After a few days, the rain finally stopped.
The sky cleared slowly, as if reluctant to let the sun return. Thin gray clouds lingered like smoke, but the downpour that had battered the house for a week gave way to a soft, persistent drizzle. Water still dripped from the eaves and pooled in the yard, but the worst of the storm had passed. The vegetable patch was ruined—wilted stalks bent over, roots exposed and rotting—but the roof held. Vael had patched it well enough that no new leaks appeared.
He stood in the doorway, staring at the sodden fields, then at the small pile of ores he had gathered from the valley before the storm. Dull gray chunks, heavy in his hands, flecked with veins of iron and something darker. Enough to sell. Enough to buy timber, stone, nails—enough to build a proper house that wouldn't leak when the next storm came.
"I'm going to the capital," he told his mother over breakfast. "To sell these ores. With the money, we can fix the house properly. No more leaks. No more wind through the walls when winter comes."
She looked up from her bowl, eyes tired but warm.
"Be careful, Vael. The roads are mud. And the city… it's changed since the rain."
He nodded.
"I'll be back before dark."
Vael shouldered the sack of ores and stepped outside.
The path down the hill was slick, but he walked carefully, boots sinking into soft earth. The air smelled of wet pine and fresh mud. Birds had begun to call again, tentative after days of silence. He passed the ruined vegetable patch without looking too long—it hurt less that way.
At the bottom of the hill, hidden among the trees on the opposite ridge, two figures watched.
Gruk leaned against a dripping trunk, arms crossed, grin sharp despite the damp.
Aamon stood beside him, hood low, eyes fixed on Vael's retreating figure.
The capital gates were crowded.
A long line of travelers, merchants, and adventurers snaked from the massive iron portcullis back along the muddy road. Guards in silver-trimmed armor stood at intervals, spears upright, eyes sharp. The air buzzed with excitement—voices overlapping, horses stamping, carts creaking. Vael joined the queue near the end, sack resting on his shoulder.
He watched the people ahead.
A merchant with a cart full of furs argued with a guard over tolls. A young woman in patched leather armor clutched a sword hilt nervously. A family with two children huddled under a shared cloak, the youngest crying softly. Everyone seemed in a hurry—not just to enter, but to do something.
The line moved slowly.
When his turn came, the guard—tall, scarred, helmet pushed back—glanced at the sack.
"Purpose?"
"Selling ore."
The guard nodded, barely interested.
"Pass."
Vael stepped through the gate.
The city inside overflowed with people.
Streets were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder. Market stalls spilled into alleys. Voices shouted over one another—merchants hawking wares, guild recruiters calling names, children running between legs. Banners hung from every building: guild crests, recruitment notices, promises of gold and glory.
An announcement echoed from every corner—amplified by magic or criers.
"Guilds are recruiting! Good salary! Training! Adventure! Join now—no experience required!"
Vael ignored it.
He walked straight through the crowds, sack heavy on his shoulder, eyes on the merchant district ahead. The streets smelled of wet stone, bread baking, horse dung, and steel. Rainwater still ran in the gutters, reflecting the banners in broken colors.
He reached a small shop near the edge of the market—low roof, sign reading "Ore & Metal Exchange" in faded letters. The door was open. Inside, a stout man with a thick beard looked up from his ledger.
"Ores?" the merchant asked.
Vael set the sack down with a heavy thud.
The man opened it, inspected the chunks, weighed them, muttered numbers under his breath.
"Fifty gold coins," he said at last. "Take it or leave it."
Vael took it.
The coins were heavy in his pouch—real weight, real money. Enough for timber. Enough for stone. Enough for a roof that wouldn't leak. A house that would stand when the next storm came.
He stepped back into the street.
The crowd parted around him like water around a stone.
Then a voice cut through the noise.
"Hey! Excuse me! Over here!"
He kept walking, head down, pouch secure against his side.
Elara pushed through the throng, eyes wide.
Beatrice grabbed her arm.
"Elara—stop."
Elara shook her off.
"It's him. I'm sure it's him."
She ran forward, cloak flapping, calling again.
"Hey!"
Vael disappeared into the crowd—swallowed by bodies, banners, shouts.
Beatrice caught up, breathing hard.
"He's gone."
Elara stared at the spot where he had vanished.
"I'm sure it was him," she whispered.
Beatrice placed a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sure he came for the same reason everyone else did—registering with a guild. In a few days we'll know which one he joined."
Elara didn't answer.
She kept staring into the crowd, as though she could will him back into sight.
The city kept moving around them—loud, alive, indifferent.
In the evening, Vael returned home.
The sky had cleared to a pale, washed-out blue, the last of the drizzle fading into mist. The path up the hill was still slick, but the air smelled cleaner—wet earth, pine, and the faint green promise of things trying to grow again. The pouch of fifty gold coins clinked softly against his hip with every step—heavy and real. Enough for timber. Enough for stone. Enough for a house that would stand against wind, rain, snow—a house his mother could live in without fear.
He crested the hill and stopped.
The vegetable patch—ruined that morning, stalks broken, soil churned to mud—was now clean. Weeds pulled. Rows straightened. Fresh earth patted down around the surviving plants. Someone had even staked the tomato vines back up with thin branches. The sight was so unexpected it took him a moment to process.
Then he saw them.
Gruk and Aamon sat on the low stone wall beside the house, cups of tea steaming in their hands. Gruk was laughing—loud, rolling, theatrical—while Aamon watched with his usual quiet intensity. Vael's mother stood nearby, apron dusted with soil, smiling in a way Vael hadn't seen since before the storm.
Gruk noticed him first.
"Hey, Vael!" he called, raising his cup like a toast. "Been a long time, no see!"
Vael's mother turned, face lighting up.
"Look who's here! Your friends came by. They helped me clean the farm the whole day—pulled every weed, fixed the stakes. Such good boys."
Vael felt heat rise in his chest—sharp, sudden, almost painful.
Friends.
He stared at Gruk's grin—wide, sharp, full of mockery he knew too well. At Aamon's calm, unreadable eyes. At the cups of tea they held like they belonged here.
His mother stepped forward, wiping her hands on her apron.
"They said they were passing through. I offered tea—they've been such a help."
Vael forced his jaw to unclench.
He played along.
"Mother," he said, voice steady, "I almost forgot to tell you—these two are here to help build our house."
Gruk's grin froze mid-sip.
Vael kept going, calm, deliberate.
"I've been planning for a while to build a better house. Lucky me I met them on my last business trip. They're really skilled at building houses—especially houses for the cows."
Aamon's cup paused halfway to his mouth.
Gruk choked on his tea.
Vael smiled—small, polite, dangerous.
"That's why I bought the nails today. Tomorrow we'll carry timber and stones from the market."
Silence.
Gruk set his cup down slowly. His grin had turned brittle, eyes narrowing.
Aamon stared at Vael—unblinking, calculating.
Vael's mother clasped her hands together.
"Oh, that's wonderful! A proper house at last. And with extra hands—we'll finish in no time."
Gruk coughed once—theatrical, exaggerated.
"House… for the cows?" he echoed, voice tight.
Vael met his gaze.
"Yes. Strong ones. With thick walls. So the cows stay safe when the storms come."
Gruk's fingers twitched around the cup.
Aamon lowered his tea without drinking.
Vael shouldered the sack of nails higher and walked past them toward the house.
"I'll put these inside," he said over his shoulder. "We'll start early tomorrow."
He stepped through the doorway.
Behind him, Gruk muttered something low and venomous.
Aamon said nothing.
The door closed softly.
Inside, Vael set the nails on the table. His hands were steady, but his heart beat hard—not from fear, but from the cold satisfaction of turning their game back on them.
Outside, the last light of day bled across the cleaned fields.
Tomorrow would be interesting.
To be continued.