Chapter 2: Aimless Traveler
By the time they crossed the last stone markers of the border, evening had deepened into a bruised indigo. From behind the jagged shadow of the mountains, the village of Elderbrook appeared like a sudden oasis. Small thatched cottages huddled along winding lanes, hearth fires glowing like lanterns. The faint aroma of woodsmoke mingled with damp clover and livestock.
Elderbrook was a shepherd's haven. Situated several miles from the frontier, its survival depended entirely on the river feeding the pastures. Sheep, goats, and a few sturdy cattle grazed across rolling hills, tended by calloused hands. Every few days, caravans departed with wool, milk, and hides bound for the capital. Though small, the village pulsed with quiet importance, a hidden lifeline in the northern borderlands.
As they approached, the day's activity was winding down. Shepherds guided flocks into pens. The clang of iron rang from a lone blacksmith's forge. Merchants closed rough-hewn stalls, stacking unsold goods under cloths. Dogs barked intermittently, and the earthy scent of hay and manure rose into the cooling night.
"Stranger, you still haven't told us your name," Thomas said, cutting through the rhythm of their steps.
Alexander, watching the moonlight glimmer on the cobblestones, startled back to reality. "I… yes…" He hesitated. Revealing that he was a prince here would invite questions he was not ready to face.
"Yes, we are asking you," Elsa said softly, her gaze unwavering as if trying to pierce the veil of his thoughts.
"Zoryn," Alexander said finally. The name felt heavy on his tongue, yet passed as ordinary. The lie settled uneasily in his chest; he wondered how many more would be required before the truth demanded its price.
"Zoryn…" Thomas repeated, weighing the syllables. There was something about the stranger's posture—too upright, too controlled for a wandering laborer. "A strong name."
"Thank you," Alexander replied, softening his tone.
"And what is it you do, Zoryn? Where do you hail from?" Edmund asked, his voice sharper now.
They stopped in front of a small stone bakery, blackened from generations of hearth fires. The scent of freshly baked bread—earthy, coarse, and warm—spilled into the street.
"Elsa, go inside and fetch some bread for tonight," Thomas instructed, reaching into a leather pouch. "We have neither the strength nor the light to cook ourselves."
"Yes, Father," Elsa murmured, giving Alexander a fleeting glance before stepping into the bakery's golden glow.
Only the three men remained. Edmund studied Alexander carefully. He was tall, lean, upright, with the posture of someone accustomed to discipline—even in dusty travel-worn clothes.
"I… I know a bit of blacksmithing," Alexander said quickly. "I've spent time at the anvil. I travel where the work calls me, though lately the roads have taken precedence over the fires of a forge."
Thomas nodded thoughtfully. A wandering smith could be useful; Elderbrook's forge had cooled for months.
Soon, Thomas returned with warm loaves, steam rising in gentle spirals. He tore a piece and handed it to Alexander.
"If you truly are a smith, Zoryn, Elderbrook has work for you," Thomas said softly. "But do you have a place to stay tonight, or will you seek the inn?"
Alexander's gaze flicked toward the dark silhouette of the mountains, where his father's fortress lay—a world removed from this village. "I had intended to sleep beneath the stars. My coin is scant, and the roads are kinder than inns."
Edmund nudged Thomas, who nodded. "You saved my daughter's honor today. That debt will not be forgotten. You will not sleep beneath a tree. You are our guest tonight, in the cottage of a shepherd family."
The house was larger than Alexander expected. Timber frame, rough plaster walls, thatched roof—sturdy and functional. A central courtyard divided the living quarters, flanked by three rooms on either side. An attached barn housed livestock and hay, providing warmth through the cold months.
Elsa led him inside. The main room centered around a large stone hearth, its embers glowing warmly. Wooden benches surrounded a low table, and cooking pots hung above the fire. She set about preparing bread, hard cheese, and a small pot of oat porridge.
Alexander sat on a bench, unlacing his travel-stained boots. Elsa's eyes widened at his bare feet.
"Zoryn…"
"Yes?"
"Do all blacksmiths in your city wear feet so pale and unscarred?"
A pang of panic surged through him. He inhaled slowly. "My… my father was a merchant in a distant land called Honeyland," he said.
"Honeyland?" Elsa's curiosity sharpened.
"Yes," he murmured. "The plague swept through the city. I survived because I was away. The rest… succumbed. I apprenticed with a smith, but he passed months ago. Since then… I have drifted wherever the road has led me."
Thomas and Edmund returned from tending animals, wiping hands on coarse rags. Edmund's eyes were sharp.
"I've been reading your face, boy," he said roughly. "You do not bear the hands of a smith. Sparks haven't branded them. Your skin is too soft. Were it not for saving my niece, you'd be gone already."
Alexander stood, pride flaring. "I seek no charity. If my presence is a burden, I will sleep in the hayloft and seek work at dawn."
Elsa laughed softly, bright and mischievous. "Uncle Edmund is merely a grumpy shepherd. You are not going anywhere. Besides, who will help me tend the hearth and flocks?"
She set the table: bread, cheese, porridge. "Tonight and tomorrow, you are our guest. After that, you are a worker. Now come—let us eat what we have."
They had just finished when loud, urgent knocking came at the door.
"Who could it be at this hour?" Thomas asked.
"It… it must be Nicholas," Elsa said, her voice tense. She lifted a dagger, hands trembling.
"Nicholas… who?"
A bell of danger rang in Alexander's mind. He realized this was no ordinary visitor.
Elsa gripped the dagger tighter. "I'll see."
Edmund moved toward the door. Alexander subtly stepped behind him, took the dagger from Elsa, and tucked it into his clothing. He fell into step, ready for what might come.