Paths That Diverge
The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant pine. Light streamed through the cracks in the hut, painting faint golden streaks across the worn floorboards. The fire had long since died, leaving only ash and cold embers in its place.
The knights were preparing to leave.
Elara sat against the wall, her expression unreadable as she flexed her fingers and tested her weight. Though her body still ached from the blast, she could stand now, walk if needed—thanks to Lira, who had worked through the night with what little magic she had left. The bandages were tight, her movements careful, but the worst had passed.
The others moved with quiet purpose. Riven checked the bolts of her crossbow. Nia adjusted her pack. Seren tightened the straps of her cloak. No one said much. The air between them was still heavy from what had happened the night before.
Ryle sat near the firepit, chewing on the last of the dried berries he'd salvaged from the mess. He hadn't spoken since dawn. He didn't need to. His silence had become its own kind of message.
Seren lingered near the door, glancing at him with something between concern and frustration. After a moment, she stepped forward.
"You should come with us," she said quietly.
Ryle didn't respond right away. Of course she'd say that. It was only a matter of time.
"It's not safe out here," she continued. "You might've survived this long, but you're still just—" She stopped herself. "You're alone."
Alone.
That word had a way of cutting deeper than most. Not because it surprised him, but because it didn't. It was a truth he'd worn like a second skin for the past two years.
He didn't flinch. Didn't show anything.
But somewhere beneath that calm exterior, a familiar heaviness settled in his chest.
He could see the path she wanted for him—a life behind walls, beside people who didn't vanish in the night. A place where food didn't cost danger. A life of safety.
But Ryle had seen what people did in the name of safety. What they were willing to sacrifice. Who they were willing to become.
Seren stepped closer. Her voice softened. "You don't have to keep living like this."
Ryle almost laughed. He wanted to ask her how long she thought it took for this to become normal.
But before he could speak, another voice cut in.
"Leave it, Seren."
Elara's tone was firm. Dismissive.
Seren turned, frowning. "Elara—"
"He's not coming." Elara stood now, upright but steady. "And trying to convince him is a waste of time."
A beat of silence passed between them. Seren didn't argue, but the frustration in her eyes said enough.
Ryle didn't say a word. Because Elara was right.
There was no point.
Seren studied him for another moment—searching for something, maybe. A sign that he was unsure. A chance.
But Ryle had already made up his mind.
"Fine," Seren said at last, her voice quiet. "But for what it's worth… thank you. For the shelter."
Ryle shrugged, eyes still on the cold ashes. "I didn't do much."
She didn't look convinced.
The others began to file out. Quiet footsteps. Armor shifting. No goodbyes.
Just distance.
Seren lingered a moment longer in the doorway, casting one final glance back. Then she stepped outside, and the door creaked shut behind her.
The hut was still again.
Ryle sat there, unmoving.
He should've felt relieved. This was what he wanted, wasn't it?
But instead, all he felt was tired.
He leaned back against the wall, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
Outside, the footsteps faded into the trees.
And Ryle was alone once more.
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The Spark Before the Flame
Ryle sat at the table, absently running his fingers over the worn wood. He had expected them to try harder—push him, persuade him, something. Instead, they had given up so easily. It was frustrating. He had thought up so many ways to refuse them, but they never even asked. It was as if they never truly expected him to agree in the first place.
Then, he heard it.
"Start packing. We're leaving soon."
Ryle turned his head. Sir Elara stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. He opened his mouth, ready to tell her he wasn't leaving, that this was his home—
But then he saw it.
Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword.
Ryle exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet. He'd gotten comfortable—too comfortable. That was on him. He should've known it wouldn't stay civil for long.
And now, things were about to get ugly.
His breath slowed. His heartbeat, steady. This wasn't a conversation anymore; this was an order. And if there was one thing he knew, it was that humans could be far scarier than monsters.
Without a word, he walked to the table and picked up his knife.
Elara's posture shifted immediately. Her fingers curled slightly tighter around her sword. Subtle, but obvious enough. She was watching him now. Closely.
Ryle turned the knife over in his hand, testing its weight. Then, in an almost bored tone, he muttered, "Relax. I'm not about to throw it at you. Unlike you, I still have to worry about survival when this is over."
Elara didn't relax. If anything, her stance grew firmer. "Survival?" she repeated, scepticism laced in her voice.
Ryle scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah. You know, that thing you don't have to think about because you've got an entire squad watching your back?" He twirled the knife between his fingers. "This thing has saved me more times than I can count."
Something flickered in her eyes—curiosity, maybe even doubt.
He leaned against the table, his tone turning almost casual. "One night, I was out gathering supplies and got caught in a storm. Couldn't find my way back before nightfall, so I had to stay in the woods." He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Guess what else was in the woods? Wolves. Hungry ones."
Elara said nothing, but he could tell she was listening.
"Had to climb a tree. Sat there all night with this knife in my hand, waiting. They circled beneath me for hours. If I so much as moved, they were ready to tear me apart." His grip on the knife tightened slightly. "You ever spend a night like that? Alone, nowhere to go, no one coming to help?"
Elara's jaw tightened.
"Didn't think so," Ryle muttered.
What he didn't say—what he never said—was that this was just one of many nights like that.
It wasn't just a single memory from the boy's life before Ryle arrived. There were more—so many more. Nights spent shivering in thin rags, days wandering with an empty stomach, moments when a scratch or fever could've been a death sentence.
The wolves weren't even the worst of it. At least they were predictable.
The boy had learned quickly: hunger was an enemy. Strangers were an enemy. The world itself was an enemy. There had been no relief, no moment of peace where he could stop looking over his shoulder.
Until one day, he just... stopped existing.
And now, Ryle sat here, with a different face and a different mind, but the weight of that past still lingered.
It was why he could say, with absolute certainty—
Elara didn't understand. She never would.
She exhaled, slow and steady. "You shouldn't have to live like that."
Ryle let out a short laugh. "And what? You're here to fix that? By dragging me away? That's how you're going to repay me?"
Her expression hardened. "This isn't about repaying favors. It's about responsibility. You're just a—" She stopped herself. Reworded. "You shouldn't be out here alone."
Ryle smirked, a mocking glint in his eyes. "That what you tell yourself to sleep at night? That dragging some kid away from his home against his will is 'responsibility'?"
Elara's patience was wearing thin, but her voice remained even. "Would it have mattered if we tried to convince you?"
He shrugged. "Depends. Maybe if the conditions were good enough, I'd consider it." A lie, but she didn't know that.
Elara hesitated, something uncertain in her gaze. "If I made an offer right now… would you accept?"
Ryle studied her carefully. After everything—after what she was about to do—she still thought she could talk him into this? His lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Seriously?" He tilted his head. "You think I'd just nod and go along with it now?"
She didn't answer.
Ryle's gaze flickered around the hut. Escape routes. Weak spots. Anything. He wasn't about to make this easy for them.
Elara noticed. "Stop," she said firmly. "You're surrounded. There's nowhere to go."
Ryle sighed dramatically. "You know, if you guys were actual adventurers, this might be easier. But knights? Whole different story."
Elara's eyes narrowed slightly. Then, after a pause, she asked, "When did you figure it out?"
Ryle leaned against the table, twirling his knife lazily between his fingers. "Figure what out?" He tilted his head, playing dumb, just to see how much she'd give away.
Elara exhaled sharply, as if debating whether it was even worth hiding anymore. "That we're not just some wandering adventurers."
Ryle let out a small chuckle. "Oh, that? That was just a guess." His smirk widened. "But thanks for confirming it."
Elara's expression darkened. She had walked straight into that one.
His eyes drifted past her, out the doorframe. Seren stood outside, looking flustered. Unlike the others, she wasn't braced for action. She wasn't part of this plan.
Ryle smirked, turning back to Elara. "So, the noble lady wasn't informed about this part, huh?" His tone was casual, but there was an edge to it. "Guess that means this little operation isn't as airtight as you thought."
Elara's expression remained unreadable, but the slight tension in her jaw told him she didn't like how easily he had caught on.
—But then—
Something flew through the window.
A dull, metallic object clattered onto the floorboards.
Ryle's stomach dropped. He knew that shape.
A grenade.
Not magic. Not some unknown relic. He'd seen things like this before—in the games he used to play. The ones with war, destruction, and explosions. And in those games, there was always one rule: move.
His body reacted before his mind caught up.
He lunged forward, slamming into Elara and shoving her out of the way.
BOOM.
A deafening explosion tore through the hut.
The walls shattered, wooden beams splintering as fire and debris blasted outward. The floor lurched beneath them, the sheer force of the blast sending Ryle and Elara crashing into the ground.
For a brief, terrifying moment, there was only heat and noise. The air rippled with the shockwave, the scent of burning wood and smoke filling his lungs.
Then—silence.
Or at least, near silence. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears as he forced himself to move, his body aching from the impact. Through the swirling dust and embers, Ryle could barely make out the remains of his home—his shelter for the past two years—now reduced to burning wreckage.
Elara groaned beside him, pushing herself up, eyes still wide with shock. She had no idea what just happened—but she knew one thing for certain. If Ryle hadn't moved… she would've been dead.
And outside, just beyond the rising smoke… they were coming.
Whoever had thrown that grenade wasn't done yet.