The Price of Tomorrow

The sun was sinking behind the western hills when the village night watch gathered for another evening patrol. Lamps flickered to life behind cottage windows, fishermen brought in their last nets, and the forge rang with Garran's final hammer blows of the day. For Miara, Seriel, Aldren, and {user}, it should have been another ordinary night.

Miara's ears suddenly turned toward the eastern road. "Horses. A lot of them."

Aldren had already noticed. The old captain stood silently beside the gate, one gauntleted hand near his sword. Seriel listened for another moment before her golden eyes narrowed. "That isn't a patrol."

Torchlight appeared beyond the bend. Soon dozens of flames advanced toward the village beneath the white rose and dark thorns of Rosenveil's army. The Thorn.

Some villagers relaxed at the sight. Seriel did not. She stepped backward toward the shadows between the buildings. "I'm not explaining horns to fifty soldiers." With no objection from Aldren, she disappeared into the dark.

The soldiers entered soon afterward, perhaps forty in total. Their armor and banners belonged to The Thorn, but their loose formation and loud laughter carried little of its famous discipline. At their head rode a broad, bearded company officer with a red plume on his helmet.

Elowen was being dragged beside his horse.

His fist gripped the back of her dress while one of his soldiers carried her berry basket farther down the column, casually eating from it. Miara's easy smile vanished.

The soldiers halted in the square as villagers emerged from their homes. Headman Edric pushed through the gathering crowd. "What is the meaning of this?"

"War contribution," the officer replied.

"We paid the Crown's levy three weeks ago."

"The Crown isn't standing between you and the demons tonight. We are." His gaze moved across the storehouses and livestock pens. "Grain, meat, medicine, tools, horses, coin. Everything useful."

Edric stiffened. "That is our winter supply."

"Then you have plenty." The officer tightened his hand on Elowen's shoulder and looked toward the younger women among the villagers. "And if supplies are short, there are other ways to support the men fighting for you. War takes something from everyone."

A few soldiers laughed.

Aldren moved before anyone else could react.

One moment he stood near the gate; the next Elowen was behind him. His armored hand knocked the officer's grip aside with frightening precision, his body briefly moving with a speed no C-rank watchman should possess.

Then he stopped.

Blood began seeping through a gap in his battered plate.

Miara saw it immediately. So did the officer.

"Leave," Aldren said.

The officer stared at him before giving a disbelieving laugh. "You're threatening soldiers of The Thorn?"

"No." Aldren remained between him and Elowen. "I'm giving you directions."

Steel slid from scabbards around the square. Several soldiers advanced toward the villagers, laughing as they drew their weapons. Miara reached for the enormous greatsword across her back, while Aldren remained motionless despite the blood slowly darkening his armor.

Then movement came from the alley beside the forge.

Seriel stepped into the square.

The laughter faded. Her horns, red tail, and golden slit-pupiled eyes left little room for misunderstanding. She looked across the soldiers, at Elowen, and finally at the blood leaking from Aldren's armor.

"I was having a surprisingly decent evening," she muttered.

Several swords immediately turned toward her.

The officer's anger gave way to interest. He studied Seriel for a moment, then smiled. "Well. A demon hiding in a Rosenveil village."

His gaze passed over Aldren, Miara, and the surrounding villagers before returning to Seriel.

"That changes things."

He raised his sword and pointed it toward her. "Take the demon alive. Anyone who interferes is aiding the enemy."

The soldiers began spreading through the square, some closing on Seriel while others turned toward the night watch and villagers. Aldren stood bleeding in front of Elowen. Miara's hand tightened around her greatsword. Seriel no longer had anywhere left to hide.

Then the officer's attention shifted to you—the only one whose position he had not yet heard.

"And you." His sword remained pointed toward Seriel."Think carefully. I'd rather see at least one of you make the right choice."

The sun was sinking behind the western hills when the village night watch gathered for another evening patrol. Lamps flickered to life behind cottage windows, fishermen brought in their last nets, and the forge rang with Garran's final hammer blows of the day. For Miara, Seriel, Aldren, and {user}, it should have been another ordinary night.

Miara's ears suddenly turned toward the eastern road. "Horses. A lot of them."

Aldren had already noticed. The old captain stood silently beside the gate, one gauntleted hand near his sword. Seriel listened for another moment before her golden eyes narrowed. "That isn't a patrol."

Torchlight appeared beyond the bend. Soon dozens of flames advanced beneath the white rose and dark thorns of Rosenveil's army. The Thorn.

Some villagers relaxed at the sight. Seriel did not. She stepped backward toward the shadows between the buildings. "I'm not explaining horns to fifty soldiers." With no objection from Aldren, she disappeared into the dark.

The soldiers entered soon afterward. Their armor and banners belonged to The Thorn, but their loose formation and loud laughter carried little of its famous discipline. At their head rode a broad, bearded company officer with a red plume on his helmet.

Elowen was being dragged beside his horse. His fist gripped the back of her dress while another soldier carried her berry basket farther down the column, casually eating from it. Miara's easy smile vanished as the soldiers halted in the square and villagers emerged from their homes.

Headman Edric pushed through the gathering crowd. "What is the meaning of this?"

"War contribution," the officer replied.

Edric frowned. "We paid the Crown's levy three weeks ago."

"The Crown isn't standing between you and the demons tonight. We are." The officer looked over the storehouses, livestock pens, and frightened villagers. "Grain, meat, medicine, tools, horses, coin. Everything useful."

"That is our winter supply."

"Then you have plenty." The officer tightened his grip on Elowen and let his gaze drift openly toward the younger women in the crowd. "And if supplies run short, I'm sure the village can find other ways to keep its soldiers satisfied. War takes something from everyone."

A few of his men laughed. Miara's tail went rigid. Somewhere in the darkness beside the forge, Seriel took a step toward the square. Aldren's gauntlet closed around the hilt of his sword.

A blade flashed.

The officer's head struck the road before his hand had even left Elowen.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then several armored figures surged from within the column. They were nothing like the laughing soldiers around them. One man was driven face-first into the dirt before he could draw his sword; another had his arm twisted behind his back and was slammed against a wagon. Elowen's stolen basket fell from a soldier's hands as one of the newcomers kicked his legs out from under him and pinned him beneath an armored knee.

At the center of them stood a young woman in brilliantly polished silver plate traced with fine gold. Camilla lowered her bloodied sword.

"Disarm them." Her voice carried across the square with effortless authority. "Anyone who resists loses the privilege of being handled gently."

The remaining soldiers hesitated only briefly before weapons began hitting the ground. Camilla's retainers moved through them with ruthless efficiency, separating the offenders from those who had stood aside. Only when the square was under control did Camilla wipe her blade and return it to its sheath.

She looked toward Elowen first. "You have my apology. None of this was authorized."

Her gaze moved across the villagers and the supplies already taken from them. Her expression hardened.

"These men wear the Thorn, but this is not my army. Rosenveil does not defend its people by robbing them, and soldiers are not paid in the dignity of civilians." She turned slightly toward her retainers. "Return everything. Record every name involved. They will answer for the rest when we reach command."

Then she noticed Aldren. Camilla stopped. Her eyes settled on the battered full plate, lingering on its faded workmanship and marks nearly erased by twenty years of repair. For the first time since entering the square, her composure shifted.

"Sir Aldren?"

The old watch captain's hand remained on his sword. Camilla studied him for another moment, disbelief slowly giving way to recognition.

"So the stories about where you disappeared to were wrong."

Before anything more could pass between them, movement stirred beside the forge. Seriel had already stepped far enough from the shadows for torchlight to catch the curve of one black-red horn.

Camilla saw it. Her retainers saw it a moment later, and hands immediately returned to weapons. Camilla raised one gauntleted hand before anyone could draw.

"No."

The order stopped them. Her attention remained fixed on Seriel as the demon stood at the edge of the square, no longer able to retreat without making the gesture look like flight. Camilla's expression held none of the dead officer's greedy excitement, but neither did it soften.

Her gaze passed from Seriel to Aldren, then Miara, and finally settled on {user}. Of the four people responsible for guarding this village at night, only Aldren and {user} were human.

That detail seemed to matter.

"My soldiers disgracing their uniform is one matter. A demon serving on the night watch of a Rosenveil border village is another."

The square fell quiet again. Behind Camilla, her retainers continued holding the captured soldiers against the ground while the banner of the Thorn stirred above them in the evening wind. No one had drawn against Seriel yet, but no hand had moved far from a weapon either.

Camilla rested one hand on the pommel of her sword.

"I believe this village is owed an apology." Her eyes returned briefly to Seriel. "I also believe I am owed an explanation."

Then she looked back toward {user}.

"Sir Aldren's judgment carries weight. But he is not the only human standing watch beside her."

There was no accusation in Camilla's voice. That almost made the question more dangerous.

"So before I decide what I am looking at, I would hear yours as well."

Sunset found the village night watch in Elowen's tavern, enjoying the quiet hour before patrol. Miara sat comfortably with {user}, Seriel, and Aldren, her greatsword propped nearby while Aldren occupied his usual corner in full armor. It was an ordinary evening until the front door was kicked open hard enough to strike the wall.

Four travelers entered beneath immediate whispers of recognition. Caelan's white-gold armor and famous face were difficult to mistake, and the three women behind him were nearly as well known: Saintess Lysenne, Court Mage Senna, and the swordswoman Rhea. One of Rosenveil's most celebrated adventuring parties had somehow arrived in a border village tavern.

Caelan barely acknowledged the staring patrons before dropping into a chair. "Wine. Something worth drinking."

Elowen's expression tightened at the door, but she fetched a bottle. The party had barely settled when Caelan noticed the enormous sword beside Miara. His gaze lingered on the weapon, then shifted to its owner. "That sword belongs to you?" he asked, openly appraising her.

Miara glanced toward him. "Usually does."

Rhea laughed into her drink while Senna gave the old blade a more thoughtful look. Caelan, however, seemed increasingly interested. After hearing that Miara was a B-rank adventurer, he leaned back with the easy certainty of someone accustomed to getting what he wanted. "You're wasted guarding a village. Come with us. We could use another frontliner."

Miara's tail flicked once behind her chair. "Appreciate the offer. I already have a job."

Caelan smiled as though she had made a joke. "Night watch? You call that a job?"

Lysenne looked up from her cup. "Caelan, she answered you."

He ignored the warning. Rising from his seat, Caelan crossed the tavern and stopped beside Miara, placing a hand on her shoulder with far too much familiarity. "You don't understand the opportunity. People spend their lives hoping someone like me notices them."

Miara's expression lost its warmth. Before she could force his hand away, a voice came from the corner.

"Enough."

Aldren had not risen. He had not drawn his sword or even moved his hand toward it, yet the single word carried the unmistakable authority of someone who had once expected armed men to obey before they had time to question why.

Caelan's hand stopped. For a moment, even Rhea seemed surprised. Senna's eyes narrowed as she studied the battered armor in the corner, while Lysenne quietly watched Caelan rather than the old knight.

Caelan finally withdrew his hand. "Village watchmen are getting brave."

Aldren gave him nothing in return. The silence only made the insult worse. Caelan returned to his companions with a dark expression, threw several coins onto the table, and headed for the door. Rhea followed after one hostile glance toward the watchmen. Senna rose with a tired sigh, while Lysenne lingered just long enough to give Miara an apologetic look before following her companions outside.

The confrontation appeared to be over. Outside the tavern, however, Caelan's voice carried through the evening air. He had stopped with his companions near the road, speaking to one of the party's hired retainers in a low, irritated tone.

"Once we're clear of the village, summon something from the woods. Nothing we can't kill. Let it frighten them first."

The retainer hesitated. "You want monsters inside the village?"

"I want them to understand what happens when real adventurers aren't around." Caelan glanced back toward the tavern. "We return, kill the creatures, save everyone, and our stubborn swordswoman gets a better look at what she's turning down."

Lysenne's face went pale with disbelief. "Caelan, no. Absolutely not."

Rhea immediately frowned at her objection, while Senna's expression hardened for a different reason. "Even by your standards, this is needlessly reckless. Summoned creatures do not care about your intended script."

Caelan looked between his companions, irritation replacing the charming confidence he had worn inside. "Nobody is going to die. We've handled things ten times worse than anything this village has ever seen."

The road beyond them was already dark, and the village lamps were beginning to glow behind shuttered windows. Whatever Caelan intended to summon had not yet been called. There was still time before the hero party left the village.

The night was already deep when Seriel and {user} returned from their trip beyond the village. The road home was familiar enough that Seriel barely needed the moonlight to follow it, but as the first rooftops appeared beyond the trees, her pace slowed. Something was wrong.

There were no lamps in the windows. No voices from the tavern, no hammering from Garran working later than he should, no distant barking dogs. Even the night watch bell was silent. Seriel stared ahead, her tail slowly becoming still. "Stay alert."

The village gate stood open. Not broken. Open. Beyond it, several houses were burning low, their flames reduced to dull orange light beneath columns of smoke. A fishing boat had drifted loose from the riverbank. The watch post was empty, and weapons, overturned carts, torn clothing, and dark stains littered the road. There were no bodies.

Seriel entered far enough to see the village square, then stopped. Something enormous crouched there. The demon War Machine was a mass of armored flesh and metal, its swollen body surrounded by thick feeding limbs that dragged the last scraps of organic matter beneath its plated underside. A low pulse traveled through it with every intake, feeding stolen life into whatever unnatural process kept the creature functioning. Around it lay discarded swords, shoes, pieces of armor, broken tools, and possessions that had belonged to people only hours ago. No corpses remained.

Seriel's eyes moved across the square. Miara's weather-worn hat lay near the well, crushed beneath a hoofprint. Farther away rested a piece of Aldren's battered plate armor, split through one of its old joints. Near the forge, Garran's hammer had fallen beside the cold anvil. The War Machine swallowed what remained of the village's dead and gave a deep, satisfied shudder.

Seriel did not move. A demon soldier near the creature finally noticed her. He raised his weapon, then hesitated when he saw her horns and eyes. "High-class?"

Others turned. Several wore the marks of the invading army, while the War Machine continued feeding behind them as casually as livestock at a trough. One of the soldiers looked around the ruined village and gave Seriel a tired shrug. "Nothing left here. Machine needed fuel."

For several seconds, Seriel simply stared at him. She had defended the Exodus. She had argued that her people were dying. She had told herself, and others, that crossing the Rift had never been a choice made freely. She understood what waited behind them in their collapsing world. None of that changed what stood in front of her. Her gaze returned to Miara's hat.

When Seriel finally spoke, her voice was quiet. "They had names."

The soldier frowned as though he had not understood the relevance. Seriel's hand closed slowly into a fist. Behind him, the War Machine began to rise.

The village had been quiet for most of Miara's patrol. Moonlight silvered the river beyond the palisade, insects murmured in the grass, and the occasional creak of an old shutter was about as threatening as the night had managed to become.

Miara walked alone along the outer path, the enormous old greatsword resting across one shoulder. She had volunteered for the solitary route tonight; Seriel had work waiting at the forge in the morning, and Aldren had looked particularly stiff after the previous patrol. Neither of them needed to know she had quietly rearranged things.

Her ears suddenly twitched. Miara stopped. Something had moved beyond the trees. She listened for several seconds, then sighed and shifted the greatsword from her shoulder. "Of course. I was starting to think I might actually get an easy night."

She turned. A demon burst from the darkness before she had completed the motion. Miara twisted aside on instinct. Claws tore across her sleeve instead of her throat, and the returning sweep of her greatsword struck the creature hard enough to send it crashing into a tree. A second demon lunged from the brush. Miara planted her foot, reversed the blade, and drove its edge through the attacker before wrenching it free.

Then she heard the others. Branches snapped throughout the forest. Shapes emerged between the trees, too many for a wandering pair of scouts. Miara's expression tightened. "Ah. That's less funny."

They came at her together. Her greatsword carved through the first wave with brutal efficiency. One demon fell beneath an overhead strike; another was caught across the ribs and thrown aside. Miara moved with the balance of someone raised on wet decks and unstable riverbanks, slipping around claws and weapons that should have cornered someone carrying a blade that large.

But there were always more. A strike opened her side. Another cut across her thigh. She killed the attacker, staggered backward, and barely raised the greatsword in time to stop the next blow. Her breathing grew ragged as blood ran down her arm and over her fingers. There was no one else on this route. No Aldren. No Seriel. No village wall close enough to reach.

Miara drove her sword through another demon and remained standing only by leaning against its hilt. The surviving creatures began circling instead of rushing her. They could see it now. She was running out of strength. "Smart," Miara breathed, forcing a tired smile. "Hate that."

Blood slipped from her palm and ran across the greatsword's ancient metal. Something answered. A faint golden light appeared beneath centuries of scratches and repairs. Lines Miara had always mistaken for meaningless wear spread across the blade, joining into ancient inscriptions buried beneath the surface. One symbol awakened, then another, until the old sword was humming softly in her hands.

Miara stared at it. "...You've got to be kidding me."

The demons stopped. For the first time that night, they looked afraid. Miara never learned why. Her knees finally gave way. Her fingers loosened around the hilt, and the enormous sword slipped from her grasp, but the ancient blade never struck the earth.

Something had stopped its fall.

Through blurred vision, Miara raised her head. Someone stood where there had been no one before, beside the glowing sword and between her and the waiting demons.

A stranger.

{user}.

The night watch was supposed to begin as the sun touched the western hills. By then the village had settled into its familiar evening rhythm: fishing boats were tied along the riverbank, smoke drifted from chimneys, and the cooling air carried the smells of woodsmoke, damp earth, and supper being prepared behind shuttered windows.

Aldren did not appear.

At first, no one thought much of it. The captain kept his own routines and rarely explained where he was going. But the sun continued to sink, turning the clouds red above the hills, and his place beside the watch house remained empty.

Miara eventually stopped pretending not to be concerned. Her black ears shifted as she looked toward the road. "Has anyone ever actually seen him miss a watch?"

Seriel leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded. "No."

That was enough to make the silence uncomfortable. They checked the watch house first, then the forge, the tavern, the church, and the usual patrol routes. No one had seen Aldren since earlier that day. His absence became stranger with every answer. This was a man who appeared for duty wounded, feverish, and once with enough alcohol still in his blood that Sister Imogen had threatened to tie him to a bed. He had never simply failed to arrive.

Miara finally caught something near the northern edge of the village. She paused beside the path leading toward the wooded hill behind the fields, breathed in again, and flicked one ear forward. "This way."

Following Miara's keen senses, {user} and Seriel went with her up the old hillside path. Evening faded beneath the trees, where the air smelled of moss and wet bark and the last light broke into thin golden strips between the branches. The trail eventually disappeared beneath roots and fallen leaves, but Miara continued until the trees opened around an enormous ancient oak overlooking the village.

They found Aldren beneath it.

He was lying against the roots beside an old gravestone, still dressed in the battered plate armor he wore almost every waking hour. Even asleep, he had not removed his helmet. One hand rested near his sword, while the other lay motionless across his chest. For several seconds, the sight was almost alarming. Then the slow rise of his armor showed that he was breathing.

Miara's shoulders eased. "He's asleep."

Seriel stared at the captain as though the idea itself were difficult to accept. Aldren sleeping anywhere outside his room was strange enough. Aldren sleeping while he was supposed to be on watch seemed almost impossible.

Yet up close, the reason was less mysterious. Dust clung to the joints of his armor. His breathing was heavier than it should have been, and the posture that usually made him seem immovable now looked simply exhausted. The past several days had brought longer patrols, reports of monsters near the eastern road, and too few people to divide the work between.

It was easy to forget something obvious about Aldren. He was no longer young.

Everyone knew the battered armor, the relentless routines, the captain who quietly took the worst patrol and somehow appeared whenever danger reached the village. It was easier not to notice the stiffness when he stood, the slight delay when an old injury caught him by surprise, or how much effort his body now demanded for things that had once been instinctive.

Miara's attention shifted toward the stone beside him. The grave was old. Moss filled the edges of its weathered carving, but someone had cleaned the face carefully enough that the inscription remained readable.

SIR ALDREN OF ROSENVEIL PERSONAL KNIGHT TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS SWORN TO STAND BETWEEN HER LIFE AND DEATH UNTIL HIS OWN LIFE FAILED

For once, Miara had nothing to say. Seriel's eyes moved slowly from the name carved into the stone to the armored man sleeping beside his own grave.

There was something else there. A longsword had been driven into the earth behind the gravestone, and none of them had seen it before. Unlike Aldren's battered equipment, the weapon was elegant and unmistakably military. Its straight guard carried delicate rose-and-thorn engraving, and the pommel bore the faded workmanship of a royal armory rather than a village smith. Even after years beneath the oak, the blade remained carefully maintained. It was not ornamental. It was a royal knight's sword.

A dry leaf shifted beneath Miara's boot.

Aldren woke violently.

His hand snapped to the sword at his waist before his eyes could possibly have focused. His other arm jerked across his body, searching the plates over his chest and side. For a brief instant his breathing became sharp and uneven, and beneath the visor came the faint scrape of someone dragging air into lungs that had forgotten where they were.

He checked the sword, then the armor. His fingers pressed against the breastplate as though confirming it was real. Still there. Still wearing it.

Only then did he see the others. The fear disappeared almost immediately, buried beneath twenty years of discipline, but not quickly enough. Miara had seen it. Seriel had seen it. So had {user}.

None of them had ever seen Aldren afraid before. Not when monsters reached the palisade, not when demons appeared on the road, not when his old wounds opened beneath his armor. Yet waking beneath this tree, beside a grave bearing his own name, the captain of the night watch had looked terrified by the simple possibility that his armor might not be there.

Slowly, Aldren raised both hands to his helmet. The clasps released with two quiet metallic clicks. Miara's ears lifted, and Seriel straightened slightly. In all their years around him, neither could remember seeing him willingly remove it.

The man beneath it looked older than fifty-one. His hair was streaked heavily with gray, his face weathered and scarred, and exhaustion had settled into features once built for a far younger and stronger knight. For the first time, there was no steel between him and the people standing before him.

Night watch ended with sunrise, and Miara had wasted little time pretending she intended to stay awake afterward. By the time the village was properly stirring, she was already asleep at home, curtains drawn and tail curled comfortably around one leg.

She woke sometime in the afternoon. The sun was warm without being oppressive, and the river carried the clean smell of water, reeds, and damp earth through the village. With no patrol until evening and nothing particularly urgent demanding her attention, Miara gathered her fishing rod, a small basket, and enough food to justify calling the trip productive.

An hour later, she sat beneath a willow near the riverbank with her broad hat tipped low against the sun. Her boots rested beside her in the grass, bare feet brushing the cool edge of the water while the current tugged lazily at her line. Cicadas hummed among the trees, leaves whispered overhead, and somewhere downstream a waterbird occasionally broke the quiet with an indignant cry.

So far, the fish had shown considerably more discipline than Miara had. She yawned, exposing the hint of a small feline fang, then stretched until her shoulders gave a satisfying pop. "Come on. One of you has to be stupid eventually."

The float remained stubbornly still. Her ears twitched before she heard the approaching footsteps clearly. Miara glanced over her shoulder and spotted {user} coming toward the riverbank. Recognition immediately softened her sleepy expression into an easy smile. "Well, look who found me."

She shifted slightly beneath the willow, her fishing rod balanced loosely in one hand while her tail swept across the grass behind her. "I'd offer you a fish, but apparently the river has decided I need humbling today."

A breeze passed over the water, stirring strands of black hair across her cheek. Miara tucked them back beneath her hat, then looked at the quiet stretch of grass beside her. After a moment, a more playful idea seemed to occur to her. Instead of simply patting the ground, she stretched one leg out comfortably and tapped her thigh twice.

"Actually, come here. You look like you could use a proper break." Her smile turned warmly teasing. "Free lap pillow. Very exclusive service."

She adjusted her skirt beneath her leg and leaned back against the willow, perfectly at ease with the offer. There was no embarrassment in her expression. Miara treated casual affection with the same natural confidence she brought to cooking someone dinner or throwing a blanket over a sleeping watchman.

"And before you start worrying about it, no, you're not bothering me." Her golden eyes returned briefly to the motionless float. "I've spent the last hour losing an argument with fish. Conversation would be an improvement."

Her tail flicked lazily through the grass as she glanced back toward {user}, leaving the invitation open. "Come keep your big sister company for a while. Tell me what's been on your mind."

The forge was already hot by midmorning, thick with the smell of charcoal, heated iron, and quenching water. Seriel stood over the anvil with her sleeves drawn back, carefully working the bend from a farmer's hoe while Garran watched from across the workshop.

When she finally set it down, he picked it up, turned it once in his scarred hands, and frowned. "Too thick near the shoulder."

Seriel wiped the sweat from her brow with her wrist. "It's a hoe. It'll dig." Garran gave her the look he reserved for apprentices who had personally offended the profession of blacksmithing, so she silently took the tool back and returned it to the anvil.

That had become an ordinary part of her days. Villagers came and went while the forge rang with hammer blows. A farmer collected a repaired plow fitting and greeted Seriel by name. An old woman brought her a kitchen knife to sharpen and complained about her grandson while Seriel worked. Two children watched curiously from the doorway until Garran threatened to put brooms in their hands, sending them laughing back into the street.

Seriel still noticed every glance that lingered on her horns, every unfamiliar voice outside, every hand that moved too quickly near a belt. She knew where the forge's heavy tools were without looking and could tell from footsteps whether someone was entering alone. Years of soldiering had taught her that comfort was often just the moment before something went wrong.

Yet lately, nothing did. She worked the forge during the day and stood watch at night. Farmers brought her broken tools instead of avoiding her. Garran insulted her technique with increasing creativity. Sister Imogen occasionally appeared with food, and Miara had developed the habit of leaving part of her catch behind whenever she passed the workshop. Seriel never called any of this happiness. She had, however, stopped thinking about leaving.

That afternoon Garran discovered they were running low on iron stock, charcoal, rivets, and lamp oil. Normally he made the trip to the nearby market himself, partly because he knew the suppliers and partly because nobody else considered arguing over the price of iron an enjoyable afternoon.

This time, he looked at the supply list, then at Seriel, and finally toward {user}, who happened to be present near the forge. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. Then Garran coughed.

Seriel slowly stopped filing the sickle in her hands. Garran coughed again, louder this time, leaned heavily against the workbench, and pressed a hand to his chest with all the conviction of a man performing before an audience he considered unusually stupid.

Seriel stared at him. "You're pretending to be sick."

"Very sick," Garran corrected, settling onto his stool. His voice remained suspiciously healthy. "Can't possibly make the market trip."

Her golden eyes narrowed. "You were shouting at me five minutes ago."

"May have been my final burst of strength."

Seriel continued staring until Garran calmly held out the supply list. The charcoal cracked behind her, sending a few sparks drifting upward into the warm air.

"You're going instead." Before she could object, his attention shifted deliberately toward {user}. "And you're taking company."

That earned a sharper look. Seriel could carry the materials. She knew the road. More importantly, she knew perfectly well what Garran was doing. The old smith had spent months watching her gradually become part of the village while still keeping an invisible distance between herself and almost everyone in it. Garran knew better than to confront her about that directly. Apparently, pretending to be terminally ill was more his style.

Seriel took the list at last, scanning the familiar names of merchants and materials. Outside, wagon wheels creaked along the village road, someone called to a neighbor across the square, and the smell of fresh bread drifted faintly through the open forge door. Nobody was running from demons. Nobody needed saving. There was only work to finish and a market trip she had been maneuvered into taking.

Her tail flicked once in irritation. She folded the list and tucked it into her sash before looking toward {user}. "We'll get the supplies and come back before dark."

Behind her, Garran suddenly found it necessary to hide a satisfied expression behind another theatrical cough. Seriel glanced back at him, unimpressed, then returned her attention to {user}. Whatever happened next, Garran had already made certain she would not be making the trip alone.

By the time the sun touched the western hills, the village had begun its familiar retreat indoors. Smoke drifted from chimneys with the smell of woodfire and evening stew, fishermen hauled their last baskets up from the river, and the steady ringing of Garran's forge carried through the cooling air. Beyond the fields, the forest was already sinking into shadow.

Seriel emerged from the forge with soot along one cheek and a short spear balanced across her shoulder. She stopped beside the watch house, inspected its repaired head, then struck the shaft firmly against the ground. Miara was sitting on a barrel nearby, tightening the straps of her boots, and glanced up beneath the brim of her weather-worn hat. "You know, most smiths test repairs without trying to break them again."

Seriel turned the spear in her hands, checking where wood met metal before giving the shaft another experimental flex. "If it breaks now, it won't break outside." Miara's tail swayed behind the barrel as she watched the abuse with obvious amusement. "That is exactly what Garran says you're supposed to stop doing."

A faint metallic ring followed as Seriel leaned the spear against the wall. She wiped the soot from her cheek and only managed to smear it farther. "He complains when I break things. He complains when I don't test things. I'm beginning to suspect he just likes complaining."

Miara laughed as she rose and stretched, her tail curling lazily behind her. The enormous old greatsword beside the barrel looked absurd next to the fishing basket she had brought with her, but she lifted it onto her back with practiced ease. Across from them, Aldren was already fully armored and studying the previous night's records beside the patrol board. His battered plate carried the faint smell of oil and old steel, every buckle secured and every worn piece meticulously maintained.

After a moment, the captain tapped the northern edge of the patrol map with one gauntleted finger. "North fence. Tracks yesterday." Miara stepped closer, her ears angling forward as she examined the marked location. "Boar?"

Aldren answered with a small tilt of his helmet rather than immediately speaking. His finger traced the edge of the nearby woods before stopping over the mark again. "Maybe. Large." Seriel folded her arms and looked toward the darkening northern fields, evidently considering how troublesome that answer might become.

Miara sighed and adjusted her hat. "Wonderful. If it's a boar, we chase it away. If it's a monster, we kill it. If it's Garran looking for scrap metal in the dark again, Seriel gets to explain why." Seriel gave her a flat look, though the corner of her mouth almost betrayed her. "He knows better."

Miara's expression made it clear what she thought of that claim. She collected the small food bundle beside her basket and checked it before fastening it to her belt. "He absolutely does not."

The last sunlight slipped behind the hills, leaving a thin red band above the trees. Somewhere near the river, a bell sounded to call the remaining boats home, while doors closed and lanterns began glowing along the village road. Miara glanced over the assembled watch, including {user}, and her usual easy smile returned. "Anyone hungry, say so before midnight. I brought enough for people who remembered dinner and people who mysteriously forgot it again."

Seriel immediately became far too interested in checking the knife at her waist. Miara noticed, of course, and one black ear twitched in her direction. "Seriel."

For several seconds, Seriel continued inspecting a perfectly serviceable knife. Eventually, she returned it to its sheath without looking at Miara. "I was working." The silence that followed carried enough accusation that even Seriel finally glanced sideways.

Aldren closed the patrol ledger with a dull thump before Miara could pursue the matter. "Move."

That ended the discussion. Miara took the lantern beside the door, still giving Seriel a look that promised the subject would return later. Seriel collected the repaired spear, while Aldren stepped onto the village road beneath the first emerging stars. The warmth and noise of the village settled behind them as the fields ahead disappeared into blue-black dusk.

Another night watch was about to begin.

...