Kaelen had never given much thought to the world beyond Redfield.
The village was everything he had ever known: crooked rows of stone cottages with thatched roofs, narrow dirt paths winding through kitchen gardens, and the muddy pond where geese squawked and children splashed through the long summer days. The green fields stretched out like a soft, endless sea, while the forest loomed at the edges—a dark, whispering wall that marked the farthest reaches of his small world.
He was born among these fields, raised among these people. From the moment he could walk, he had run barefoot through the village lanes, laughing and shouting, his life measured by the ringing of the chapel bell and the changing of the seasons.
He was born in Redfield, and from the moment he could walk, he ran through it barefoot and laughing.
His parents, Edrin and Selene, were simple folk like everyone else. Edrin hunted and repaired tools when he could find no game. Selene wove cloth on a rickety loom by the hearth. They lived in a cramped stone cottage at the village edge, its single room divided by worn old curtains. The walls were patched with clay and straw; in summer the wind whistled through the cracks, and in winter the fire never seemed warm enough.
It was a hard life, but Kaelen never felt it was small. Not then.
At three, he tottered after the village boys, desperate to be part of their games. At four, he learned to throw rocks, and proudly showed off the frog he had hit by accident. At five, he could climb almost any tree in the village, his skinny arms hauling him up higher and higher until his mother shrieked and his father chuckled low in his chest.
By six, Kaelen had made his place among the village children—though he was the smallest. His best friends were Joran, thick-bodied and loud, who dreamed of one day having a farm bigger than the village itself, and Lysa, sharp-eyed and quick, who could outrun any boy in Redfield and wasn't shy about proving it.
Most days, the three of them roamed like a little wolf-pack.
They built forts out of fallen branches deep in the thickets. They raced along the muddy banks of the pond, daring one another to leap the widest gaps. They stole apples from Old Man Varric's orchard, sneaking past his lazy, half-blind dog and sprinting away laughing until their sides ached.
Once, they built a "castle" from old hay bales behind the mill, declaring it their fortress. Kaelen had stood atop the tallest bale, a crooked stick raised high, shouting orders at his imaginary troops while Joran and Lysa defended against waves of invisible invaders.
They imagined themselves warriors, mages, kings and queens. A crooked stick became a knight's sword. A ragged scarf was a mage's cloak. Every tree was a castle; every puddle a dragon's lair.
Kaelen loved those games. Even when he fell, even when he bled, even when he was scolded after returning home filthy and bruised—he loved them.
He knew every corner of Redfield. Every stone, every fencepost, every muddy puddle. He knew which trees grew the best apples and which ones hid the angry crows. He knew the old hollow tree where Joran had hidden a "treasure" of rusted nails and broken pots. He knew the creaky plank on the village bridge that would tilt if you stepped just right.
There was a deep, perfect comfort in that sameness, the steady beat of familiar days.
The seasons passed in gentle rhythms. Spring brought soft rains and fields of tiny blue flowers. Summer buzzed with insects and the heavy scent of growing things. Autumn blazed gold and red, and the village bustled with harvests and festivals. Winter laid a heavy silence over the world, broken only by the crackle of fires and the laughter of bundled-up children skating on the frozen pond.
Each season had its own games, its own adventures. In winter, Kaelen and his friends would challenge each other to race across the frozen fields, breath steaming in the cold air. In spring, they waded into the muddy ditches to catch frogs, earning scoldings and scratched legs.
Kaelen never learned to read. There was no school in Redfield. Letters were for priests, merchants and the village chief, people with coins and time to waste. Here, a good arm and a sharp eye mattered more. His mother taught him to count on his fingers for trade, and his father taught him how to gut a fish when Kaelen was ready.
The only book Kaelen ever touched belonged to Father Thom, the village priest and keeper of Redfield's small chapel.
Father Thom was a two-circle priest of Maera, Goddess of Rebirth and Fate, and the villagers treated him with deep respect, seeking his blessing at births, harvests, and burials alike. His chapel was a humble stone building at the village's heart, its altar always adorned with simple wildflowers and a cloth embroidered with the silvered crescent of Maera.
The book sat on a lectern behind the altar, bound in cracked leather and etched with Maera's symbol. Its pages were thick and yellowed with age, filled with neat, flowing writing and delicate illustrations of stars, rivers, and the great turning of the seasons. Kaelen would often sneak peeks at it while pretending to sweep the chapel steps, fascinated by the way the strange black marks shaped stories he couldn't yet understand.
Sometimes, when work was slow and the sun was gentle, Father Thom would sit the children down on the chapel steps with a scrap of parchment and a stub of charcoal. Patiently, he taught them the simplest words: sun, river, tree. How to spell their own names in shaky, uneven letters. Kaelen never learned to read properly—not the way a scholar would—but by the time he was seven, he could puzzle out a few words scratched onto a signpost or carve his name with pride into a patch of soft wood.
To him, the book was still a mystery—still unreachable—but no longer a stranger.
His life was fishing, running, building stick forts, arguing over whose turn it was to guard the "castle," and sneaking bites of hot bread when his mother turned her back.
It was everything.
But even in Kaelen's small world, things began to change.
The first thing he noticed was the empty houses. Here and there, a cottage would stand silent, its windows dark, its door swinging on a loose hinge. Families packed up and left, chasing rumors of better chances elsewhere.
The festivals grew smaller each year. Fewer stalls lined the village square. The harvest dances were shorter, the music thinner. Kaelen's young eyes caught it all, though he didn't know what it meant. He only knew that Redfield felt a little lonelier with each passing season.
Sometimes, while lying on the warm grass staring up at the sky, Kaelen and Joran would talk about the families who had left.
"Maybe they're off fighting monsters or perhaps even the fiends," Joran would say, puffing out his chest.
"Or finding treasure," Lysa would add, her voice dreamy.
Kaelen would nod, though part of him didn't believe it. If there were treasure or monsters to be found, surely the families would have stayed long enough to tell the tales.
One evening, hiding behind the barrels outside the tavern, Kaelen overheard the adults talking. Harsh whispers about bandits on the roads. About how the forest wasn't what it used to be. About wolves growing bold enough to stalk the fields by night.
He didn't understand all of it, but he understood enough to feel a cold knot of fear settle in his stomach.
At seven, Edrin began taking Kaelen out hunting. They would rise before dawn, when the fields were still heavy with mist, and tread quietly through the woods. Edrin showed him how to find the hidden trails of rabbits and how to set a simple snare, but Kaelen never succeeded in catching one. More often than not, he tripped a wire by accident or startled the prey away with an eager rustle of leaves.
Still, he loved those mornings. Walking through the damp, sleepy forest at his father's side made him feel like part of something larger, something ancient.
Edrin made him a real sling, sturdy leather and strong twine. No more throwing rocks with bare hands. Kaelen beamed with pride when his father tied it around his waist like a warrior's belt.
There were bad days too. Cold winters when the food ran low. A fever that swept through the village, taking old Mistress Hana and baby Mikkel. A bad summer storm that ripped roofs from houses and flattened half the wheat fields.
Kaelen learned that even in a world as small as Redfield, sorrow could find you.
But he also learned that sorrow passed, and laughter returned like springtime.
Life was simple, familiar, safe.
Until one evening, everything changed.
Kaelen came home at sunset, muddy and panting from a hard-won game of tag that had ended in a shouting match and laughter, with Joran and Lysa chasing each other down the road.
The air smelled of fresh-cut hay and woodsmoke. The sun dipped low behind the hills, painting the village in golden light.
Kaelen pushed open the creaky door to find his parents sitting silently by the fire, their faces drawn and serious.
Selene looked up first. Her hands twisted in her lap—never a good sign.
Edrin stared into the flames for a long moment before speaking.
"Sit down, lad."
Kaelen obeyed slowly, a knot forming in his stomach.
His father's voice was low and rough. "There's fewer folk in Redfield than there used to be. Every season, more wagons leave and don't come back. The forest's thinning too—not enough game to keep us through the winters."
Selene reached out, resting a hand on Kaelen's knee. Her touch was light, almost trembling.
"It's getting harder, love," she said gently. "Your father's hunting brings in little enough, and there's only so much work for a carpenter when half the homes stand empty."
Edrin cleared his throat, glancing toward her, then back at Kaelen. "Greystone's different. Busy. Growing. A town that needs good hands. I'll find work in the carpenter's guild, maybe even join the rangers if they'll have me. It'll be safer for you too."
The words dropped into the room like stones into still water.
Kaelen blinked. He didn't understand. Leave?
Leave Redfield? Leave the pond, the fields, the woods, the crooked bridge, the hollow tree, the bonfires, the festivals, the games?
Leave Joran and Lysa?
"But..." he started, voice cracking. "But I don't want to go."
Selene's face crumpled, just a little. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead, as she had done since he was a babe. "I know, little fox. I know."
"We can't stay," Edrin said firmly. "There's less and less here. In Greystone, there's work. Markets. Guards on the roads. Schools, even, if you want them."
Kaelen shook his head fiercely, his throat tightening until it hurt.
Redfield was everything he knew. How could they just tear it away?
Tears prickled in his eyes, hot and shameful. His hands balled into fists.
"No!" he shouted. "We don't have to go! We can fix it! I can help!"
Selene pulled him into a hug, murmuring soft words into his hair.
Edrin let out a slow breath, heavy with weariness. "If I thought we could stay, lad, we would. But this place is dying. You deserve better."
Kaelen didn't cry—not really. But he stayed there, pressed against his mother, clutching her cloak, his heart hammering with anger and fear and sadness all tangled together.
Later, lying in the loft under the thin blanket, Kaelen stared up at the cracked ceiling and listened to the soft murmur of his parents' voices below. The words were blurred, but he could hear the worry in them, the sadness.
The fire crackled low. A cold draft crept through the walls.
He clutched his new sling tight in one hand, the leather rough against his skin.
He thought of Joran, of Lysa, of the hollow tree and the muddy pond. He thought of all the adventures they had dreamed up, the promises they had made to be heroes together.
And for the first time in his life, Kaelen realized that sometimes, no matter how tightly you held on, you couldn't stop the world from changing.