'I don't know,' Willard replied, mug cusped between his gloved hands as he leaned forward. 'It's been over a decade since I saw them last.' Despite the years that passed, he still retained the accent. 'I'm from the Highlands, originally. My blood-family are leagues upon leagues away. I hope to see them again, one day, but-' He paused, shook his head. 'It'll have to wait.' The Order was his family now. From the Captains all the way down to the saplings whom the order had adopted.

Venla's gaze flitted to the door, and Willard's went with it.

'Thought about what you're going to tell them?' He asked, looking up at her. 'Your kith and kin aren't like to take the news well. I find its hard to let go of something you love.' Timbers creaked as he made to stand. Weapons rattled. Venla had allowed him to take a peek behind the curtain of her life. To stay while she went seemed like trespass. 'A young knight shows up late in the day to whisk you off at sword-point. That will go down well, won't it?'
 
A decade? Gods. Her throat tightened just thinking about it. He must been just a boy when he left! “That's…” She hesitated, searching for a word that didn’t sting too much. “...brave, cutting loose. Letting something bigger claim you.”

"Do you ever miss it? The Highlands, your kin?" she wondered. Or has he had to forget it? Because how else do you live like that, untethered, oath-bound, a sword between you and the people you once called home? Bury the smell of bread baking, the flour on your mother's sleeves, the feel of your sister’s fingers braided into your own, the sound of your father clearing his throat when he was trying not to cry. Maybe that was the cost of duty?

"You’ll see them again one day, until then, you could send a letter. Doesn’t have to be much. Just a line or two. Enough for them to know you’re still breathing.” Surely his mother would want to know he’s alive.

Venla paused at the door, one hand resting on the handle. She cast a look back at Willard, who stood there with seriousness pulling sharp lines at his jaw and the faint furrow in his brow. Mischief curled at the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, I’ll make it easy for them,” she said. “I’ll tell them you’ve knocked me up." She gave a little snort of laughter, barely managing to hold her mock-serious expression. "That you swaggered in, all steel and honour, swept me off my feet, and now I’ve no choice but to follow you to Drachenberg.” She grinned then, as brightly as a jester.

She watched the shift slightly in his face, just enough to know she’d landed the blow, and then she laughed, warm and low. “Gods, your face.” Then she softened the moment with a shrug, the smile still tugging at her mouth. “Don’t worry, Syr. I’ll tell them there’s work. A place in a noble's kitchen, maybe. Peeling onions and burning my fingers on brass pots, that's a version they can sleep with.” Better they think she left for coin than for magic.
 
The idea had crossed his mind before. A letter arriving out of the blue, written in a stranger's hand, by a young man who had never been much good with words. 'I've considered doing so,' he told Venla. 'But my kin, well...' Sighing, Will shook his head. I do not know them nor they I. It was a heavy thought, laden with mixed emotions.

Putting it to one side, Willard made to join Venla by the door.

What she said next halted him in his tracks.

'Oh, aye,' he stuttered, caught off-guard by the redhead's playful demeanour. 'Nothing brings a family together quite so fast as an amorous suitor with too much time on his hands.' Laughing, the dawnling shook his head, amusement writ in the way his eyes lingered on hers. 'Honestly,' he said, 'it's almost as if you want your brothers to hack me to pieces.' Willard could see it happening, too.

But then he had dodged a few axes in his time. Pretty barmaids? Not so much.

'Aye, that'll work.' Nodding, he went over Venla's idea in his head. Money was as good a motivation as any, and working for a nobleman came with certain prospects. Besides, what parent didn't want a better life for their daughter? 'Want me to come with?' He asked Venla, his hand brushing her shoulder as he reached past her to hold the door.

'Might help us to sell this particular story. Then again, it might get us both battered by mother,' he shrugged, a small smile creasing his lips. 'Not to worry, Venla. I'll protect you.'
 
“It’s never too late.” she said. There was no sermon in her tone, only something simple and warm. “Even if your mother wouldn’t know your face now, I wager she’d still weep to know you breathe.” There was no need for pretty words for that. Just his name at the bottom and enough truth to let some of her thoughts be put to rest.

Venla glanced sideways at him, a smile tugging at her mouth as his hand brushed past her shoulder. Her fingers hovered near the door’s latch, but she didn’t open it just yet. "Aye, you can come along, Syr." Venla snorted, lifting her brow at him. She turned halfway toward him, one hand on the doorframe. "Protect me? Willard, my mother once drove off the sheriff with nothing but a ladle. If anyone needs protecting, it’ll be you. Fear not, I’ll stand in front of you if the ladle comes out.” A pause and a smirk, the kind that was between teasing and fond. “Mayhaps.”

A beat passed, the wind sighing against the shutters of the hut, before she turned and opened the door. Venla led the way through the village. She led him down the winding footpath that followed the river’s edge. The water brushing reeds with its silver tongue, and the wind carried the damp scent of malt, wet wood, and smoke.

Farther ahead, a warm light flickered behind warped glass, marking the squat stone silhouette of the family brewery and home. It was a weathered structure of pale stone and dark beams. Set apart from the clustered village houses, the brewery stood beside it, barrels stacked under lean-tos, a chimney sending up a faint wisp of smoke, and the sharp tang of hop in the air.

Up ahead, the dull thump of axe into wood echoed through the stillness. Her younger brother, Rane, hunched beside the chopping block, sleeves rolled to the elbow, firewood piled high beside him. The lantern on the hook above swung in the breeze, catching on his damp auburn curls.

He looked up as they approached, the axe pausing mid-air. His gaze slid to Willard, suspicious as any brother faced with an unfamiliar man at his sister’s side. “He’s not here to collect the tithe, is he?” Rane asked bluntly. Venla snorted. “He’s not. This is Syr Willard. He’s recruiting for a Lord’s household in Drachenberg, kitchen work. Decent coin." Rane's eyes slid back to Willard. “Kitchen work? He doesn’t look like a cook. Looks more like the kind of man who throws people into dungeons.”

She turned slightly, gesturing between them with a flick of her hand, the corners of her mouth still curled with amusement. “Syr Willard, this is my brother Rane."

The door to the house creaked open. A gust of warm air escaped. Their mother stood in the doorway, wrapped in a wool shawl. Her sharp eyes narrowed in the half-light, sweeping over her daughter, then resting with stern suspicion on the armored figure beside her. “What’s this?” she called. And before any words could rise, two massive hounds slipped out beneath her skirts like ghosts from the hearth, their coats a shag of soot and ash. One moved straight for Willard, brushing his thigh with a low huff, sniffing his leg. The other one padded a circle around the knight.
 
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Willard hummed in acknowledgement. 'My hero,' he said, his voice rife with sarcasm. 'Begs the question, what did your ma do to warrant a visit from the sheriff in the first place?' Allowing himself a small smirk, Willard slipped out into the night after Venla, like a ghost clad in the clothes of its former self. The door thudded as it swung shut behind them.

Following along, the dawnling stuck to the deeper shadows as they passed through Arrowdale proper. The echo of voices coming from the tavern dwindled and died. Wan light seeped from shuttered windows and beneath doorways.

The Mirror guided their steps as Venla led him along a footpath riding the river's shoulder. Frogs croaked and chirped amidst the reeds, seeking mates, or else warning the two interlopers away from their territory. "This is my muddy river bank," they seemed to scream in unison, "get your own." Willard paid them no mind. Dark shapes loomed up ahead. Buildings and outbuildings clustered together for safety.

There was a figure chopping wood in front of the main house. He stopped as the two of them approached.

Boy, does he look pleased to see me. Nodding, Willard held up a hand in greeting as Venla introduced him. 'Prisoners need to eat, too,' he replied flatly, trying to ignore the way Venla was smirking at him from out of the corner of his eye. 'Need a hand?' He asked, jutting his chin towards the stump upon which an unsplit log sat waiting. If you could put down that axe, I would be most relieved, he thought, calm despite Rane's suspicions.

Well, until the house door banged open, and two hounds came pounding forth to meet them.

Forcing himself to stillness, Willard held out his hand as one of the shaggy-haired mutts brushed up against his leg, wet snout sniffing for a scent. Fingers curled towards him so he didn't lose them to a bite, the scout watched as the closest hound gave his hand a sniff. A heartbeat passed. Another. For a moment, Willard thought the circling hound was about to attack him.

Reaching down, the knight gave the animal a good scratch behind the ears as it settled against his thigh, tail wagging furiously as it looked up at him. 'Now I'm starting to understand why the sheriff fled,' he whispered quietly to Venla, the second hound growing jealous enough to approach him for pats. 'Do these two oh-so stoic guardians have names?' He asked aloud, well-aware of the way Venla's mother was watching him from the house.

At least she doesn't have an axe, thought Willard. Though, is that a ladle I spy tucked into the front of her apron?
 
“That is Ivy and Bramble.” Venla said, nodding at half-tamed beasts flanking Willard. Tails wagging. Snouts sniffing. Venla snorted softly at Willard’s whisper, as she stepped toward the open door where her mother stood. The older woman arms were folded over her chest, the old ladle indeed tucked against her waist. Her hair, mostly grey now with streaks of rust still clinging stubbornly, was tied back in a braid.

The sound of boots thudding came from deeper in the house, and then her eldest brother, Magnar, filled the doorway beside their mother. Broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a blunt nose and hands like meat hooks, he leaned forward with a grin.

“This is Syr Willard.” Venla added quickly, brushing dust from her sleeves. “He’s recruiting for a lord’s house in Drachenberg. Kitchen work. Nothing strange.” She gave her mother and Magnar the same story that she had given Rane. She smiled toward her mother, half reassurance, half warning not to ask too many questions. There was a beat of silence as her mother looked Willard over, then she gave the faintest grunt of approval. "Then he may come in and get warm.” The older woman stepped aside to let them in.

“Well, he’s not ugly,” Magnar said cheerfully, eyeing Willard. Expression less wary than Rane’s, though no less curious. “That’ll help if he’s serving ladies soup.”

Rane’s jaw tensed at his older brother’s comment. “Knights don’t serve soup." He snorted as he lifted the axe and brought it down hard into the chopping block with a solid thock and burying its blade deep in the grain.

“Behave,” Venla muttered while pushing past Magnar into the house. Magnar only grinned wider. “What?” he said innocently, raising his palms. “I didn’t say I’d court him. Just pointing out the obvious.”

She turned back at the threshold, nodding to Willard. “Come on, Syr. I promise, they're decent folk... when the mood strikes.” From within came the scent of broth and barley and iron on the hearth. “If he hasn’t eaten,” her mother said over her shoulder, already bustling toward the hearth, “...he’ll sit and have a bowl.”

Bramble flopped down like a rug at the door. Ivy trotted after the matron to the hearth in hopes of getting some scraps.

Rane stepped in last, his eyes not leaving Willard’s back. He shut the door behind them with a low thud.

---

Magnar clapped a thick hand on Willard’s shoulder, this was the familiarity of a man who never asked permission. “Come on then, knight.” he urged with a wide grin. He led Willard to the long oak table, worn from decades of use. Knife marks, heat stains, and a few initials carved in from younger, more foolish years. “Sit, sit! We’ve got a new batch in the cask." He chuckled, already heading toward the keg.

“We’re trying something new,” Magnar explained, holding two clay mugs. “Black malt, with honey, and a pinch of dried rowan for bite. Rane says it smells like something burnt. I say it’ll put hair on your chest and courage in your gut.” He tilted the keg and poured. A thick, dark ale slid into the mugs like oil. He handed one to Willard, eyes twinkling. "There" lifting his in a toast. “To kitchen work.” A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Tell me what a man of the world thinks, aye?”
 
He'll sit and have a bowl? Does Syr have a choice? Mounting the steps to Venla's home, Willard gave a grateful nod as, together, the Thiels welcomed him inside. 'Thank you for your hospitality,' he said, shaking hands with the elder brother, even as he clapped him on the shoulder. A show of dominance, perhaps. This one's the real threat, Willard decided then and there, returning Magnar's grin, like they were friends of old.

When the man told him to sit, Willard did so slowly, as if reluctant.

'Something new, huh?' A clay mug came his way, and he took it, head dipped in thanks. 'Aye, courage... or indigestion. Guess we're about to find out.' Studying the contents of his mug, Willard shrugged, before playing his gaze across the room and all those gathered. Rane, Magnar, Madam Thiel... and Venla. 'Is that pity I see in your eyes?' He asked the redheaded barmaid, a small, knowing smile tugging at his whiskers.

Ahyiid guard me, have I walked into an ambush? Am I to end my days decomposing in a vat of ale? The thought amused him almost as much as it terrified him. Oh well. Needs must.

'To work in kitchens!' He returned the toast, before tipping the mug back. The ale, as it turned out, was heady and bitter. From the moment it touched his palate, Will knew he had made a mistake. A tactical blunder that left him coughing, even as the majority of the mug made its way down his gullet. 'Harunh's hairy arse-crack, that'll do it!' Grinning, his voice a frail, weathered thing, Willard glanced to Venla as her brothers shared a good laugh at his expense.

'W-what? Don't feel like trying any?' The sound of padding paws rang out as Bramble came to check on him. Willard ruffled the hounds shaggy fur. 'How about you? Reckon he got the mix right? I have my doubts, yes, I do.'
 
Venla did not manage to hide the sigh that slipped past her lips as her brothers exchanged a look. Magnar let out a booming laugh when Willard nearly lost his soul to the bottom of the mug. Venla cast a look toward the rafters, as though asking the spiderwebs above for patience.

Magnar leaned back on the bench, his grin wide enough to show his back teeth. “Told you it had bite.” Rane snorted under his breath but said nothing. The hound’s nose twitched curiously at the rim of the mug as Willard held it out, tongue already beginning to loll with interest. Before the hound could slurp so much as a drop, Venla moved over to the table and deftly plucked the mug from Willard’s hand. “Gods, don’t give him that.” she muttered. “You don’t know what happened last time he got into the casks.” Bramble whined in protest, his great shaggy head flopping dramatically against Willard’s knee. Venla clicked her tongue and ruffled the hound’s ears.

“I’d forgotten about that! He howled for three days.” Magnar said half laughing. "... and pissed in my boots." Rane muttered before the kitchen door creaked open, and their mother stepped through. She paused only momentarily before setting it down on the thick oak table in front of their guest. “You don’t treat guests like that,” she said, not looking at her sons, but her voice was sharp as a scythe.

Magnar grinning, clearly unbothered. “What if they’re the sort our Venla plans to run off with?” Venla’s head snapped toward him. “I’m not!” she bit the words off. Shooting her brother a glare. “He’s here about work. That’s all.” Rane muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Aye, work.” and Venla could almost hear him roll his eyes.

Their mother gave Venla a long look, too knowing, too amused. Then turned her gaze to the guest again. She gave a firm nod, slid over a steaming bowl of stew and a piece of clapbread with some hard cheddar. “Well,” The old woman said to Willard. “Work or not, you’ll eat first. Proper food. You look like wind could snap you in two."

Venla disappeared briefly to the kitchens. The clink of pottery followed. She returned a few moments later with a wooden cup, filled with the pale green birch sap and gooseberry lemonade. "Here, less likely to burn a hole in your throat, Syr." Magnar snorted behind his cup. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Drachenberg’s a city, isn’t it?” Rane asked, eyes flicking to their guest. “Full of folk, so I hear. Smallfolk, townfolk, any kind of folk. You telling me they need to come scraping through Arrowdale to fill a kitchen?” Magnar chuckled softly from where he sat. “Rane,” Their mother turned her head just enough to fix her youngest with a look that had once quelled childhood riots. “let the man eat.”

Tension gathered in Venla's shoulders like drawn bowstring. A woman holding her tongue around kin who meant well, but knew little of the truth. She drew a deep breath and let it out through her nose. Not quite a sigh, but close.
 
Bramble whined pitifully as Venla took the mug away, but it was nothing a bit of love and attention couldn't fix. 'I tried, boy, believe me, I tried,' said Willard, unable to keep from babying the mutt as a bowl landed on the table next to him. Steaming, and smelling faintly of dried herbs, the stew looked as appetizing as he had expected, though the thought of dining alone left Willard feeling guilty.

'Thank you,' he said, looking to the mother as she went about her business. 'You're too kind.'

Her remark about the wind drew a small smirk from the knight, and he nodded, somewhat embarrassed. 'See, that's why we need good cooks in Drachenberg. His Lordship's knights are like to waste away otherwise.' Gaze flitting to Rane, Willard took up a spoonful of stew, blew on it as Venla arrived with another drink. Lemonade, this time. Not the dragon's piss Magnar had tried to poison him with.

Glancing up at Venla, Willard spared her a small smile, his fingers brushing hers as she let go of the device.

'My thanks.' She has her mother's eyes, he mused, drinking up. The lemonade helped wash away the bitter aftertaste left behind by Magnar's "ale". Setting down his cup, Willard attacked the bowl in front of him with gusto, even as Rane chose to sully the moment with his suspicions. 'A city, yes, and a flourishing one at that.' Blowing on his food, the dawnling took the opportunity to think. Of what to say to convince the over-protective little brother, mainly.

'His Lordship has taken to expanding his household, of late, what with the Troubles. Sword hands, for the most part. As you can imagine, they require a great deal of feeding.' His eyes drifted to Venla. He could see the way his lies were effecting her, and for a moment he was tempted to do away with the farce entirely. His freehand flexed where he held it under the table, became a fist.

Fuck it, can't back out now.

'Your daughter would make a fine fit for His Lordship's kitchens, mam,' he spoke concisely, confidently, addressing Venla's mother directly. 'I know she can handle herself amongst rowdy men, having worked in a tavern for awhile. And I know she can cook, having been taught by the best.' He gave a genuine smile, amused by his own daring.

Eight help me, I hope this pays off.
 
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And the lies did pay off.

The tension that had once hung over the table like a stormcloud had thinned into laughter and the clink of mugs. Hours later they all sat gathered around the table, its oaken surface strewn with humble but hearty fare. Smoked sausage, bread, hard yellow cheese, and handfuls of dried berries and almonds served in clay bowls. A bottle of elderflower wine had appeared at some point, uncorked and passed between hands.

The dogs dozed beneath the table, one pressed up against Willard’s boot, the other twitching in a dream. Magnar was halfway into a story about their grandfathers father, voice thick with pride and drink. "He was a cooper first, aye. Came down from the mountain with little more than a goat and a hammer. Folk forget, but it was him who brought the first copper up this way..."

Venla sat beside Willard and listened, leaning on one elbow, chin in hand. Her cheeks flushed from drink and the warmth of hearth and laughter. Her other hand rested lightly on the bench between them, close enough that her little finger brushed against him. A touch light as the flutter of a butterfly, as if by accident, but she didn’t move it away. She didn’t speak much, just smiled to herself, glancing across the table now and then. Thinking this might be the last time she sat like this with her kin for a long while. But for now, no one spoke of partings. Only of barrels and stubborn ancestors and the strange alchemy of malt and time.

Magnar's arms gesturing wide. “... and Grandda swore the yeast rose so fast that it burst the barrel hoops clean off. Said he woke to find the whole brewhouse without a roof." The tale was met with a laughter and a shake of the head from Rane, Venla muttered something about "old brewer's lies." Their mother chuckled as she rose to clear a few empty dishes from the table, her movements of a woman who done this for decades.

She passed behind Venla and rested a hand on her shoulder in passing. “We should pack while there’s still light in the lanterns.” she said gently. Then, turning toward the hearth where the knight sat nearby, she addressed him plainly, like she would any man beneath her roof. “Willard, do you have lodgings for the night already sorted?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “If not, there’s no need to stumble back to the village through the dark. You’re welcome to take Magnar’s old room. He and his Einar keep house of their own these days.” From across the table, Magnar raised his mug with a smirk.
 
The night crept along without them. Impatient, uncaring, the hours flowed into one another, like grains of sand draining through an hourglass. Willard lost track of whose turn it was to pour. Somehow, somewhen, they had all ended up drinking wine, feasting and revelling, as if to celebrate someone's nameday. Or else to say goodbye. It didn't feel like that, though.

Sat by Venla's side, arms resting on the table, Willard tried and failed to keep up with the conversation as it bounced from one person to the next. Magnar did much of the talking, his tales of past exploits going down almost as well as the drink.

Talk of family, and ancestors long gone. Of youth and discovery. Hel. Even Ivy's sire was mentioned. 'I owned a dog, once.' Willard had confessed at some point or 'tother. He wasn't sure when. 'Fang, he was called. Big ole sheepdog. Black and white coat, with a patch about his left eye pure as driven snow.' He had used to follow him about the monastery, stealing hearts and table scraps in equal measure.

His death had left a void in Willard's life not unlike the one left behind by his family.

Wherever they are now. It had not taken him long to decide Venla was right. A letter was long overdue. Once we reach Drachenberg, I shall be sure to write them. No doubt they longed to know how their wayward son fared, as he did them. His mother, father, sisters and brother - bound together by blood, part of a lineage as old as the Thiels'.

Shifting in his seat, Willard glanced sidelong at Venla. He could feel her hand where it rested on the bench between them. Light as a feather. Despite the closeness they shared, the warmth of the moment, Willard could not help but feel like there was an air of melancholy surrounding the redhead. It was in her eyes, and the way her smiles lingered, longer than they had any right to, as if she were a thousand miles away, reminiscing, or else pondering the road that lay ahead.

Without much meaning to, Willard found his hand slipping from the table to encompass hers where it rested upon the bench. A gentle squeeze followed, a reassurance of sorts. "This is not goodbye," he wanted to tell her, "merely the start of something new. Something important." A shadow appeared at his shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie.

Letting go, he turned towards Venla's mother as she spoke, extending to him an offer of refuge. For the night, at least.

'That would-... I mean-' He paused, the crackle of the hearth and the soft snoring coming from beneath the table filling in the silence. 'I am grateful, mam,' he said, bowing his head ever so slightly. 'What can I give you? For your hospitality?'
 
When his fingers found hers, she didn’t look at him right away. She blinked once, then glanced down where his hand gently folded over hers. Her fingers curled slightly beneath his. At the soft creak of the floorboards, Willard’s hand withdrew, and Venla’s gaze followed her mother as she approached, drying her hands on a towel.

The old woman looked at him, a ladle still in her hand from tidying the last of the supper pots. Her face was composed, the same way it had been through births and deaths, harsh winters and good harvests. Then she shook her head once. “You give me nothing.” she said plainly. She set a wrinkly hand lightly on Venla’s shoulder. The mother's eyes, when they met Willard's, held the unspoken terms plainly enough. Not a threat, just a mother's prayer: keep my girl safe. “The room’s the first on the left, up the stairs. Mind your head on the beam. There’s a quilt in the chest, should the wind pick up."

Venla looked after her mother when she went back to the kitchen. She then pushed herself slowly to her feet. She swayed just a little, nothing much, just the way someone did after too many cups. “Right, that’s me off, then,” Magnar said, slapping his thighs as he stood. He crossed the room to Willard, clapped him hard on the shoulder, and grinned. “Don't let the hounds steal your boots, knight." Then Magnar turned to Venla, wrapping her in a long, bone-cracking hug that left her giggling as he murmured something near her ear. She only nodded in return, her mouth pressing into a fond, grateful line.

“I’ll be by come morning,” he added, already pulling his cloak around his shoulders. “Sitha watch your dreams.” Then the door opened, and the cold met him, and he was gone down the path to the road. Rane began stacking empty cups and breadboards in silence, his sleeves rolled up. He didn’t say anything as he worked, nodded once when Venla passed him a tray of scraps. He gave her a look that said, go, I’ve got it. She didn’t argue.

Her gaze flicked toward the loft stairs, then back to Willard. Her eyes lingered on him for a breath longer, trying to memorize how he looked in that quiet light. “Good night, Syr Willard,” she said gently, her voice quieter than it had been all evening. It was not shyness, just something careful. Then she turned, ducking under the timber beam, and slipped behind the small door set into the alcove beneath the stairs. A few heartbeats later, the soft creak of floorboards could be heard as she began to pack, her belongings in the narrow little room she'd always called hers.
 
The clatter of plates and platters filled the room as the family dispersed for the night. It must be late, Willard thought to himself, rubbing at his eyes. The drink and fire had made him drowsy, and susceptible to the matron's words. 'Very well,' he said, standing. Memories of gatherings come and gone played across his mind's eye as he helped Rane collect the last of the dishes and utensils. Bramble bumped against his legs, and the hound nearly sent him toppling backwards over the bench.

'Aye, m'boy, time for some rest.'

Stroking the hound's fur, Willard smiled, his gaze climbing as he felt eyes on him. 'Good night, Venla,' he replied gently, watching her as she turned to go, 'sweet dreams. Don't let the bed bugs bite.' The door to her room closed softly behind her, plunging the alcove once more into darkness. Finding his feet, Willard bade goodnight to the others before climbing the wooden hill to his own room, where he promptly fell asleep.

-----​
Pausing by the gatepost leading onto the property, Willard bore witness as the Thiels gathered in front of the house. Stood at a distance, his wargear shining in the pale light of day, the dawnling watched as Venla moved amongst her kinsmen, sharing what few words she could muster with those she held most precious in life. Her mother and brothers, and the two hounds that circled her, loth to let her go, even as he heard the matron call them to heel.

A brave woman, thought the knight, looking on as the matron's shoulders buckled under the weight of her emotions. Arms encircled Venla from all sides, wrapping her in a cocoon of warmth and affection. Despite the sad smile the sight elicited from him, Willard could not help but feel like he was intruding on a private moment. Such pride he saw, etched on the faces of those gathered. Such heartrending sorrow, too.

Turning his back on the scene, the knight stared off into the trees as his horse cropped away at the grass nearby. 'Soon be time,' he whispered, noting how the bay's ears pricked up at the sound of his voice.
 
The morning was still and heavy with a hush, the kind that comes after too much has been said, and not enough can be undone. The sky held the pale sheen of early spring, cold blue and silver-washed, with a promise of change without yet delivering it. Smoke curled from the chimney from the house behind them.

Rane’s hug was brusque, and yet he cleared his throat twice before turning away, muttering something inaudible. Magnar said nothing at all. He only crushed her against his chest, tighter than he had in years. Fierce and wordless, and full of things he couldn’t bear to say aloud. Venla clung to her mother last, foreheads pressed and eyes closed, sharing breath the way they had when Venla was small and frightened of thunder. No tears, not now, but something deeper and older passed between mother and daughter. When they parted, it was with a quiet finality, like pages closing on a book.

The dogs knew. Of course they knew. The dogs whined as she stepped away, Bramble pawing the earth like he’d follow her to the edge of the sea if they let him. “No,” she whispered, crouching to take his big scruffy face in her hands. “Stay. Guard them, aye?” He licked her cheek, a wet blessing, and she buried her face into his fur for just a breath more. Then she stood, lifted her pack, settling the strap across her shoulders, it felt heavier than it should be. And she turned, she had said her goodbyes.

Her eyes found Willard. She walked to him in silence to where he stood. Against the soft morning light, he looked carved from dusk and steel. Her fingers toyed with the strap of her satchel. “I’m ready,” she said. At the gate, she looked back. Her hand lifted, slow and sure, fingers spread wide in farewell, not just to her kin, but to the life that had made her.

Venla walked beside Willard, her boots crunching in the old gravel. For a time, there was only the rhythm of their steps, the creak of leather straps, and the soft jangle of gear on his belt. Behind them, the house grew smaller, soon swallowed by the morning fog and the slope of the land. She didn’t look back again. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she knew if she did, she might not be able to keep walking.

----
​
The road unspooled before them like a ribbon of dust and morning dew, winding down from Arrowdale, past the budding birch trees and sleeping fields, and into the deeper green beyond. Venla breathed it in, the smell of leafmould and wild rosemary, damp wood and the cold bite of spring. They’d walked for a time. She hadn’t said much since they left Arrowdale.

“Can I ask you something?” she said, breaking the quiet without warning. "When you left to join the order... How did it happen?” she asked. “Did someone come for you?" She glanced up at him. Just wondering, trying to picture it. The shape of a young boy walking a road like this one, with nothing but his name and a promise.
 
Gravel crunched underfoot as they walked, breaking the silence that weighed so heavily upon Willard's shoulders. Blanketed by mist, the ground ahead and behind appeared more fugue plane than open road. Cold, clawing, the newborn Sun did what it could to keep them from shivering, the skies clear despite the promise of clouds to the east.

Keeping pace, Venla held to the silence with which she had greeted him not so long ago. Though her feet carried her onward, Willard could not help but notice the way her head drooped slightly, as if she were deep in thought.

He was almost glad when she chose to break her quietude. With questions, no less.

'How did it happen?' He repeated Venla's words back to her. 'Yes, I suppose someone did.' Perhaps not in the way she imagined. Trawling the depths of his mind, the dawnling let the silence stretch a moment, footsteps and hoofbeats intertwining, marking their steady progress towards Drachenberg. 'I was young when I left home. Seven, I think. Too young to understand what was happening, but old enough for it to hurt.'

There had been many tears, he recalled. Mostly his own. His memories of the time were vague at best, but pain had a way of enduring. Even now the thought of his family left him with a dull ache in his chest, right next to his heart.

'It was a long time ago, Venla. I'm told a life-debt was involved.' Indeed, it had helped him come to terms with his situation, moreso now that he was old enough to understand its value. 'My family were poor, but skilled. They lived close to the land and its spirits. Little material wealth to speak of. Thus, they had to find another form of reward.' A debt was a debt, after all. And the Order was ever in need of fresh recruits. One life for several.

Always a fair trade, thought Willard, shrugging.

Something big nudged his arm, and he smiled, amused by his horse's antics. 'If it's any consolation, I understand your pain, to a degree.' His gaze softened as he glanced at Venla, one hand on his reins, the other hovering by his side. 'You could've told them, y'know?' His eyes alighted on hers. Brown against green. 'Your family?'
 
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