Arthur walked alone.
The weight of exile pressed heavier than his sword. Behind him, the kingdom — his home — faded into the dusk like a half-remembered dream.
As the sun dipped behind the hills and shadows stretched long across the land, Arthur found himself at the edge of a small village — quiet, still, with only the faint glow of lanterns flickering through cracked windows.
The wind grew colder.
He decided to make camp near the tree line, just far enough not to draw attention. He bent down to gather dry wood when a voice called out from behind.
"You must be new to these parts, lad."
Arthur straightened up and turned. An old man stood nearby, cloaked in worn linen and leaning on a crooked cane. His eyes, though cloudy with age, held a strange sharpness — like he saw something deeper.
"Why do you say that?" Arthur asked cautiously.
The old man gave a half-smile.
"Because if you'd heard the afternoon talk, you wouldn't be out here now."
Arthur blinked.
" Afternoon talk?"
The old man nodded slowly, almost as if reciting a ritual.
"It's the time when we speak of what's to come. Some listen. Most ignore it. But those who don't speak at all… usually aren't from around here."
Arthur narrowed his eyes, unsure whether this was folklore or warning.
Before he could ask more, the old man waved a hand gently.
"No need to sleep in the dirt. My church is nearby — mostly empty now. You're welcome to rest there, if you'd like."
Arthur hesitated. But the night was cold, and his bones ached from walking.
"Alright than I'll be with you tonight"
The old man turned without another word, and Arthur followed — unaware that this village, this man, and that church would lead him closer to the truth than he ever expected.