Ruen came home as the sun began to sink behind the eastern walls of Loxra.
His steps were slow—not only from exhaustion, but because this road always forced him to think longer than most. The eastern path was nothing like the road near the bar or the market. Here, the city sounded distant, muffled by old houses built to endure rather than impress.
The house stood at the very end of the road.
Not large. Not neat.
Its roof leaned slightly to one side, like someone who had carried too much weight for too long. The wooden walls were patched in many places—not simply a sign of poverty, but proof of a choice made over and over again: to repair instead of replace.
Ruen paused before the door.
He always did.
Not because he was afraid to enter, but because this house—more than anywhere else—reminded him that every step outward meant leaving something behind.
He opened the door.
"I'm home."
The smell of soup greeted him immediately.
Simple soup. Roots, leftover vegetables, a bit of meat, salt measured by habit rather than care. A smell that had never changed since he was too small to reach the table.
His grandmother sat by the window, her white hair tied simply behind her head. Her hands moved slowly as she knitted, the cloth growing inch by inch for someone Ruen didn't know.
"You're home early," she said without turning around.
"Training ended early," Ruen replied.
It was a lie.
Training hadn't ended.
He had simply stopped before his body completely gave in.
His grandmother nodded slightly, as if accepting the answer. Or perhaps—as always—she knew he wasn't telling everything.
"Did you eat?" she asked.
"Later."
"The soup will get cold."
"It can be reheated."
She smiled faintly.
"Not everything can."
Ruen set his bag down in the corner and sat on the floor, leaning his back against the wall. His arms felt heavy. His muscles pulsed softly, reminding him how far he had pushed himself today.
"You met them again?" his grandmother asked.
"Yes."
"The ones from Valenor?"
"Yes."
Her knitting stopped.
"You saw the knight?"
Ruen hesitated.
"Yes."
"What kind of man is he?"
Ruen thought of Kael—how he stood without demanding attention, how he spoke without raising his voice, how his gaze judged nothing.
"Calm," Ruen said at last.
"Too calm."
She nodded slowly.
"Those who have walked far enough usually are."
Silence settled between them—not empty silence, but the kind that had lived in this house for years. It didn't press. It didn't demand words.
"They're strong," Ruen said quietly.
"But not like the stories."
His grandmother smiled faintly.
"Stories don't like people who stand in the middle," she said.
"They prefer heroes… or villains."
Ruen lowered his gaze.
"Eiran wants to follow them."
"And you?" she asked.
This time, Ruen was quiet longer.
"I'm afraid," he said finally.
Not of dying.
Not of being hurt.
Afraid of leaving this house.
Afraid of returning one day and finding this door no longer open.
His grandmother stood slowly. Her steps were unsteady, but certain. She walked to a small cabinet in the corner—a cabinet rarely touched, as if it held memories not meant to be revisited too often.
She opened the lowest drawer.
And took out an old piece of cloth, folded carefully.
"Take this," she said.
Ruen stood and accepted it with both hands.
"Are you sure?"
"It's time."
He unfolded the cloth slowly.
Inside lay a short dagger and a small coin.
The dagger was dull. Its handle plain, scarred by old use. No engravings. No gemstones. Yet its balance felt strange—too perfect, as if it had never been meant for display, only for long journeys.
The coin was even simpler. Worn. Old. Its markings nearly erased.
"What are these?" Ruen asked softly.
"The dagger belonged to your father," his grandmother said.
"The coin is… a reminder."
"A reminder of what?"
"That not everything important shines."
Ruen tightened his grip around the dagger.
"He wasn't a knight."
"No," she said.
"He was nothing that could be given a title."
"Then what was he?"
She looked at him for a long moment.
"A walker," she said quietly.
"One who walked too far for a world that wanted to stay neat."
Ruen swallowed.
"If I leave—"
"Don't ask for my permission," she interrupted gently.
"If you go, go because your own feet choose to."
She placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I didn't raise you to live as someone else's shadow."
Night fell by the time Ruen returned to the bar.
Oil lamps glowed softly. The atmosphere was calmer than usual—no music, no shouting.
Eiran sat on a long bench, his arm wrapped in cloth.
"Where'd you go?" Eiran asked.
"Home."
Eiran nodded, then smiled slightly.
"I haven't been there in a while," he said.
"Is the soup still there?"
"It is," Ruen replied.
Kael stood not far away. When Ruen sat down, the cloth shifted, revealing the dagger's hilt.
Kael stopped walking.
"Where did you get that?" he asked quietly.
"An old thing," Ruen said.
"From my father… or my grandfather. I'm not sure."
Kael didn't answer.
Behind him, Sereth glanced toward Bram.
Bram exhaled softly.
"A dagger full of stories," he said casually.
"Or maybe one carrying too many of them. I've heard of it from the northern folk."
Before the silence could deepen, Ivo clapped his hands once.
"Hey, kid," he said with a grin.
"I'll give you twenty silver coins for that thing."
Eiran laughed.
"That's enough for us to gamble for a whole month."
Ruen smiled faintly. Light laughter spread around the table.
But when it faded, Ruen lowered his gaze.
His hand tightened around the dagger.
He felt no strength.
He felt history.
Outside the bar, the night wind blew from The Oldreach.
And without any of them realizing it,
something out there… was already waiting.