with each step—real, steady.
The bread weighed his bag down.
The coin pouch pressed against his palm like responsibility.
And somewhere behind him, in a small house with a stubborn roof, his sister held a necklace meant to keep bad luck away and tried not to hate him for leaving.
Ollie kept walking anyway.
Not because he thought he was special.
Because the life beyond the village had been calling him for as long as he could remember.
And he was finally answering.