- Child’s POV — “The Strangers from the Ashwood”
The strangers came just after the morning bell.
I was chasing our rooster—again—when I saw a tall man step out of the fog by the fields. He looked like he’d been walking since yesterday and maybe the day before that. His boots didn’t hesitate once in the mud.
People noticed him. Even Pa looked up from the fence he was fixing.
Then a girl stepped out behind him.
Small. Hood down so low it almost swallowed her face. She walked close to him, too close to be just a stranger, but too carefully to be family.
She moved like her feet hurt… or like she was scared the ground might give way if she trusted it too much.
I tugged Ma’s apron. “Who’re they?”
“Outsiders,” she murmured. “Mercenary, if I had to guess. Don’t stare.”
But I couldn’t help it.
They went straight for Old Bren’s shop—the dusty one with all the books no one here knows how to read. The tall man didn’t slow. The girl did, just for a blink, and I thought I saw a flash of red hair under her hood.
I ducked behind the rain barrels.
When I peeked again, they were gone inside.
And Dunwynn didn’t feel like Dunwynn anymore.
- Crimson’s POV — “Maps, Merchants, and Misplaced Pride”
The air inside Dunwynn felt heavier than the Ashwood.
Eyes followed her—quick glances, sharp looks that darted away the moment she noticed them. She kept her hood low, chin tucked just enough to seem ordinary, hoping the shadows hid the curve of her horns.
Blade didn’t seem to notice the stares. Or maybe he didn’t care. He walked through the village like a man who never needed permission to occupy space.
Crimson matched his steps, though her heart thudded against the brand at her neck. Humans had always been a lesson in caution for her people. But here, seeing them in the flesh—bargaining over bread, arguing about tools, yelling at children—
It felt too normal to trust.
A baker pulled steaming loaves from an oven. A girl scrubbed laundry. A man dragged a stubborn goat across the road. Everything messy, loud, alive.
Crimson’s tutors never mentioned this part.
Blade finally spoke:
“Map.”
She nearly tripped.
A map.He needed a map.
Her heart brightened before she could stop it. She knew maps. She’d studied cartography until her tutors ran out of drills. She could read borders, estimate distances, chart river paths—skills nobles prided themselves on.
Maybe… maybe she could help him with this.
Finally, something she wasn’t helpless in.
Her pride straightened her spine.
Blade didn’t seem to notice; he was already turning toward a leaning shop with a faded sign:
BOOKS & CHARTS — BRENN OF DUNWYNN
A bookshop.
She blinked. Blade, walking into a bookshop. Her curiosity stirred hard enough to push back the fear.
He pushed the door open, and a soft bell tinkled overhead.
Inside the Shop
Ink. Dust. Paper.
The smell hit her first—a memory she’d nearly forgotten. Shelves crowded with books towered around them, titles faded, spines cracked. Scrolls stuffed into cubbies like forgotten secrets. Maps curled against the walls.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Her breath caught.
She hadn’t been this close to a library since…since she lost everything.
Blade stepped to the counter like he’d been here before.
“Maps,” he said.
“Western ridge. Monster territory. Patrol roads.”
The shopkeeper stiffened, shoulders tightening under his vest.
“Y-yes, sir. Of course.”
Crimson tugged lightly at Blade’s sleeve.
“You’re going to buy a map?”
“Yes.”
She blinked. “You can… read them?”
His eyes shifted to her for the briefest breath. “Yes.”
Intrigue warmed her chest. “Properly?”
“Yes.”
That wasn’t normal. Most humans couldn’t read much more than signs and price tags. Mapwork took training, discipline, the kind given to nobles or military officers.
Blade had none of the polish of either.Yet he stood in this shop more comfortably than she did.
Her interest sharpened into something firmer—respect, maybe. Surprise, definitely.
She wasn’t expecting that.
She wanted to ask how he learned, who taught him… but the shopkeeper returned with an armful of scrolls, scattering her thoughts.
Map Inspection
Parchment unfurled across the counter with a papery whisper.
Crimson leaned in beside Blade, the inked rivers and mountain symbols oddly comforting—a language she thought she knew well.
Blade moved first.
“That border’s wrong,” he said quietly, tapping a faded line.
“Shifted after the last skirmish.”
Crimson blinked. He knows that?
He moved to another map.
“That road collapsed last winter. Flooding.”
Her brows lifted. Flooding? How would he—
“Village here burned,” Blade murmured. “Monsters. East canyon pack.”
Crimson’s breath stilled.
He wasn’t reading the maps.
He was correcting them.
Like someone who had walked every inch of land the paper pretended to show. Someone who trusted his memory of the world more than ink.
Her pride didn’t crumble.It tightened—sharp, alive with challenge.
She had thought she could impress him.Now she wanted to learn enough to stand beside him without feeling small.
Blade wasn’t what she expected.Not a brute.Not a dull mercenary.
Someone hardened, educated in the harshest way—not by tutors, but by roads that punished mistakes.
She swallowed, eyes tracing his steady movements.
I’ll learn. I’ll get stronger. I won’t be outpaced.
Not out of fear.
Out of pride.
Judgment
The shopkeeper hesitated before handing her a rolled parchment, gaze flicking over her lowered hood.
Crimson’s stomach tightened.
Blade didn’t say a word.He didn’t need to.
A tiny shift of his head—barely a tilt.
The man flinched and passed it properly.
Crimson pressed the parchment to her chest, breath steadying.
Blade’s silent presence at her side was surprisingly grounding.
Restocking Supplies
They stepped back into the street. Crimson expected Blade to turn west, but he veered instead toward a stall cluttered with travel goods.
“Supplies,” he said.
She followed, watching villagers step aside instinctively when Blade passed.
The merchant at the stall looked nervous but dutiful as Blade listed what he needed:
“Dried meat. Rope. Two flasks. Flint. Stitching kit.”
Crimson stood close, pretending to browse while her eyes remained fixed on Blade’s hands.
He tugged on the rope sharply, as if testing whether it deserved to hold weight. He rejected the first coil and selected another. He weighed the meat strips in his palm, shook his head, and chose thicker ones. He scraped flint until a spark leapt—bright enough to test quality. He checked needles by bending them slightly, examining their resilience.
Every movement was instinct.Not showy.Not loud.Efficient.
He’s done this often, Crimson realized.Supplies aren’t items to him—they’re decisions. Survival decisions.
Something in her chest tightened—not fear.Admiration.A spark of competitive pride.
She used to excel at tasks nobles valued—magic theory, geography, the quiet responsibilities of leadership.
But this?This was knowledge learned by living, not reading.
And she wanted to learn it.
Not because she felt inferior.Because Blade made competence look like a language she wanted to speak.
Leaving Dunwynn
Supplies strapped down, maps rolled and tied, Blade finally turned west.
Crimson followed, breathing easier now that they were leaving Dunwynn behind.
“Blade…” she murmured, glancing at villagers staring from doorways,
“humans really don’t like strangers.”
“No.”
“They especially don’t like… me.”
“Hood’s working,” he said.
“That’s not the point,” she muttered.
He didn’t slow.
“You’re still walking,” he said simply.
She almost laughed. “That’s your solution to everything.”
“It works.”
She shook her head—but something eased inside her.
Her pride steadied her steps.
She wasn’t trailing behind him.
She was walking with him.
“Where now?” she asked.
“Ridge,” Blade said. “Then west.”
She tightened her cloak and matched his pace, Dunwynn shrinking behind them.
Ahead lay maps she didn’t yet understand, dangers she hadn’t faced, and a world that wasn’t hers.
But she would learn it.Every road. Every rule. Every skill.
Not for survival’s sake.
For her pride.
For the person she refused to stop being.