It had been a month since Enoch settled into the village with old Rose. Acceptance came easily, almost too easily. The old women treated him like the son they never had, and the old men treated him like a stepson they quietly cherished.
Through casual conversation, Enoch learned he was now in the kingdom of Eldoria. He and Alfonso had exchanged letters with Eldoria in the past, but no formal ties had ever been established. That knowledge brought him relief. No one here knew he was the king of Elren. If he had interacted with them officially, portraits might have circulated. If the villagers learned he came from Elren, a kingdom destroyed by the gods, there was no telling how they would react.
Worse still, Eldoria worshipped the god of order, and theirs was a monotheistic faith. The god of order despised the presence of other gods, their followers, or even the hint of foreign worship within his domain without consent. Enoch was careful. He never spoke of faith. Never hinted at allegiance. Least of all to Adam, the condemned god, as people had begun to call him.
He prayed only in private.
As usual, there was no reply.
The divine energy he once carried was gone. He no longer tried to feel for it. Now he prayed simply for a response, for any sign that Adam still existed and remembered him.
When his prayer ended, he left the small room at the end of the hallway and walked toward the dining area. Rose had already laid out a generous spread of food and cheese. He often wondered where it all came from. She rarely left the house except to buy flowers or refill oil from the vendors.
"You are awake, dear?" Rose asked cheerfully as she carried in a jug of ale.
She set it on the table. Enoch hurried over and pulled out a chair for her.
"You are too kind," she said with a warm smile as she sat. Enoch returned the smile and took his own seat.
"Today is the Day of Accord," Rose said. "The bell will toll at midday. All citizens must go to the village temple to observe it. That is why we are eating so well."
"So that explains the feast," Enoch said, chewing on a piece of grainback. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste.
Rose chuckled at the sight.
Then her expression changed.
Enoch noticed and paused before reaching for another piece.
"What is wrong, Rose?" he asked.
"My son will be coming today," she said quietly. "For the celebrations. He will arrive from Greywood."
"Is that not a good thing?" Enoch asked, frowning.
"He has lived in the capital for many years," she said. "We have not spoken properly since our argument twenty years ago."
"What happened?" Enoch asked gently. "If it is all right to ask."
She stared into the distance.
"He left to gather achievements and become a Knight. At first he wrote every month. Then every year. Then one day he wrote to say he had succeeded."
She smiled faintly, but her eyes were heavy.
"But that is good, is it not?" Enoch said, taking another bite of grainback.
She looked at him and did not answer immediately. She reached for her wooden cup, her hands steady, then set it back down untouched.
"When he first became a Knight," she said, "I was proud. I cried when I read the letter. I told every neighbor who would listen."
Enoch waited.
"Then the second letter came," she continued. "Not from him, but from another mother."
Her voice lowered.
"She asked me if my son had written, she asked if he was safe. She said a village had gone quiet, and that the banners of the capital had been seen on the hills before the silence."
Enoch felt his throat tighten.
"I did not understand, not at first," Rose said. "So I wrote to him. I asked him what he had been assigned to do."
She exhaled slowly.
"He answered."
Rose's fingers curled slightly against the table.
"He wrote of purification, he called it necessity. Of order being threatened by people who lived differently and prayed differently. He said they were not innocent, that allowing them to remain would invite chaos."
Enoch frowned.
"Then what?" He asked
"I wrote back," Rose said. "I told him that villages are not ideas, that children do not become threats simply because they are born somewhere inconvenient. I asked him if he remembered the faces of the people he passed on the road when he was young."
Her eyes glistened, but she did not cry.
"He replied again, he said I was sentimental. He said peace requires hard decisions, he said if they were allowed to live, then more would suffer later."
The room felt smaller.
"That was when I understood," Rose said. "My son was no more, he had become a pawn of the king and the harshest hand of god."
She finally looked at Enoch.
"I told him I could not be proud of him if this was the price of his knighthood. I told him that if order demanded the erasure of whole people, then it was not good."
Her mouth trembled, just slightly.
"He wrote one last time. He said I was blind, he said history would prove him right."
Silence settled between them.
"That was the last letter," Rose said. "After that, the bells rang, and the capital celebrated victories that never named the dead."
She folded her hands in her lap.
"Now he comes home as a hero."
Enoch set the piece of grainback down slowly. For a moment he did not trust his voice. Then he stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside Rose's chair. He did not touch her at first. He only lowered himself until they were at the same height.
"You were right to speak," he said quietly. "Whatever the world calls it, whatever banners were raised, you were right."
Rose's lips pressed together.
"A mother is not meant to stop wars nor raise banners to defend against wars," Enoch continued, "but she is meant to raise a conscience, you did that. What he chose to do after does not erase who you are."
Her shoulders loosened, just a little.
"You did not abandon him," Enoch said. "He walked away from the person who taught him mercy."
Rose finally reached out and rested her hand on his sleeve.
"I still love him," she said softly.
"I know," Enoch replied. "That is not a crime, he is your son after all"
They stayed like that for a while, until the heaviness in the room thinned into something bearable.
Eventually, Rose straightened and drew a slow breath.
"Come on," she said, forcing a small smile. "Food grows cold whether grief is done with us or not."
Enoch returned to his seat.
They ate without hurry. The grainback was tender, the fat rich, the ale mild and warming. Between bites they spoke of small things, the weather, the bell that would toll at midday, the flowers Rose planned to place by the window. Slowly, their plates emptied, tankards lightened, and the table returned to wood.
When the last crumbs were gone, Enoch wiped his hands with a damp cloth and stood.
"I should go," he said. "The smithy will already be loud by now."
Rose rose as well.
"Be careful," she said, as she always did.
Enoch smiled. "I will."
He paused at the doorway slinging his satchel, then turned back.
"Thank you," he said. "For trusting me with that."
Rose nodded once.
"Come back after the ceremony," she said. "We will be having deepcoil tonight"
Enoch smiled, then he stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him, and set off toward the work he had found in the village, leaving the warmth of the house and carrying a trace of the house's smell with him.