As an orphan at a very young age, I grew used to the brutal sights of the slums—empty bellies, broken homes, lives cut short by hunger or violence or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was raised to be a nameless face in a crowd, a soldier who followed orders without question, who moved through the world like a shadow with no need for feelings or connections.
The concept of emotions is both unfamiliar and familiar to me. Familiar because I remember the way my chest ached when I found my parents' bodies in that dark alley, the hot sting of tears I never let fall. Unfamiliar because I spent years training those feelings away, burying them deep where they couldn't weaken me on the battlefield. Now, trapped in this body that feels both mine and not mine, I find myself caught in a constant battle—my mind telling me to stay cold and focused, my heart pulling me toward warmth and connection; my body moving with the practiced precision of a killer, my soul yearning for something more than survival.
We've been traveling for three days now, making steady progress toward the Callibean capital. Tarrama rides ahead, keeping watch for any sign of Ardias's spies or patrols. Cael rides beside me, often pointing out landmarks or telling me stories about the villages we pass through—small details that help me understand the land I'm meant to rule.
Today, we stop at a small inn in a village called Willowdale. It's not unlike Mear—quiet, peaceful, with farmers working the fields and children playing in the dirt streets. As we dismount our horses, an old woman sitting on the porch of the inn looks up and smiles at me.
"Travelers," she calls out, her voice rough with age but warm with kindness. "You look like you could use some hot food and a place to rest your bones."
I hesitate for a moment—old habits die hard. In Custodian, kindness from strangers was usually a trap, a way to get close enough to steal what little you had or turn you in for a reward. But then I think of Marta, of Lila, of all the people in Mear who showed me kindness without asking for anything in return.
"Thank you," I say, and the words feel natural on my tongue.
She leads us inside, where the air is thick with the smell of stew and fresh bread. A fire crackles in the hearth, and several villagers look up from their meals to nod in greeting. The old woman—her name is Rose, she tells us—busies herself with ladling stew into bowls while Cael sees to our horses.
As I sit by the fire, warming my hands against the heat, a young girl no older than five toddles over to me and tugs on my sleeve. She's holding a small cloth doll with button eyes and yarn hair, and she holds it out to me like an offering.
"For you," she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I look from her to Rose, who watches us with a gentle smile. "She doesn't usually take to strangers," Rose says. "Must see something good in you."
I take the doll carefully, my hands—with no longer visible traced of calloused from years of holding weapons—become more gentle as I touch the soft cloth. A strange warmth spreads through my chest, so unfamiliar I almost pull away. It's been so long since anyone has given me something just because they wanted to, not because they were following orders or hoping for something in return.
"Thank you," I say to the little girl, and this time when I smile, I know it reaches my eyes.
She grins back at me before running off to play with her brother by the door. I hold the doll in my hands, turning it over carefully, and feel that warmth settle deep in my chest—warmer than any fire, stronger than any battle rage.
Cael returns then, sitting down beside me with his own bowl of stew. He sees the doll in my hands and smiles softly. "She has good taste," he says.
I look at him—at the young man who's stood by me without question, who's shown me loyalty I never thought I'd deserve. I think of Tarrama, who trusts me with her network and her life. Of Marta, who opened her home to a stranger. Of Lila, who believes I'll keep my promise.
For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be cared for—and to care for others in return. It's a fragile feeling, easy to break like glass or crush like a flower. But it's also stronger than any weapon I've ever wielded, more valuable than any treasure I've ever stolen or any victory I've ever won on the battlefield.
I wrap the doll carefully in cloth and tuck it into my pack. It will be a reminder—of this moment, of this warmth, of all the things I'm fighting to protect. The road ahead is still dark, and I know there will be hard choices to make, battles to fight. But now I have something worth fighting for beyond just survival.
As we finish our meal and prepare to leave, Rose presses a small bag of bread and cheese into my hands. "For the road," she says, just as Marta did. "And remember—there are still good people in this world, even when it feels like all hope is gone."
I nod, holding her gaze. "I won't forget," I say. And for the first time, I know it's true.