Exiled Yor Monk, Kaleb's Perspective
The wind howled like a hungry thing.
Each step I took sank into half-frozen mud, my soles long worn thin. Snowflakes drifted sideways in the wind, catching on my lashes, melting against my cheeks before I could brush them away. The trail ahead—if it could still be called that—was little more than a winding scar between dead trees and frost-bitten grass.
I hadn't eaten in three days. My hands trembled. Not from fear.
From cold. From hunger. From years catching up all at once.
The beast came at dusk.
A low snarl, guttural and wet, broke the silence just as I rounded the bend. I barely turned in time. Its claws scraped my back—ripped through the cloak. I staggered, dropped to a knee, pulled low and rolled. Instinct. My shoulder burned. I moved anyway.
The fight didn't last long. Not because I was swift—but because I had no room left for hesitation. A fractured rib, a gash down my leg, more bruises than I could count. But I was still standing.
The beast wasn't.
I leaned against a tree, panting, gripping one of the branches like a crutch. Snow fell thicker now. The scent of blood and wet fur lingered in the air, sharp and iron-rich. I waited for the pain to settle, but it didn't.
What did settle was the feeling.
Like eyes.
Not the wild kind. Not demonic. Something colder. Still.
Watching.
I looked behind me. Nothing. Only the trees and the whisper of wind. But the feeling didn't fade.
I kept walking.
The trail blurred. My breath turned ragged. I couldn't tell if the crunching beneath me was frost or bone. The trees looked the same in every direction now—skeletal arms clawing at a gray sky.
Then the ground tilted.
Or maybe I did.
The last thing I saw was the white of snow… and a shape.
Still. Distant. Unmoving.
Then nothing.
Warmth.
Not a fire. Not imagined.
True warmth.
I opened my eyes slowly—light bleeding into view. The ceiling above me was wooden, smooth. Candles flickered somewhere nearby. My back… didn't hurt. My chest didn't burn. I still felt weak, but the agony had dulled to a distant throb.
I moved slightly, groaning.
A voice—a woman's—lifted nearby. Sharp, clear.
"He's awake. Go call her. Tell her he's stable."
Her?
I blinked. My vision shifted, cleared just enough to see someone moving toward me—a man pushing a small cart.
Something smelled... good.
"Easy there," the man said. His voice was kind, worn like riverstone. "Sit up slow. You've been out a couple days. Took some damage."
I stared at him—his clothes unfamiliar. Trim, functional, with a sigil stitched at the shoulder I didn't recognize.
I looked past him.
Others moved about the room. Dressed the same. Focused. Calm.
Not soldiers. Not priests.
"Where… where am I?"
The man smiled, handed me a warm cloth. "You're in a hospital."
The word felt foreign in my mouth.
"A what?"
He blinked, then gave a sheepish chuckle. "Sorry. It's like a big clinic. For healing. Treating the injured. Director Kell started calling it that. Said it's easier to train people when they all know where to report."
I stared. A building just for healing? With ranks and structure?
In all my years wandering, I'd never seen anything like it.
The man placed a plate in my lap. Meat. Broth. Steamed roots and bread.
My stomach twisted in both hunger and disbelief.
"Eat," he said gently. "You've earned it."
I didn't speak. I just obeyed.
The first bite nearly made me weep.
Time passed. The plate was clean. My hands no longer trembled.
And still, I felt unworthy.
Then the man stood.
"Director," he said with a polite bow.
I looked up.
A woman entered, her uniform crisp, her eyes slightly nervous behind the professionalism. She stepped aside.
And behind her—Light.
Blonde. Pale. Eyes too knowing for their youth.
She wore a cropped tailored black jacket that looked like ink, with an ivory blouse and creamed colored skirt. Her boots, knee-high. Sturdy, yet feminine. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid. But she moved with stillness, like someone who didn't need to demand space because the world bent around her.
I had never seen beauty like that before. Unreal, almost serene.
"This is Alliyana," the director said. "She'll be overseeing your care."
The girl stepped forward, her expression kind, almost gentle.
She extended her hand. "Alliyana," she said with a smile. "Welcome."
I hesitated. Then I looked down.
The bracelets.
Still on. The cloth that had once hidden them had been removed. They'd seen. The marks of exile, of failure, of judgment.
And still… they treated me.
I looked up.
She hadn't withdrawn her hand.
I smiled—small, uncertain. But it was real.
And I reached out, and shook hers.
The girl—no, the woman—still held my hand as she sat beside the bed.
"We tried to remove the bracelets," she said. Her voice was gentle, like the steam curling from a warm bowl of soup. "They wouldn't come undone."
I looked down.
The metal rings around my wrists were blackened from age, etched with old symbols that no longer shone. My skin beneath them had long since scarred into their shape.
"They don't," I muttered. "Only I can take them off."
A pause.
"I won't."
I flexed my fingers slightly. They moved fine now. Someone had cleaned the dried blood from my arms.
"They're my punishment," I said. "My choice. What I did can't be erased."
The memories stirred, uninvited. Screams. The smell of fire. Innocents caught in the path of my revenge. The bracelets pulled my body down. Everything becomes heavier.
"These bracelets weigh me down so I don't forget."
She said nothing. Just nodded once, then gestured for me to lie back.
"Your wounds aren't fully healed," she said. "You'll receive healing in intervals, paired with feeding. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call one of the medics. They'll provide."
I lay back slowly. The sheets were soft. The mattress held warmth like a body. My chest ached, but the pain had softened to a dull reminder. I glanced toward her.
"Why…" I hesitated. "Why am I being treated this way?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"Because you're injured."
"No," I said. "I mean… is it because of my dark skin? Because I look like him?"
She didn't flinch. She just waited.
People always do. They show reverence to the descendants of the first hero. Out here, he's a legend—the Liberator, the Slayer of Chaos. The one who led humanity to conquer the other races.
But that's not how Yor sees him.
To us, he's not a symbol of glory. He's a symbol of atonement. His crusade wiped out the Dwarves. The Beastmen. Rumor has it they found refuge among the Dark Elves, but… who really knows? He was loved by humanity, praised for their rise to dominance. But the blood on his hands—it weighed on him.
He wandered for years. Refused to lead. Refused to fight. Eventually, he and his closest followers settled far away. On the island. Our island. Away from kings, wars, and temples.
I heard her quill pause mid-note. Then her voice, soft again.
"You're strong."
I blinked, turning my head toward her.
"I'm from Yor," I said simply. "The Island of the Exiled Hero. Everyone trains their body there. It's tradition. Once your frame matures, you begin. Some earlier, some later. But everyone does it."
She nodded, eyes curious but restrained.
"And the technique?" she asked. "How does it work?"
I exhaled slowly. My fingers found the edge of the blanket.
"I can't say. It's a secret. Our culture forbids it. The technique… it wasn't meant for outsiders. It wasn't made for war."
Her gaze didn't waver, but I could tell she understood.
"If the wrong people use it," I continued, "they'll twist it. Turn it into something else. That's why we never taught it. The legacy of the hero was never meant to feed more bloodshed."
She nodded again—deeper this time.
"I respect that," she said. "And I agree."
She stood then, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't read at first. Then she said something that unsettled me more than anything else in this strange place.
"Peace is a privilege," she said. "One only the strong can afford."
I looked at her. Really looked.
That face—calm, young, beautiful—didn't match the words. I'd expect that from a war chief. From a tired old monk. But from her?
Then I saw her hands.
They weren't soft.
Calloused. Hardened. Not from crafting or rowing. These were combat hands—hands that had gripped blades, met bone, bent against resistance again and again. No healer I've ever met had hands like that.
I followed the line of her arms, to her shoulders. Lean. Corded. Measured.
I looked back at her face.
She was smiling. Not mockingly. Just… knowingly.
Caught me staring.
I looked away, embarrassed. My chest ached again—this time from something that wasn't pain.
An old man's heart had no business fluttering at the touch of a young woman.
She stepped back toward the door.
"Rest," she said. "I'll return in a few hours."
Then she was gone.
And the room felt a little colder.
Six months had passed.
The snow had melted. Come again. Melted again. I watched it all from the same window, in the same room, from the same bed.
They told me to rest. That I wasn't fully healed. But I felt fine. Stronger than I'd been in years. No pain in my ribs. No stiffness in my legs. The scars were old stories now.
Still, they insisted.
I didn't argue. I stayed.
They gave me a room—mine alone. A clean bed. A desk. A view of the courtyard where recruits trained in the cold and medics passed with warm hands and tired smiles.
Sometimes, I felt guilty. Like I was taking advantage of something I didn't earn. They brought me food. Checked in often. Never rushed me.
Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn't.
Maybe they were just kind.
Truth was, I didn't want to wander anymore. My joints ached more often now. The weight I carried no longer made me stronger. Just slower. Heavier.
I told myself I'd stay until they told me otherwise.
But deep down, I knew I was just tired.
And I still didn't believe I deserved any of it.
The door opened with a quiet knock.
Alliyana stepped in, sleeves rolled, hands already clean. Her expression was unreadable, as always—soft, but still.
"Ready?" she asked.
I said nothing. Just lay down and looked at the ceiling.
Her hands hovered over my chest, and that warm, subtle hum filled the air. The same healing glow. Never overbearing. Always precise.
She didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Something wrong?"
I exhaled slowly. It wasn't physical.
"You ever wonder," I said, "if the people you killed… would forgive you?"
Her hands didn't flinch. Just kept working.
"Do you think they'd forgive me?" I added.
There was a beat of silence.
"Probably not," she said.
The words struck like cold water. Sharp. Honest.
And somehow, I felt a little better.
She paused her spell briefly, then continued. "Why would it matter?"
I frowned. "It's not about whether it changes anything."
"Then what is it about?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know how.
She adjusted her posture slightly.
"Is your punishment for them?" she asked. "Or is it just for you?"
I turned my head to the side. Her voice wasn't cruel. Just direct.
"Something to make you feel better?" she continued. "To carry your guilt in a way that looks like penance?"
The words hit too close.
My throat tightened.
She must've noticed.
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
I didn't respond.
The hum of healing faded. Her footsteps moved toward the door.
Is it for them… or for me?
I turned the question over in my mind, trying to find some clever denial. Some truth I could hold onto.
But every path led back to the same place.
This wasn't justice. It was comfort. Wrapped in iron.
"Rest up," she said.
Her hand touched the door.
The bracelets hit the floor.
A heavy, muted clink. Metal on wood.
I sat up, breathing a little heavier than before.
She turned, eyes wide for a moment. Then—
That smile again.
Not the polite kind. Not cold. Warm. Real.
She walked back across the room in silence and picked them up.
She didn't say much. Just looked at me. As if waiting to see if I would take them back.
I didn't.
Before she left, she glanced over her shoulder.
"How does it feel?"
I blinked. My jaw tightened.
I didn't know.
Then I touched my cheek.
Wet.
Why am I crying?
She didn't answer.
Just smiled once more.
And closed the door behind her.
Nine months passed.
Winter left without ceremony—just vanished, like a breath released too slowly. In its place came Thawn, the first spring month. The ground softened, snow melted into the cobblestones, and the morning air carried a damp, earthy scent of life beginning again.
The sun hadn't fully risen yet. Just a pale wash of gold over the eastern rooftops. The streets were still sleepy. A few lanterns flickered behind windowpanes. A milk cart rattled by in the distance.
I walked alone, boots tapping gently over stone, hands tucked into my sleeves. For the first time in years, nothing ached. My knees felt light. My back didn't throb. My breaths came deep and clean. I could smell the world again—baked rye from the bakery near the square, chimney soot, the sharp green of new buds forcing their way out of winter.
I felt good.
Stronger than I've ever been.
Stronger even than I was in my prime.
Alliyana wasn't around the hospital much these days. Off doing gods-know-what. But the work continued, and the people still smiled. I stayed close, helped where I could. Eventually, the tavern just down the street offered me a spot.
At first, I thought it was a formality. Director Kell herself handed me a small pouch of silver and told me to use it however I wished. Said it was "customary" to help patients rebuild their lives.
I thanked her—but returned the pouch the next morning.
Didn't sit right.
I started helping in the tavern instead. Carrying crates. Wiping tables. Taking orders when they were short-staffed.
And now, somehow, I worked there.
Strangest part? People remembered me. Customers would ask if I was around. Some would only sit if I was the one serving.
It felt… good. To be needed. To be someone's routine. A familiar face.
And every time that warmth crept into my chest, I thought of her.
Alliyana.
Not just for healing my body. But for showing me warmth I forgot was real. Not just her—everyone at the hospital. No one judged. No one stared. Even when they saw the bracelets.
She once told me, "Imagine how far you could go now that you're not burdened by your past sins."
She believed in me.
That still unsettled me some nights. That a girl young enough to be my granddaughter looked at me—me—and saw someone worth saving.
I still think it strange. How she doesn't wear a uniform. How even the director stands straighter when she's in the room. Formal. Reserved.
Sometimes I forget she's just a young woman.
But not today.
Today, I just wanted to serve warm food and clean mugs.
I reached the tavern and opened the door. The bell above the frame chimed softly.
The scent hit first—yeast, smoke, oil. Fresh bread and dried herbs simmering over low fire.
"Kaleb!" the chef barked, voice already booming even at this hour. "Get in here! Help me prep! Bread's half-risen and the damn onions won't chop themselves!"
I chuckled, tying the apron around my waist as I moved behind the counter. "Aye, aye. I'm coming."
The morning rush came slow and steady. Locals filtered in with groggy eyes and calloused hands—laborers, hunters, a few healers in worn cloaks. Most of them nodded as they walked in.
Some smiled.
"Morning, Kaleb," one said. "You've got that mulled tea again?"
"Of course," I said, already pouring it.
An older woman waved from the back. "If Kaleb's not bringing it, I'm not drinking it!"
Laughter followed. I grinned and carried her bowl over.
A young boy peeked through the doorway, hesitating.
"Go on," I said. "Sit. First meal's on me today."
His eyes lit up.
Being needed. Not feared. Not pitied. Just… part of something.
The tavern warmed with the rising sun. The chatter grew louder. Chairs scraped. Mugs clinked. Somewhere in the back, the chef cursed at the rising dough as if it owed him money.
I kept moving.
And for once, I've forgotten what it felt to be an exile.
The shift had ended. The last chair stacked, the last mug rinsed. The tavern door shut behind me with a quiet thud, muffling the clatter inside.
The night air greeted me like an old friend—brisk, biting, honest. I exhaled, and a fog of breath drifted from my lips.
Despite the long hours, I felt… alive.
There was strength in my limbs. No tension. No fatigue. Just a quiet kind of energy, the kind born from a day spent doing something that mattered.
Of all places to finally find peace, it had to be here—a cold fortress nestled against the teeth of the world, surrounded by demons on all sides.
I let out a dry chuckle.
Maybe—just maybe—I could leave behind a legacy that wasn't mired in blood.
I turned away from the main road, deciding on a longer route back to the hospital. Just a short walk. Nothing grand. The duchy was quiet at this hour. Lanterns swayed in the breeze, their flames soft and flickering. The stone paths were still damp from earlier rain, and the smell of wet earth mingled with faint chimney smoke.
The northern gate came into view, its towering arch framed by moonlight.
I shifted left.
Then—boots.
A stomp. Sharp and practiced.
I stopped.
A soldier's voice carried low, respectful.
"How was your walk, ma'am?"
A pause. Then a familiar voice answered, light and surprised.
"At ease, soldier. I was a captain only that one time."
I smiled.
Of course she'd be out walking. Maybe I could catch up—say goodnight, thank her for everything again. She never stayed still long these days.
I rounded the corner.
And froze.
It was her. Alliyana. Standing casually, hands behind her back like always.
But this time—not like always.
The moonlight caught something dark and metallic around her wrists.
Bracelets.
Black. Or at least that's how I remembered it.
It's silver. New.
Three runes. Glowing.
I stared. That couldn't be. Three active seals?
That kind of weight should crush a person. Even monks trained from youth collapsed under two. I'd worn two for decades and still felt them in every step.
She stood there, posture relaxed. Breathing evenly. Like nothing weighed her down at all.
My chest tightened.
I remembered the storm. The quiet rescue. The hospital's insistence I stay longer. The silver I refused. The formality in the way everyone addressed her—even the director. I'd dismissed it all as odd kindness.
No.
I'd been managed.
"Kaleb?"
Her voice called me out of the spiral.
I looked up. She'd turned, both hands still behind her back.
"Show me your hands," I said.
She blinked. "What's wrong?"
"Your hands. Show me."
A pause. Her posture softened.
She sighed.
Guilt. She looked… guilty. How dare she look guilty.
Slowly, she brought her arms to her sides. Couldn't even meet my eyes.
"It was you, wasn't it?" I said. "The one who rescued me in the snow."
She said nothing.
"The first day we met," I continued. "You asked about the Yor technique. Why?"
Still, silence.
Then, finally: "I'm sorry."
That was it.
Not a denial. Just a quiet, miserable apology.
My breath caught. My jaw clenched.
I didn't want to do this.
But my body moved anyway.
Muscles tensed. Blood surged.
She raised a hand gently. "Kaleb… don't."
"Don't what?" I snapped. "Don't feel betrayed? Don't feel used?"
Her expression remained calm.
"I don't want to hurt you."
That broke something in me.
"You already did."
I lunged.
My fist shot forward, sharp and fast, aimed at her throat. Clean. Committed.
She wasn't there.
I struck air.
Again. Again. A flurry of strikes.
Each one missed.
She didn't block. She didn't flinch. She just moved—like she'd already seen where they would land.
My breath came faster. The bracelets at her wrist still glowed.
Three seals. And she was still faster than me.
Then—her voice.
"Restraint level: zero."
She stepped forward.
Her hand wrapped around my face.
And with one clean, fluid motion—she slammed me to the ground.
The stone met my skull with a dull crack. Pain bloomed. My body went limp.
She let go and stood.
I could barely look up.
A girl. No taller than my shoulder.
And she brought me down with a single movement.
I should've been afraid. Instead, I was numb.
Then she spoke.
"I'll speak to the Duke. I'll make a request—have you listed as an honorary guest of the duchy. A home. Something permanent. You won't have to stay in the hospital anymore. You can keep working at the tavern. Live in peace, however many years you have left."
I sat up slowly. Then stood. My body ached. Not from injury. From something deeper.
She looked at me.
"Kaleb? Where are you going?"
I didn't answer. I turned and walked. How dare she give me hope. Hope that I could leave behind a legacy untouched by violence.
Because in the end… she became my legacy. And hers was soaked in blood.
And so I left.