The stars shimmered above Draymoor like scattered fragments of forgotten dreams. The village was quiet, wrapped in the hush that only comes when the world is holding its breath. Valen couldn't sleep. The warmth of the hearth and his mother's silent tears still lingered in his mind, echoing louder than any battle cry ever could.
He stepped into the night, the wooden door creaking softly behind him. Cool air kissed his skin, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called out a lonely, haunting sound. He followed the faint glow of firelight flickering behind the shed at the edge of their yard. It was a place his father often went to when sleep wouldn't find him.
Valen approached slowly. Inside, his father sat on a small bench, hunched over an old dagger. The whetstone in his calloused hands made a rasping sound as he dragged the blade across its surface in a slow, meditative rhythm. A half-finished bottle of dark mead sat on the nearby crate, forgotten.
"Still awake?" Valen asked quietly from the doorway.
Garric didn't look up. "Sleep doesn't come easy when ghosts come knocking."
Valen stepped inside and sat down beside him, silent for a long moment.
"I need to understand," he finally said. "About the war. About you."
The rasping stopped.
Garric stared at the blade in his hands for a long time, then slowly set it aside. He leaned back, exhaling as though he'd been holding that breath for years.
"You sure you want to know, son? Some stories ain't meant to be told. Some are better left buried with the bones."
Valen didn't waver. "I need to know who you were before you became *this*. I need to know what's waiting for me on the other side of that choice."
The old soldier looked at his son with eyes that had seen too much. And then, slowly, he began.
"I was seventeen when I first held a sword. Not a training blade, not one for parades. A real one. Cold. Heavy. Meant to end a life."
He glanced down at his hands, curling his fingers as if still feeling its weight.
"They pulled us from the farms and fishing boats, handed us rusted steel and threw us into mud and death. I remember the first time I saw a man die. Not clean. There's no such thing in war. His guts were in his hands, and he looked at me like I had the power to save him. But I couldn't. I was just a boy with shaking hands and a sword too big for my courage."
Valen's chest tightened, but he stayed silent, listening.
"There were days we marched through blizzards and nights we slept with rats chewing at our boots. And every morning, I woke wondering if it would be my last. You learn to stop praying. The gods don't answer on battlefields. If they ever did."
He paused, his jaw clenching.
"I saw friends die screaming. Others just… stopped. Like the soul had walked out and left the body behind. And when the war ended, they told us we were heroes. Gave us a coin and a pat on the back. But they didn't take the nightmares. They didn't sew us back together."
Valen swallowed hard. "Then how did you go on?"
Garric gave a hollow laugh, one without humor. "I didn't. Not for a long time."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the past.
"I wandered. Drank. Fought in taverns. Tried to forget. Until one day, I passed through Draymoor, just a nameless village on my way to nowhere. I was filthy, limping, half-starved. I didn't want help. I didn't want *hope*."
His voice softened.
"And then I saw her."
Valen knew who he meant. His mother.
"She was arguing with a butcher over a cut of meat, waving a wooden spoon like it was a sword. Fierce. Beautiful. Unafraid of anything. And for some reason, she saw *me*. Not the broken man. Not the killer. She saw something worth saving."
Garric's eyes misted, his voice thick with memory.
"She took me in. Cleaned my wounds, cooked me stew, made me sleep under a roof for the first time in months. I thought I'd stay a week. Maybe two. But then she'd laugh, and I'd forget the war. She'd touch my hand, and I'd forget the blood. And one day, I realized—I didn't want to leave. Because I had found something stronger than war."
Valen blinked back the sting in his eyes.
"She saved you."
Garric nodded slowly. "Every damn day."
There was a long pause, filled with the sound of wind brushing against the trees.
Valen finally broke the silence. "I'm scared."
Garric turned to him, placing a firm, weathered hand on his shoulder. "Then you're ready. Only fools march into war without fear. But listen to me, fear doesn't make you weak. It makes you careful. It reminds you what's at stake."
Valen met his father's eyes. "I don't want to become like the men you saw fall. I don't want to lose myself."
"You won't," Garric said, gripping his shoulder tighter. "Because you've already got something worth coming back for. Your sister. Your mother. That girl of yours. You've got *roots*, Valen. I didn't have that, not then. But you do. And it'll keep you grounded. Even in hell."
Valen breathed in slowly, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly. "Do you think I can make it back?"
Garric looked at him, long and hard.
"I *know* you can. Because you're stronger than I ever was. Smarter, too. And because you have something I didn't."
"What?"
"Hope."
The word hung in the air like a promise.
They sat together in silence, two generations bound by pain, love, and the scars of war. And for the first time since the decree, Valen felt something stir in his chest,not peace, not quite courage, but a fragile sense of purpose.