The morning Kaelen left Redfield was cold and gray, the sky a heavy lid pressing down on the village.
He stood outside their little stone cottage, the wind tugging at his too-thin cloak, staring at the small cart loaded with what little they owned. A few bundles of cloth, a battered chest with his mother's sewing kit, a crate of tools, and a sack of dried food. It didn't seem enough to carry a life away.
Bramble, the old mule borrowed from the miller, stomped his hooves impatiently as Edrin checked the harness. Selene tied down the last bundle with careful, trembling fingers.
Kaelen clutched his sling at his side, his heart hammering against his ribs. His mouth tasted bitter.
The village looked different today—smaller somehow. The fields beyond the cottages were empty and brown, the gardens stripped for winter. Smoke curled from only a few chimneys now; too many houses stood dark and silent.
Slowly, a few familiar faces gathered to see them off. Not many. Most had already left, or kept to their homes, pretending not to notice another family departing.
Joran and Lysa came running up the lane, their breath misting in the cold air.
Kaelen's heart twisted at the sight of them.
Joran was red-faced and scowling, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his patched coat. Lysa stood stiffly beside him, arms crossed tight, biting her lip to keep it from trembling.
"You don't have to go," Joran muttered, kicking at the frozen dirt. "You could stay. We could—"
"There's nothing left here," Edrin said, the words slipping out before he seemed to realize how they sounded. Selene shot him a sharp look, then smacked the back of his head with a sharp thwack.
"That's enough, Edrin," she said firmly. She crouched down to Kaelen's level, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her voice gentled. "Say your goodbyes, love. We'll be waiting."
Slowly, Kaelen turned to his friends.
For a long moment, none of them spoke.
Then Lysa stepped forward and shoved something into his hand—a small, carved wooden fox, rough but lovingly shaped.
"I made it," she said, looking away. "So you don't forget us."
Kaelen stared at it, blinking hard. The fox fit perfectly into his palm, its surface warm from Lysa's hand.
"I won't," he said hoarsely.
Joran punched him lightly on the arm. "When you get famous, you better come back and tell us."
Kaelen nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.
"I will."
He wanted to say more—to tell them they would always be his friends, no matter how far he went—but the words stuck in his throat. He simply stood there, memorizing their faces: Joran's stubborn glare, Lysa's trembling smile.
Then Selene called gently from the cart, and the moment broke.
Kaelen turned away before they could see the tears gathering in his eyes.
He climbed up onto the cart beside his mother, the boards creaking under his weight. Edrin clucked to Bramble, and the mule lurched into motion.
As they rolled out of Redfield, Kaelen looked back over his shoulder.
The crooked roofs. The muddy pond. The worn chapel. The empty fields.
Lysa and Joran stood at the edge of the lane, growing smaller and smaller until they were just two blurred smudges in the mist.
Kaelen held the wooden fox tightly in his hand until his knuckles turned white.
He didn't look back again.
The road stretched ahead, a muddy ribbon winding through the countryside.
At first, Kaelen sat in stiff, miserable silence. The rickety cart jostled over every rut and stone, and the cold crept under his cloak, numbing his fingers and toes. His stomach churned with a sick mix of grief and fear.
The sky stayed low and gray, pressing against the fields like a heavy blanket. The trees stood bare and skeletal, their black branches scratching at the sky.
Hours passed in a blur.
The fields gave way to low, rolling hills, and the forest crept closer to the road. They passed other travelers now and then—a merchant wagon piled high with sacks, a pair of ragged men on foot, a family herding tired-looking goats. Everyone moved with the same grim purpose, heads down, faces pale with the weariness of long travel.
Once, Edrin pointed out a ruined village in the distance, its blackened skeletons of houses slumped against the gray sky.
"Bandits," he said simply.
Kaelen shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around himself.
They camped that night in a sheltered hollow beside the road, hidden among a stand of bramble bushes. Edrin built a small, smokeless fire, careful not to let the smoke rise too high, and they huddled around it, eating hard bread and strips of dried venison.
The stars were hidden behind thick clouds, and the night pressed close around them.
Kaelen didn't speak. He lay curled under a thin blanket, the earth cold and hard beneath him, the darkness feeling too big, too close. The familiar sounds of Redfield—the distant creak of the mill, the lowing of cattle—were gone. Only the crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle in the underbrush kept him company.
He closed his eyes and pretended the sounds were just the old woods at home.
It didn't work.
The days blurred together.
Each morning, they rose stiff and sore, packed the cart, and moved on.
The landscape shifted subtly—more fences appeared along the fields, more farmhouses dotting the hills. Smoke trailed from distant chimneys. Occasionally they passed shrines by the roadside, simple stone markers with offerings of flowers or smooth river stones placed at their base.
Kaelen watched it all with wide, wary eyes.
He missed Redfield fiercely—the familiar faces, the games, the lazy afternoons spent exploring every hidden corner. He missed the comfort of knowing every stone and tree, the steady, safe rhythm of the seasons.
Here, everything felt too big, too fast, too full of strangers.
Yet, deep inside, a tiny part of him—one he barely dared to acknowledge—felt a prick of something else.
Wonder.
When they crested a hill and saw the river winding through the valley below, wide and gleaming like molten silver, Kaelen gasped aloud.
When they passed a traveling bard singing in a bright blue cloak, strumming a battered lute, Kaelen twisted around in the cart to watch until the man disappeared down the road behind them.
When they glimpsed, far off, a knight in shining armor riding a great gray horse, the armor catching the weak sunlight and sending it flashing across the fields, Kaelen's heart pounded against his ribs.
The world beyond Redfield was bigger and stranger than he had ever imagined.
On the fourth day, as the sun dipped low and golden behind them, they rounded a bend in the road—and Kaelen saw it.
Greystone.
It sprawled across the valley floor, much larger than Kaelen had pictured from his mother's stories. Rows of houses clustered around a stout stone wall, smoke rising in lazy trails from a hundred chimneys. Beyond the walls, he could see orchards and gardens, and further still, the vast ribbon of the river.
On the fourth day, as the sun dipped low and golden behind them, they rounded a bend in the road—and Kaelen saw it.
Greystone.
It sprawled across the valley floor, larger and livelier than anything he had ever imagined. A sturdy wall of pale gray stone encircled the town, its surface worn smooth by years of rain and wind. Along its ramparts rose squat watchtowers, each flying a bright blue banner emblazoned with a silver river winding across it—a symbol of life, trade, and protection.
Kaelen squinted at the nearest banner fluttering in the breeze. He had overheard his parents talking about it on the road: Greystone was ruled by Lord Alric Thorne, a seasoned knight who had fought in distant wars before being granted the town and its lands by the Queen. The villagers they passed spoke of him with a kind of cautious respect. Not beloved, perhaps, but steady—a lord who kept the walls strong and the bandits at bay, even if taxes were heavy in harder years.
From the hilltop, Kaelen could see farms stretching beyond the walls, neat rows of apple trees and tilled fields running down toward the great ribbon of the river gleaming in the sunset.
The cart jolted as it started down the hill, the path widening into a broader, well-rutted road lined with low stone walls and scattered farmsteads. Traders bustled past them, herding goats or leading wagons piled high with sacks of grain, bolts of cloth, baskets of cabbages.
As they approached the gates, the scale of the town loomed larger. The main gates were open, heavy oaken doors braced with iron bands standing ajar to the evening travelers. Guards in battered chainmail leaned lazily on their spears, eyeing newcomers with bored indifference. One wore a faded surcoat bearing Lord Thorne's silver river on blue; the others wore only patchwork armor and carried their weapons like afterthoughts.
No one stopped them. Bramble plodded stubbornly forward, pulling the cart under the shadow of the gate and into Greystone itself.
The sounds hit Kaelen first.
The steady murmur of voices swelled into a chaotic roar. Traders shouted, arguing and laughing over their goods. Smiths hammered iron on anvils, sending up showers of sparks. The clatter of hooves, the rattle of wagon wheels, the bark of dogs all blended into a dizzying wall of noise.
Then the smells struck—thick woodsmoke, roasting meat, fresh bread, horse sweat, damp earth, the sharp tang of fish from the river market.
The streets twisted unpredictably, narrow and crowded. Houses leaned toward one another, timber frames sagging and creaking under their own weight. Upper floors jutted out so far that sometimes only a sliver of sky showed above. Lanes split and merged without warning, branching into alleys so narrow Kaelen thought he might touch both walls if he stretched his arms wide.
People flowed past in constant motion: merchants with colorful cloaks and bright wares, farmers in mud-caked boots, grim-faced guards, barefoot children darting between carts, old women haggling fiercely over baskets of onions.
Kaelen clutched the wooden fox in his pocket until his fingers ached.
Toward the center of town, above the noise and press of bodies, a tall square tower of stone loomed. It bore the same silver river banner as the walls, snapping proudly against the gray sky. Around it, the buildings grew grander—broad market squares crowded with stalls, a domed temple with stained-glass windows catching the fading light, the sturdy stone hall where Lord Thorne ruled.
It was overwhelming. Noisy. Crowded.
Alive.
For a moment, panic clawed at him.
This was not Redfield.
It was not safe.
It was not familiar.
Edrin must have seen the fear on his face. He reached over and squeezed Kaelen's shoulder, firm and steady.
"First time's always the hardest, lad," he said quietly. "Give it time."
Selene smiled gently and squeezed Kaelen's hand.
He nodded mutely, his throat too tight to speak.
The cart jostled down a twisting street toward the western edge of the town, where the buildings thinned out a little and the air smelled less of smoke and more of damp earth. They stopped at a noisy, warm-smelling tavern with a faded sign swinging above the door—a painted bluebird worn almost to nothing by time and weather.
That night, they found a room upstairs, cramped and drafty but clean. Kaelen sat on the narrow bed under the window, listening to the muffled thump of music and laughter rising from below.
He pulled the wooden fox from his pocket and turned it over and over in his hands.
Out there, beyond the cracked windowpane, lay a world bigger and wilder than anything he had ever known.
He wasn't ready for it.
Not yet.
But someday, he promised himself, he would be.
Kaelen pressed the fox to his chest, closed his eyes, and let tired, uncertain dreams carry him away.