The sky was only beginning to pale when James stepped outside. Mist clung to the ground, curling around his boots as he turned back toward Willem’s hut one last time. The air smelled faintly of smoke and morning bread.

  “Travel safe, lad,” Willem said, clapping him on the shoulder. His palm was rough, steady, the kind of touch that said more than words.

  Bree handed him a small bundle wrapped in cloth, still warm to the touch. “Bread, dried meat, and a little honey. You’ll need the energy. Don’t argue.”

  James smiled, accepting it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She hesitated, eyes soft. “Will you ever come back?”

  He took a slow breath. “I don’t know where the road will take me,” he said. “But one day, when it circles back, I’ll come visit again. Until then, take care of yourselves.”

  Bree nodded. Willem gave a short grunt that was halfway between a laugh and a goodbye. James started walking, then turned halfway down the path to wave. They waved back, small figures against the rising light.

  The road west wound between the fields, fading mist swallowing the village behind him. Dew glistened on the grass. Birds began to stir in the trees, calling each other awake. James pulled his coat tighter and smiled to himself. So this is what a new beginning looks like.

  By the time he reached the village’s western gate, the sun had climbed just high enough to gild the dirt road in gold. A wagon stood waiting there, two horses shifting lazily in their harnesses.

  “Hey, James! Ah, thank the gods you made it,” shouted the merchant, waving both arms. His grin was too wide, and his excitement suspicious.

  James raised an eyebrow. “Why do you look so happy to see me?”

  “Because I get to travel with you!” the merchant said, but a thin line of drool slid down his chin.

  James sighed. “Be honest. You’re just thinking about the meals, aren’t you?”

  The merchant laughed, wiping his mouth. “You wound me.”

  “Not as much as hunger will,” James muttered.

  A second man approached from the side of the wagon. He was broader, older, his voice calm. “Morning. I’m Gerrard. I travel with this glutton on most of his routes.”

  “James,” he said, shaking his hand. “So the food-obsessed merchant has a name. Marty, right? I forgot to ask yesterday.”

  Gerrard chuckled. “He’s harmless. Mostly. Just don’t cook anything too good or he might start worshipping you.”

  “That’s not true,” Marty protested. “You’ll understand when you taste his food. Words don’t do it justice.”

  James grinned. “We’ll see about that.”

  He glanced at Gerrard again. “Didn’t see you yesterday.”

  “Marty left me behind to watch the goods,” Gerrard said. “Didn’t even bring back a sample.”

  Marty looked away. “Minor oversight.”

  James shook his head, smiling. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man.”

  “Alright, enough talk,” Marty said, climbing onto the driver’s bench. “We’ve got a long road ahead. Plenty of time for stories later.”

  Gerrard took the seat beside him. James climbed into the back, settling among crates and sacks tied neatly with rope. The wagon creaked as Marty flicked the reins, and the horses started forward, hooves drumming softly against the earth.

  The village faded behind them, roofs shrinking into the haze of morning. Hills rolled in gentle waves ahead, dotted with trees that caught the sunlight like glass. Rivers cut silver lines through the land, and far in the distance, mountains rose blue against the horizon.

  James leaned back against a crate, watching it all pass by. The smell of pine drifted through the air. Somewhere overhead, a hawk circled. Everything felt impossibly wide, impossibly alive.

  In his old life, there had never been mornings like this, no air so clean, no silence so full of promise. He let the rhythm of the wagon lull him into a quiet smile.

  “Not bad,” he murmured. “If this is how my second life begins, I might just enjoy the trip.”

  The wagon rattled along the dirt road, wheels thudding gently against the uneven path. Fields rolled into hills, and the hills gave way to tall trees whose leaves shimmered in the morning light. Birds darted between branches, their cries blending with the creak of the wagon.

  Marty leaned back on the driver’s bench, reins loose in his hands, and called over his shoulder. “So, James. I heard a rumor about you.”

  James, half lost in the rhythm of the road, looked up. “A rumor?”

  “About a certain goblin incident,” Marty said, grinning. “The villagers told me you fought them off. Naked. Is that true?”

  James blinked. “Ah, well…” He laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

  Gerrard barked a laugh. “Hold on. You fought goblins without clothes? And why were you naked to begin with?”

  Marty nodded eagerly. “They said at first everyone thought you were insane. I was eating your food with them last night, and they couldn’t stop talking about the crazy man who saved the village in his birthday suit.”

  “Birthday suit,” Gerrard repeated, snorting. “So he charged into battle without armor, without pants, and somehow survived. And they still aren’t sure if he’s mad?” He burst out laughing again. “I think the real fools are us, traveling with him!”

  James opened his mouth, but the two kept going, trading lines like old performers on a stage.

  “I bet the goblins ran out of pure confusion,” Gerrard said.

  “Or embarrassment,” Marty added. “Imagine seeing that in the middle of a fight.”

  “Maybe that’s his secret weapon.”

  “Fear and discomfort.”

  The wagon filled with their laughter. James sighed, leaning back against a crate. He decided to let them talk themselves out while he studied the cargo around him.

  The wagon was packed full of curiosities. Bundles of cloth, jars sealed with wax, tiny barrels marked with red paint. A few items glimmered faintly in the sunlight that slipped through the slats: polished stones, brass trinkets, a small mirror shaped like a coin. The smell of herbs and old leather hung in the air. It was chaos, but a familiar kind of chaos, the kind that spoke of long roads and hurried markets.

  “Quite a collection,” James murmured.

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  Marty glanced back and caught him looking. “Ah, the life of a traveling merchant,” he said. “Everything and nothing. A little of each, never enough of one.”

  James smiled faintly. “So you buy from one place and sell in another.”

  “Exactly,” Marty said proudly. “The art of survival disguised as commerce.”

  Gerrard grunted. “He makes it sound grand, but the truth is simpler. The roads eat the careless. Bandits, beasts, storms, you learn to keep moving.”

  James tilted his head. “And how do you protect yourselves from all that?”

  Marty gestured with his chin toward the man beside him. “That’s where Gerrard comes in. He’s a fire mage.”

  James sat up straighter. “Really? I didn’t see that coming.”

  Gerrard chuckled. “I’m no master, but I can light more than campfires. Enough to keep fools and monsters at bay.”

  “Impressive,” James said. “Then I suppose I’m in good hands.”

  Gerrard looked back, eyes glinting with amusement. “What, the naked goblin-slayer is hiding behind an old man now? I think we’re the ones who should be under your protection.”

  Marty roared with laughter. “He’s right! If goblins show up again, we’ll just throw you at them and run.”

  James groaned, covering his face with one hand. “I’m never living that story down, am I?”

  “Not a chance,” Gerrard said, still laughing.

  The road dipped into a shallow valley where a stream glittered alongside them. The horses slowed to drink as the wagon rolled through a patch of wildflowers. Sunlight spilled across the fields in gold streaks.

  For a while, no one spoke. The laughter faded into the soft rhythm of hooves and the steady creak of wood. Marty hummed something that might have been a tune, and Gerrard stretched his arms, letting the warm breeze hit his face.

  James leaned back again, watching clouds drift lazily above the mountains. A hawk wheeled through the air far ahead. The silence between them felt easy now, filled with the comfort of people who didn’t need to speak to enjoy the same road.

  He smiled quietly to himself. “This world keeps getting stranger,” he whispered, “but I think I’m starting to like it.”

  They made camp where the road dipped toward a shallow bend in the stream. The water moved slow and clear; minnows flickered like quicksilver in the shallows. A stand of alder trees leaned toward the bank and broke the wind, and a flat patch of grass gave the horses room to nose for clover. Gerrard gathered fallen branches while Marty unhitched the team, humming a tune that was probably older than the wagon. James walked the perimeter and breathed the quiet in; cold water, wet rock, green leaf. It was a good place to stop.

  By the time Gerrard coaxed a steady flame from the wood, the sun had slipped behind a bank of cloud and the world turned copper. Sparks climbed and vanished. Smoke trailed sweet and thin into the trees.

  Marty slapped dust off his hands and jerked a thumb at the wagon. “Help yourself. Anything you need for dinner, take it. Just make sure it tastes like a reason to live.”

  James grinned. “A modest request.”

  He climbed into the wagon and began to rummage. Sacks sighed under his hands; grain, flour, salt. Bundles of cloth hid jars sealed with wax. There were two small barrels marked with a faded red X; one bled the faint smell of oil. A crate gave him a handful of sun-dried tomatoes that looked like rubies left in the sun too long. Another held a wrapped wedge of hard cheese, the rind thick and clean. He found a pouch of herbs mixed from a dozen markets; thyme, something like oregano, a stubborn cousin of basil. At the bottom of a trunk, under a coil of rope and a chipped lantern, he found an old round shield, iron-banded and dented along the rim.

  “Look at that,” he said, hauling it out. “A pan with ambitions.”

  Marty squinted. “That is a shield.”

  “Tonight it is a hearth-stone with a handle.”

  Gerrard crouched by the fire, curious. “What are you planning?”

  “Flatbread,” James said. He paused, then smiled. “No. Something better.”

  He set the shield on a rock and scrubbed the inside with sand and water from the stream until it shone in dull circles. He dried it with a piece of rough cloth, then rubbed the surface with a thin sheen of oil from the small barrel. The metal drank the light and turned slick.

  “Bread first,” he said. He measured flour into a wooden bowl, added a good pinch of salt, and a thread of oil. Water followed, little by little. He stirred with two fingers until the mixture pulled into a shaggy mass. He tipped it onto the shield and began to knead; push, fold, turn, breathe. The dough came together under his hands, rough at first, then smooth and elastic. He worked it until it answered with spring.

  “No yeast?” Marty asked.

  “Not tonight,” James said. “We chase speed, not height.”

  He wrapped the dough in cloth and set it near the fire to rest. The heat licked the metal and the bowl steamed faintly.

  Next he chopped the dried tomatoes and warmed them with a finger of oil in a small pot. The pieces darkened and softened. He added a splash of water, a pinch of salt, and a whisper of honey from Bree’s bundle. The mixture loosened and turned glossy. He crushed it with the back of a spoon until it became a thick sauce that smelled like summer trapped in a jar. The herb pouch opened with a breath of meadow; he crumbled a little into the pot and let it bloom.

  Gerrard leaned closer. “That smell could make a man confess his sins.”

  “Let it make you wash your hands,” James said. “You will be tasting soon.”

  The cheese resisted the knife; dry, salty, determined to stay whole. He shaved it thin anyway, piling curls in a wooden bowl. From Bree’s cloth parcel he borrowed a strip of dried meat; he minced it small, just enough to wake in the heat. The fire settled into a low, steady burn. Perfect.

  He set the clean shield on two stones over the coals so that the curve sat level. Oil whispered across the surface. When it began to shimmer, he tore off a piece of rested dough, rolled it thin with an empty bottle that Marty swore had once held plum spirits, and laid the circle onto the hot metal. The dough seized and bubbled; little blisters rose as if the shield were breathing. He flipped it and brushed a veil of oil along the rim.

  Marty swallowed audibly. “What is it called?”

  “Where I am from,” James said, spreading tomato across the bread in a thin spiral, “it is called pizza.” He sprinkled the minced meat, rained the shaved cheese, and dusted the top with herbs. “Tonight it is called peace.”

  “Peace?” Gerrard raised an eyebrow.

  “It ends arguments before they begin.”

  The cheese began to melt, slow at first, then with a sigh. The edges of the crust colored from straw to amber. Heat washed up from the shield in ribbons. James lifted an iron pot and inverted it over the bread like a dome, trapping the breath of the fire. The camp filled with a smell that could make a traveler remember every good day he had ever had.

  Marty’s voice went gentle. “You are doing magic.”

  “This is lunch,” James said, echoing himself with a private smile.

  He lifted the pot; steam escaped in a soft rush. The cheese had melted into the sauce and caught in the little valleys of the dough. He slid the bread off the shield and onto a board, then cut it into rough wedges with the edge of his knife.

  “Careful,” he said. “It is hot.”

  Marty ignored the warning, took a bite, and made a sound that was not quite a word. He stood very still. His eyes closed. When he opened them again, they looked suspiciously wet.

  “Do not cry,” Gerrard said, taking his wedge. “You will salt the food.”

  Gerrard bit in and stopped talking altogether. The only sound was the stream and the small mutter of the fire.

  James ate his piece last. The crust snapped under his teeth, thin and crisp where it met the shield, tender inside. The sauce was bright and clean; the cheese brought a deep salt that lingered. The herbs rose like a memory of fields in late afternoon. He exhaled and let the warmth settle.

  Marty found his voice. “We cannot go back to whatever we were eating before.”

  “You can,” James said. “But you will complain more.”

  They laughed. James rolled another circle of dough and set a second pizza to bake. This time he dotted it with slices of wild onion that Gerrard had found near the water and a pinch more herb. He worked in a quiet rhythm. Shield on, dough down, rush of sauce, float of cheese, dome of iron, breath of heat. The sun slipped lower; the stream turned from silver to smoke-blue.

  Between batches he taught without naming it a lesson. A little oil keeps the shield from grabbing. Thin dough cooks fast; thick dough puffs and needs patience. Sauce wants to be thin so that the crust can breathe. Cheese is salt; do not drown the rest. Fire is not a whip; it is a conversation.

  Marty listened with all the reverence he could gather. Gerrard asked practical questions; wood choice, heat control, how to tell when the bottom is right without burning fingers. James showed him the lift of the edge with a knife tip, the color line that walks between pale and too brave.

  They ate until the second dough was gone. The last pie he kept simple; only herb, oil, and salt. It tasted like a promise you could keep.

  Gerrard wiped crumbs from his beard and leaned back on his palms. “If bandits come tonight, we will throw this at them and they will lay down their weapons.”

  “Not a weapon,” Marty said. “A treaty.”

  James smiled at the fire. “Pizza, the diplomacy of the hungry.”

  The horses snorted and settled. The shield cooled on the stones, streaked with oil and victory. Above the trees, the first star pricked the evening. The air had the clean taste that comes between one road and the next.

  Marty stretched, hands behind his head. “James, if you ever decide that cities are not for you, I will hire you forever.”

  “That is not how forever works,” James said, stacking the bowls. “But I will feed you as long as the road is kind.”

  He was just about to cut the last pizza when a voice drifted from the darkness beyond the firelight.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  All three froze.

  From the edge of the trees, a figure stepped forward, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair long and tangled, a thin goat-like beard catching the fire’s glow. He looked to be somewhere in his forties, road-worn but steady. The man smiled as though he had arrived at an invitation that wasn’t his.

  Marty’s hand slipped toward the wagon. Gerrard’s eyes narrowed.

  The stranger stopped just outside the ring of light.

  “Smells wonderful,” he said quietly. “Mind if I join?”

  The fire popped. No one answered.