The first slivers of dawn crept through the wooden slats of the inn’s shutters, painting golden streaks across the rough-hewn walls. Zyren stirred, blinking against the morning light. The dull ache in his limbs had faded to a mere discomfort—a far cry from the searing pain of the day before. He flexed his fingers experimentally—his body was mending.

  As he stretched, his mind wandered back to the path that had led him here. He had left home chasing an uncertain dream, believing he was escaping a place that had never truly felt like his own. He had thought that leaving would set him free. But now, with distance and hardship between him and that life, his memories of home were not filled with rejection but with warmth. The whispers and glares of the other elves, the suffocating weight of their judgment seemed laughable compared to the gnashing weapons of the Craglings. The exhaustion of working in a crowded tavern was nothing against the fear of stepping into Regismere’s gates. And the shove of an orc’s fist on the ship had taught him more about survival than a lifetime of being pushed aside.

  But the orc...Why hadn’t he killed him?

  The memory replayed in his mind: the moment when Zyren was sure the final blow would land—and then it didn’t. Instead, the orc had snarled something strange before fleeing: "You’re on the wrong side."

  The words echoed in his mind, a puzzle with missing pieces. Wrong side of what? The battle? The ship? Something larger? The orc had looked at him with such certainty, as though Zyren should have understood immediately. As though they shared some knowledge that Zyren himself wasn't privy to.

  What had he meant?

  Zyren's fingers traced the bruise on his shoulder where the orc had struck him—not with the blade's edge, but with its flat side. A deliberate choice. Not a mistake. The orc hadn't failed to kill him; it had chosen not to.

  With a deep sigh, Zyren rose from the bed, his joints protesting the movement. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he dressed, strapping his empty weapon holsters to his chest—a habit more than a necessity. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since he left the ship.

  Making his way downstairs, Zyren's mind continued to wrestle with the orc's words, as if his consciousness had split—one part navigating the physical world while another remained trapped on that fog-shrouded deck. The most obvious explanation was that the orc simply meant Zyren shouldn't have been fighting alongside the sailors—that he was just an annoying traveller interfering in their raid. But if that were true, why not shout those words immediately? Why wait until that moment of recognition, that moment of hesitation? Why didn't he just killed him?

  The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread weaving through the air jolted him back to the present, the tavern's warmth enveloping him like an embrace. For a brief moment, he disconnected from thought, allowing his senses to be overwhelmed by the simple pleasure of being alive. The tavern was lively despite the early hour. A few patrons nursed their morning drinks, hunched over tables, murmuring in low voices.

  Sitting at a corner table, Zyren tore into a hunk of bread, savouring the simple comfort of food. But even as he ate, his mind drifted back to the ship, to that moment suspended in time. Why didn't the orc kill him? The last stroke, although heavier than anything he had felt before, was intentionally non-lethal. The orc had pulled its punch—a creature capable of tearing a man in half had chosen to merely knock him unconscious.

  "More ale?" A serving girl appeared at his elbow, pitcher in hand. Her smile was tired but genuine.

  Zyren nodded, pushing his mug toward her. "Thank you."

  "You came in on the Swift Breeze, didn't you?" she asked, filling his mug. "The one that got attacked?"

  Zyren tensed slightly. "News travels fast."

  "Small town," she replied with a shrug. "Not much happens here that everyone doesn't know about by morning. They say there was a traveller on board who fought like a demon—took down half a dozen pirates before they retreated." She lowered her voice. "Captain's been telling everyone how his crew fought them off, but the sailors are saying something different. That it was just one passenger who turned the tide."

  Zyren shifted uncomfortably. "Sounds like quite a tale."

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "People need stories," she said with a knowing smile. "Especially in places like this. Truth gets stretched thin when it crosses the water." She glanced around and leaned closer. "If I were someone who didn't want attention, I'd be careful. The guards have been asking questions about any unusual passengers."

  As she moved to another table, Zyren sipped his ale thoughtfully. The town already knew about the attack, and the guards were clearly looking for someone. He would need to be careful—or perhaps he should leave soon.

  Finishing his meal, he left a few coins on the table and headed for the door. It was time to retrieve his weapons.

  ---

  The blacksmith's forge was alive with heat and motion. Smoke curled toward the rafters, and the sharp tang of burning coal mixed with the metallic scent of molten iron. Zyren barely had time to cross the threshold before the smith spotted him.

  "Ah! You're back!" the man bellowed, his face splitting into what seemed more like a grimace than a humble grin. He wiped his thick hands on his apron and gestured to the workbench. "Just in time!"

  On the wooden surface, Zyren's weapons lay gleaming—his blades polished, edges honed to a razor's sharpness. Beside them, a dagger was carefully placed over an old cloth.

  The smith's shoulders slumped slightly as he ran a thick-fingered hand over the hilt. "I'm sorry for just having this for you," he said, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "I'd love to offer a choice of three or four blades to a customer. But..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the nearly empty weapon racks that lined the walls.

  He lifted the dagger—a sleek, narrow blade, its hilt wrapped in black leather. "We struggle with supplies on this island. And most of what we get is used for the guards' inventory." His voice dropped lower, a hint of bitterness creeping in. "First pick always goes to them. What's left is barely enough to keep the townsfolk in tools, let alone proper weapons." Handing the weapon to Zyren he continued. "Try it. It's a modest weapon, the material is not as good as the one you have. But it won't fail you!"

  Zyren took the blade, testing its weight in his palm. Despite the smith's apologies, the craftsmanship was evident—this was the work of a master making do with inferior materials. The balance was perfect, the edge keen. Testing the dagger felt like it had been his since the beginning. The weight was the same as the one he already had. The hilt was comfortable and the edge sharp. It wasn't a fancy weapon, but better than nothing.

  "This is excellent work," Zyren said, genuinely impressed. "Especially considering the limitations."

  The smith's expression brightened slightly. "Did what I could. It's always hard here. We have regular shipments from the mainland, but the constant raids from the pirates..." He shook his head. "The guards take more and more, claiming security needs. The pirates take what's left. Honest folk make do with scraps."

  Zyren nodded sympathetically as he holstered the dagger and collected his weapons. The smith's situation reflected the delicate balance of this outpost, caught between human control and the dangers that lurked beyond the walls.

  "What do you know about the pirates?" Zyren asked casually, adjusting his sword belt.

  The smith's eyes darted to the open door before he answered. "Only that they're bold and organized, working with purpose instead of just taking what they can grab." He lowered his voice further. "Some even say they work with the rebels, though no one ever admitted it."

  The smith apologized again and charged 14 coins for all the work. As Zyren counted out the payment, he noticed the man's hands—calloused and burned from years at the forge.

  "Thank you," Zyren said, placing the coins in the man's palm. "For everything."

  The smith nodded, closing his fingers around the payment. "Safe travels, stranger."

  ---

  Zyren had just left the smith, the weight of his newly acquired dagger a reassuring presence against his hip, when a voice startled him from behind.

  "So? Are you coming?"

  He spun around, hand instinctively moving toward his weapon before recognizing Kaelith standing there, her expression impatient. The morning light caught the edges of her silhouette, highlighting the tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there the night before.

  Taken by surprise, but recognizing the voice, he chuckled and replied without looking. "You were right. There isn't much to see or do here."

  "Shall we pick up our stuff and just go?" Kaelith asked, shifting her weight from one foot to another. Her usual composed demeanour had been replaced by an urgency that seemed out of character. She seemed in a rush, a contrast with the cool confidence she approached with in the tavern.

  Zyren studied her face for a moment, trying to read what lay behind her hurried manner. "What is the plan?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

  "Later," she replied tersely, her gaze darting to the street corners as they walked. Her boots made quick, purposeful sounds against the cobblestones. "Not here."

  As they navigated the narrow streets toward the inn, sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating details he hadn't noticed before. Zyren realized that Kaelith's clothes seemed muddier than they had been the night before, with fresh scratches on her leather armour and what looked like dried mud splattered across her boots. Had she already been outside the walls this morning? Or perhaps he wasn't in good condition and might have not noticed it before.

  She was a puzzle with missing pieces. Her approach was unexpected, too certain, too convenient. She had barely seen him fight, and he had lost that battle. And yet, she had sought him out. There was no doubt she had her own reasons, but he wasn't in a position to turn away from opportunity. It was either this or sitting and wandering waiting for something else. He'd spent long enough wandering alone.

  Even if she wasn't telling him everything.

  Thanks for reading! I’d love to hear your thoughts, theories, or impressions in the comments — your feedback helps shape future chapters.