Chapter 6 – Dagger's Edge
The morning after the confrontation settled over Hallowbrook in unease—a silence almost heavier than the village's coughs and fevers. The sun crept, sullen and hesitant, through stubborn mist and the ragged branches shadowing the muddy paths. Kael had slept poorly, dreams torn between memories of the palace and visions of torches and sharpened blades. By the fire, he sharpened his own dagger, the rhythmic scrape both calming and jarring.
As he set out, avoiding the wary stares that followed him to the village center, Kael could feel suspicion trailing him like a sixth sense. His healer's hands—now lined, raw, and scarred—were the talk of every thatched rooftop and smoky hearth. Every step he took, he measured against risk; every silence, he wondered what rumor might poison his fragile support.
Yet he walked. Responsibility pressed at his shoulders; so did the edge of exile. The children ceased their games when he passed, their eyes wide and cautious. Mera was waiting, folding herbs over a stained cloth, her face lined with exhaustion masked by resolve.
"They're talking more openly now," she said as he approached. "About the visitor. About you."
"The trader?" Kael kept his voice low, careful.
"Not just him," Mera replied. "Last night, I caught two men from the next village whispering outside the well. Asking who leads us. Who we trust."
Kael held her gaze. "Does anyone trust?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Enough do. Enough to follow. If you're careful."
Kael watched her hands as she worked; every motion was deliberate, and yet the tension in her fingers hinted at the strain beneath her words. He wondered if she saw herself reflected in the way he approached everything now: warily, always anticipating the next blow.
He joined her, grinding dried roots, the comfort of routine pushing back dread. There was little time to lose. Dawn faded into noon as they went door to door, checking the ill, refreshing poultices, exchanging murmurs with those still willing to meet his eye.
By dusk, a hush settled over part of the village—broken only by urgent footsteps running past Kael's hut. A woman, face flushed and wild with alarm, burst through the thin curtain. "Come, quickly! It's Jorin—he's gone!"
Kael's heart slammed. The fevered boy, bold enough to fetch water and hope for everyone, had not returned from his errand. In a heartbeat, Kael was out the door, Mera hard at his heels.
The search wound through knee-high weeds, past crumbling fences, and over soggy fields. Wordless, the villagers joined, some out of genuine fear, some perhaps hoping that misfortune would reveal truths about the outsider among them.
Kael's hand went to his dagger's hilt as he pushed into the woods bordering the fields. Night pressed close—branches clawed at his cloak and face as he followed the faint muddy tracks, heartbeat thrumming in his ears. A chill wind snaked through the trees, carrying indistinct voices. He signaled the others to circle wide through the brush.
Suddenly, a muffled cry cut the hush. Kael ran, branches snapping at his arms. He found Jorin crouched behind a fallen trunk, his face streaked with tears and grime, two older boys in rough wool glowering over him.
Kael placed himself between the boys and Jorin, voice steely. "Go home. Now."
The older boys glared. "He's a traitor's pet," one spat. "Learning alchemist tricks."
The insult stung, but Kael held his ground. He drew his dagger—not in threat, but as a simple statement: the time for only gentle hands had passed.
"Last warning," Kael said softly but with conviction.
Something in his eyes made the boys back away, grumbling.
When they'd vanished through the trees, Kael knelt beside Jorin. The boy flung himself into Kael's arms, shuddering.
"I only wanted to help," Jorin sobbed.
"I know." Kael hugged him, voice low. "Sometimes, help is the bravest thing of all."
Back at the village, the crowd was divided between worried parents and muttering skeptics. Kael carried Jorin through the gathered people, feeling everyone's stare—a mixture of gratitude and dread. At Mera's hut, Kael cleaned Jorin's scrapes and reassured his anxious mother.
Outside, voices rose and fell. An older man—one of the troublemakers from before—stepped forward as Kael exited, holding his gaze, hands balled at his sides.
"You're quick with a blade," the man began in a rough voice. "A healer shouldn't need one."
Kael stared him down. "A healer needs to protect, too."
A tense hush stretched, then the man nodded, some old understanding passing between them.
"Anyone here gets hurt again," he said, "they'll answer to me. Leave the boy be."
As Kael nodded, something subtle shifted in the group. Not full acceptance, but the beginnings of respect. The edge he walked was perilous, but maybe—just maybe—he was carving out a place with both healing and fierceness.
Later that night, as the moon cast silver knives over the thatched roofs, Kael sat by his fire with Mera. Jorin snored softly nearby.
"I was wrong," Mera admitted gruffly. "Sometimes, the edge is what keeps you alive."
Kael barely smiled, gaze lingering on his hands—one scarred, one still steady. "I wish it didn't have to be."
She shook her head. "But it does. For kings and for exiles. For those willing to fight for more than their own skin."
Kael closed his mother's journal and tucked it close to his heart. Tonight, his people were just a single village. But he felt the first glimmer that with enough courage—and the right allies—a kingdom could be born from the edges of a dagger, and built, someday, on something softer.
And so as the fire burned low, Kael dared to hope. Soon, across this battered land, maybe another whisper would rise: not of fear, but of loyalty forged on the edge between healing and survival.