After that day, Reid began working as a waiter at the tavern.

  As Roy had said, travelers rarely came this far north. The village was quiet, tucked between forests and snowfields where only hunters and merchants passed. But on some evenings, when the wind wasn’t too cruel and the paths weren’t buried, a group of hunters would arrive — cloaked in furs, boots muddy from the woods — to share ale and stories by the fire.

  Reid would bring them their drinks, wipe down tables, and linger nearby, pretending to clean while listening. Their tales painted the world far beyond the mountains — kingdoms, wars, and wonders he had never imagined.

  One evening, the tavern was warm and busy. The firelight danced on the walls, and the smell of roasted meat filled the air. Two hunters sat at the corner table: a curly black-haired man with a scar across his cheek, and his companion, a lanky brown-haired man whose laughter came easily.

  The curly-haired one leaned closer to his friend and said, “Hey, do you remember my brother, Anki?”

  The brown-haired man raised an eyebrow. “Which one was that — the big one or the thin one?”

  “Used to be thin,” the man said, waving his mug. “But now he’s huge. Joined the army of General Zereth, and something changed in him. When I saw him again — just a month later — he wasn’t the same. Eyes like stone. Voice like a stranger’s. Used to be cheerful, that lad. Always smiling. Now… he talks like he’s forgotten how to feel.”

  The second man frowned. “I heard things about that army. That Zereth deals in curses. Dark ones.”

  The curly-haired man slammed his mug on the table. “I told him to stay away from that madness! But he wouldn’t listen. Damn fool probably thought power was worth it.”

  Reid had been standing by the counter, polishing a mug, pretending not to listen — but the name Zereth stirred something in him. The sound of it felt wrong, heavy, as if the air itself recoiled.

  He stepped closer. “Excuse me, sir… I’m sorry for overhearing, but… who is Zereth?”

  Both men turned toward him. For a moment, neither spoke. Then the curly-haired one leaned back, studying the boy with an amused grin.

  “You don’t know, kid? General Zereth — no, King Zereth — rules the nation of Zoria. Southeast of Calanoid.” He lowered his voice, just enough to make the fire crackle louder in the silence. “They say no one’s ever seen his true face. His soldiers wear black armor and carry no banners — just hollow eyes behind iron masks. Whole armies have vanished trying to face him.”

  Reid’s brow furrowed. “Vanished?”

  The man nodded gravely. “Aye. Some say he’s not even human anymore. That he’s the reincarnation of the primordial being Vora — the devourer of souls.”

  He paused, then leaned forward with a wicked grin. “But don’t you worry, boy. We’re far in the north. We’re safe from him…”

  He took a sip of ale, then whispered — just loud enough for Reid to hear —

  “For now.”

  Reid’s face went pale.

  Before the tension could thicken, Betty stormed across the tavern, her apron fluttering. She smacked the curly-haired man on the back of the head with a wooden spoon.

  “Brog! Stop scaring the boy, you oaf!” she barked.

  The man — Brog — burst into laughter, rubbing his head. His friend, the brown-haired one, nearly choked on his drink from laughing too hard.

  Betty crossed her arms. “And you too, Drool. Don’t think I didn’t see you egging him on.”

  “Sorry, Miss Betty,” Drool wheezed, tears in his eyes.

  Reid still stood frozen, unsure whether to laugh or hide.

  Betty sighed, turning to him with an exasperated smile. “Those two idiots are the night guards of Promia. Every week when their shift ends, they come here to drink more than they should and tell tall tales. Don’t mind them, dear.”

  Brog grinned, raising his mug. “Ah, but you should’ve seen his face, Aunt Betty! Poor lad looked like he’d seen a ghost.”

  The tavern erupted in laughter, and even Reid couldn’t help smiling, though his heart was still pounding.

  As the laughter died down, Betty tousled his hair and said gently, “Don’t let fools like them fill your head with shadows, Reid. The world’s got enough real darkness already.”

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  Reid nodded, though the name still lingered in his mind. Zereth.

  He didn’t know why, but it felt important. Like a shadow waiting for its moment.

  Outside, the snow continued to fall, muffling the world beyond the tavern walls.

  And in the firelight, life went on — warm, fragile, and fleeting.

  Days passed quietly at the tavern, one blending into another, until the snow began to melt. The day was warm for once — a fragile hint that winter was loosening its grip. Sunlight filtered through the tavern’s windows, glinting off the half-melted snow outside.

  Betty was getting ready to leave, fastening her cloak by the door.

  “I’ll be gone for a few hours to find Arttu a wet nurse,” she said, tying her scarf. “Fiona’s still asleep, and Roy’s chopping wood near the stable. Watch over the tavern while I’m gone, alright?”

  Reid nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

  Betty smiled at him — that same gentle, motherly smile that always managed to make the tavern feel like home. “You’re a good boy, Reid. Keep an eye on the fire — and on yourself.”

  She left, the door closing softly behind her.

  For the first time in weeks, the tavern was quiet. The kind of quiet that wasn’t heavy with sorrow, but calm — the sound of life returning in small, slow breaths.

  Reid swept the floor, humming to himself as sunlight poured through the window. The air smelled faintly of wood polish and ash. When he finished, he leaned the broom against the wall and sat near the counter, pulling out a small, worn book.

  Its title was faded, but he already knew it by heart:

  “The Chronicles of Baranor, Sovereign Knight of Calanoid.”

  Sovereign Knights — every great nation had one.

  They were the symbols of strength, the champions of kings, the heroes whose names shaped eras. But none of them shone brighter than Baranor, knight of King Rucon of Calanoid.

  Reid traced a finger along the first page, the ink nearly smudged from age. He had read this part before, but he never tired of it.

  “Baranor was not born a hero,” the line began. “He was born ordinary — frail, hungry, and small. But he rose beyond the ordinary, not through blessing nor blood, but through his will. He tore his body until it obeyed him. He fought until strength became his truth.”

  Reid’s lips curved faintly into a smile.

  He admired Baranor — not because he was the strongest of the Sovereign Knights, but because he had once been nothing.

  No noble blood.

  No special gift.

  No “eye of anomaly” like the one Reid carried — the Beast eye that frightened him more than it comforted him.

  Baranor had reached greatness through nothing but will.

  The book went on:

  “When his fists broke, he trained his legs.

  When his legs failed, he crawled.

  When the world denied him glory, he created his own.”

  Reid closed the book for a moment and looked out the window. The sunlight shimmered against the snow, and a soft breeze rippled through the half-frozen trees.

  He thought of Lucius — his strange calm, his brilliance, his loneliness. He thought of the flames that swallowed their home, of his mother’s last words.

  “Maybe one day,” he whispered, “I can be like Baranor.”

  The tavern’s fire crackled quietly in response, as if agreeing.

  Outside, the snow continued to melt — tiny rivers of water forming on the road. Spring was coming, slow but sure.

  And for the first time since that night, Reid didn’t feel like running anymore.

  He wanted to become.

  While Reid’s thoughts lingered on Baranor’s legend, the tavern door creaked open.

  A figure stepped inside, framed by sunlight and the faint scent of spring air. His boots clicked softly on the wooden floor.

  Reid looked up — and his heart skipped.

  He knew that face.

  That calm, composed expression.

  The man with the nunchaku — the same traveler he had seen in Priscilla the day before their trip to Promia, when life was still normal.

  The man’s coat was worn from travel, his hair tied loosely behind his head, his posture straight and effortless — the kind of presence that drew silence rather than demanded it.

  Without a word, he approached the counter and placed a few silver coins down.

  “Hello, young man,” he said, his voice deep but relaxed. “Is there anyone else here? I’m thirsty.”

  Reid quickly set aside his book and stood up. “No, sir. I can get you whatever you want.” His voice came out steadier than he felt.

  The man nodded once. “Then pour me a beer.”

  Reid moved with practiced precision. He reached for the oak barrel at his side, turned the tap, and let the golden ale flow into a clay mug. The rich scent of roasted malt filled the air, blending with the faint smoke from the hearth.

  When the mug was nearly full, Reid paused. “Hold on,” he said quietly. He reached for the small pot warming above the fire, dipped a ladle, and poured in a thread of honey and spice. Then he gave the mug a gentle swirl, raising the foam just enough to crown the drink.

  He slid the mug across the counter. “Here, sir.”

  The man caught it smoothly, raised it to his lips, and took a long sip. His eyes brightened, and the corner of his mouth curved into a faint smile.

  “It’s good,” he said. “Smooth. You’ve got a careful hand for your age.”

  Reid smiled faintly, pride stirring in his chest. “Thank you, sir.”

  The man set the mug down, studying him more closely now.

  “Wait,” he said, his expression softening. “I know you. You were in Priscilla months ago — the curious kid who asked me about my weapon.”

  Reid froze. “You… remember that?”

  The man gave a quiet laugh. “I don’t forget faces easily.” Then, after a pause, his tone changed — quieter, heavier. “I’m sorry for what happened to your village. You were lucky to get away from that ground alive.”

  Reid’s smile faded. His eyes dropped to the counter. The memory of fire flashed again behind his eyelids — his mother’s voice, her last smile, the screams in the distance.

  The man continued, his gaze distant now. “Those who attacked weren’t raiders. They were something far worse.”

  Reid swallowed, his hands curling into fists. “Then… what were they?”

  The man didn’t answer right away. He looked around the tavern instead, his eyes catching on something gleaming on the shelf — a chain nunchaku, faintly lit by the sun. Then his gaze drifted to the open book beside Reid — The Chronicles of Baranor.

  A small smile crossed his face. He looked back at Reid.

  “Baranor, huh?”

  Reid blinked. “You know him?”

  “Know of him,” the man replied, taking another sip. “Strongest of the Sovereign Knights. A man who forged himself out of nothing. Sounds like someone worth admiring.”

  Reid nodded quietly.

  The man placed the mug down and leaned slightly forward, his tone shifting — still calm, but carrying a weight that pulled the air tight between them.

  “Tell me something, kid.”

  Reid looked up.

  “Do you want to get stronger?”