The forest was quieter after he started walking five soldiers .
Not peaceful — just emptied out, like it was holding its breath. The smell of blood hung thick with damp moss and broken bark.
Sergeant Dalen led them forward through the undergrowth, his armor dull with age, every step sure and heavy. Eric trailed near the back, Gary keeping close, the faint shimmer of his form almost lost in the fading light.
For a long while, no one spoke. Only boots against roots and the soft rattle of gear filled the quiet.
Then Eric's voice cut through, unsure but steady.
"So… where are we going?"
"Out of this forest," Sergeant Dalen said without looking back. "There's an outpost a few miles from the bridge. We rest there."
"And after?"
Robert, a younger soldier with sharp eyes, glanced over his shoulder. "After, we see if you're trouble or just unlucky."
Bron gave a small snort of amusement. "Most folks we find out here are a bit of both."
Rook adjusted his crossbow strap and muttered, "Still think we should've left him. Troll's business isn't ours."
Dalen's tone hardened. "He fought, same as us. That counts for something."
That shut them up for a while. They kept walking until the trees thinned, sunlight cutting through in narrow, gold bars.
Eric finally asked, "You said I was an outsider. What does that mean here?"
Dalen sighed through his nose. "It means you live between lines. Not one of ours, not one of theirs. Folks like that… they don't get much notice. You trade where you can, sleep where no one asks questions, and hope both sides keep forgetting you exist."
Robert added, "Outsiders aren't hated. Just—" he searched for the word, "—unclaimed.
Eric frowned, stepping to ask another question. "But Sir John came to our village every three years," he said. "he was sent by the king to collect taxes, inspect the borderlands, and remind the nobles of their duty. If we're unwanted, as you say… what was that for, Sergeant Dalen?"
Sergeant Dalen slowed his pace a little, boots sinking into the soft earth. "Taxes aren't the same as belonging, boy," he said quietly. "They'll take your coin, your crops, maybe even your sons — but that doesn't make you one of theirs."
Robert gave a short laugh, bitter and dry. "They remember you when your pockets are full or your land's worth fighting over. The rest of the time, you're smoke in the wind."
Tenn grunted. "Still better than being under a banner that gets you killed for someone else's pride."
Before Sergeant Dalen could answer, Rook let out a snort. "My advice for you, kid — don't listen to those who gain nothing from you knowing it all." He gave Eric a sideways glance, half amused, half tired. "And tell me, when did kings start reminding nobles to do their damn jobs?"
Robert chuckled under his breath. "Careful, Rook. Words like that get you hanged in the capital."
"Good thing we're nowhere near it," Rook said, not looking back.
Sergeant Dalen sighed. "You'd do well to ignore half of what he says."
" that half has kept me alive all this years," Rook replied.
The group fell quiet again, boots crunching over leaves. Eric didn't push further, but the thought lingered — maybe what passed for 'order' in the kingdoms was nothing more than people pretending it still mattered.
By the time they reached the outpost, the sun had begun to sink behind the trees, bleeding gold through the mist. The air smelled of smoke and iron — a small fire burned near the gate, where a few soldiers stood on watch.
Sergeant Dalen raised a hand in greeting, and one of the guards hurried over. There was quick talk — what happened, the troll, the losses. The guards' faces tightened, then softened when they saw Eric standing behind them, dirt-smeared and silent.
They let the group inside.
The outpost was little more than a ring of stone huts and a wooden fence, half-swallowed by moss. Someone handed Eric a tin cup of water, another told him where to sit. He didn't argue.
For the first time since the fight, his body began to ache properly — every cut and bruise announcing itself after all the tense form the muscles was gone.
From the corner, he watched the soldiers talk. Their laughter was quiet, but it came easy — shared language, shared years. He didn't belong in that circle. Not yet, maybe not ever.
Rook noticed him staring. "What's with that look?" he said, leaning back on his stool. "You think we're plotting to kill you?"
Eric didn't answer.
Rook smirked. "If we wanted to kill you, kid, you'd already be a story someone else was telling."
Robert shot him a look. "Ease up, Rook."
"What? He's thinking it anyway."
Eric lowered his eyes to the fire. The heat licked at his fingers, but the warmth didn't reach deeper than that.
He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have just kept walking after the troll fell — and whether the men he now sat beside would one day decide his story had gone on long enough.
After thinking about it for a long time, eric could not come to a decision as what to do. Eric look around the outpost to see, the five soldier as what they were doing?
Robert was sitting near the fire, polishing his sword with the edge of his sleeve, the metal catching faint orange light. The others had drifted off — Tenn was half asleep against the wall, Rook humming tunelessly while fletching a bolt.
Eric watched Robert for a while before speaking.
"By the way… why did you run?"
Robert didn't look up. "Run?"
"After the troll. You were the first one to bolt," Eric said, voice steady but not accusing. "Then you came back — saved me, even. Why?"
That earned him a glance. Robert's mouth twitched like he couldn't decide whether to smile or sigh. "You think too much, kid."
"I don't think so."
Robert let out a low breath, setting the sword aside. "I ran because I thought we were dead. Trolls don't leave survivors. You see one move like that when all instinct says run." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "But then I heard you shouting. Didn't sound like someone ready to die. So I turned back."
Eric frowned slightly. "That's it?"
"That's it," Robert said, eyes on the fire now. "Didn't want another voice on my conscience. Got too many of those already."
For a moment, only the crackle of burning wood filled the space between them.
Then Rook's voice came from the shadows. "Don't let him fool you. He came back because he doesn't want look like a coward and a scary cat."
Robert threw him a sharp look. "And you wonder why no one trusts you."
Rook just grinned, toothy and unbothered. "Trust's expensive. I save it for decent wine."
Eric couldn't tell if they were joking or half serious. But the corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
Robert caught it, shook his head, and went back to cleaning the blade.
The fire popped, sparks rising toward the dark rafters — the night quieter, a little less heavy than before.