The walk home was a strange parade of silent victory and loud mourning. While Emily skipped ahead, occasionally glancing back to make sure their father was still there, Matthew walked beside Adrian. The man looked untouched by the battle—no blood stained his surcoat, and his breathing was steady—but his eyes were sunken, staring at a point miles beyond the town's horizon.
"Dad?" Matthew asked, his voice low so Emily wouldn't hear. "The others... what happened?"
Adrian didn't look at him. He just tightened his grip on the hilt of his sheathed broadsword. "The reports were wrong, Matt. It wasn't just twenty Orcs. It was a war party. They had a Shaman."
Matthew felt a chill. A Shaman meant magic. It meant that for a group of forty standard Knights, fifteen returning wasn't a tragedy—it was a miracle. "And you? You don't have a scratch on you."
Adrian finally turned his head. His gaze wasn't one of pride, but of a deep, exhausting guilt. "I'm fast, Matthew. Fast enough to stay alive. Not fast enough to save twenty-five men."
They reached the small, weathered cottage on the edge of the district. The wooden door creaked open before they could even knock. Matthew's mother, Sarah, stood there. Her eyes immediately went to Adrian's limbs, checking for missing parts, for bandages, for the familiar signs of trauma. When she saw he was whole, she collapsed into his arms, sobbing quietly.
"You're back," she whispered into his chest. "Thank the Stars, you're back."
The dinner table was uncharacteristically quiet that night. Usually, Emily would chatter about her day, but even she could feel the heavy shroud hanging over her father. Adrian sat at the head of the table, staring at his bowl of watery stew.
"The pay was doubled," Adrian said suddenly, breaking the silence. He reached into a leather pouch at his belt and pulled out a handful of copper and silver coins, laying them on the scarred wood.
Matthew looked at the coins. To his mother, they represented a month of flour and firewood. To Matthew, they looked like blood. Each silver coin felt like it had been paid for by one of the twenty-five men who didn't come home today.
"Adrian," Sarah said softly, placing her hand over his. "The neighbors... they're talking again. They saw you leading the line. They're saying you let the others take the brunt of the attack."
Matthew's grip on his spoon tightened. "That's a lie! Dad said there was a Shaman. They don't know what it's like out there."
"It doesn't matter what they know, Matthew," Adrian said, his voice cracking. "In their eyes, a Knight who survives without a wound while his comrades die is either a coward or a curse. To them, I am the 'Lucky Adrian.' And they hate me for it."
Matthew looked at his father's hands. They were shaking. The "strongest" man in their village was falling apart from the inside out. This was the reality of the legends Matthew had read about as a child. Arthur the Hero killed 80% of monsters, but the books never mentioned how many of his friends died in the process.
A Hidden Ambition
Later that night, unable to sleep, Matthew stepped out into the small backyard. The air was crisp, and the moon hung low, casting long, skeletal shadows across the grass. He picked up a heavy wooden branch—one he'd been using as a makeshift practice sword for months.
He swung.
Whoosh.
The movement was clunky, unrefined. He remembered what the townspeople said: The son of Adrian. The careless child. So weak even a goblin could kill him.
"I'm not weak," Matthew hissed to the empty air. He swung again, harder this time, his muscles aching. "I just haven't been taught."
"Your center of gravity is too high."
Matthew jumped, nearly dropping the branch. Adrian was standing by the back door, wrapped in a thin cloak. He looked older in the moonlight, the grey in his hair shimmering.
"Dad, I... I was just..."
"I told you I don't want you doing this, Matthew," Adrian said, stepping into the yard. "You see the coins on that table? You see the widows crying in the square? That is the life of a swordsman. It is a trade of souls for silver."
"But we're struggling!" Matthew argued, his frustration finally boiling over. "You're the only one earning, and every time you go out, Mom spends the whole day shaking. If I were a Knight, if I were strong, I could help. We wouldn't have to worry about the next harvest or the neighbors' insults!"
Adrian walked over and took the branch from Matthew's hand. It looked like a toothpick in his calloused grip. "You think strength stops the worrying? It only makes the burden heavier. If you're strong, people expect you to be a shield. And when the shield breaks—or worse, when it doesn't break but everyone behind it dies anyway—you have to live with that."
"I can handle it," Matthew said defiantly.
Adrian looked at his son for a long time. Then, with a sudden, blurring speed, he snapped the branch against his knee. He handed the two broken pieces back to Matthew.
"Go to bed, Matthew. Tomorrow, we go to the market. We need to buy supplies while we have the coin. Forget the sword. Be a merchant, a carpenter, a scholar—anything but a man who kills for a living."
The Market and the Mirror
The next morning, the sun was bright, but the mood in town remained somber. Matthew followed his father through the crowded market stalls. He felt the eyes of the villagers on them—sharp, accusatory needles.
"Look at him," a man muttered near a grain stall. "Walking like he didn't just leave twenty good men to rot in the woods."
Matthew wanted to shout, to defend his father's honor, but Adrian kept his head down, focused on the list Sarah had given him.
As they neared the center of the square, a group of young men blocked their path. They were older than Matthew, perhaps nineteen or twenty, dressed in the fine linens of the local merchant guild. At their lead was Silas, the son of the town mayor.
"Well, if it isn't the 'Survivor'," Silas sneered, looking at Adrian. "My cousin was in your unit, Adrian. They brought back his helmet. Just his helmet. Care to explain how you managed to keep your skin so pretty while he was being torn apart?"
Adrian paused. He didn't look up. "It was a difficult retreat, Silas. I am sorry for your loss."
"Sorry? Is that all?" Silas stepped closer, his face reddening. He turned his gaze to Matthew. "And here's the pup. Tell me, Matthew, are you learning the family trade? Are you practicing how to run away while your friends die?"
The market went silent. Matthew felt a heat rising in his chest, a roar in his ears that drowned out his father's warnings. His hand curled into a fist.
"My father didn't run," Matthew said, his voice trembling with rage. "He's the reason anyone came back at all."
Silas laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "He's a coward. And like father, like son. You've got that same weak look in your eyes. You're a disgrace to the name of the Hero you like to read about."
Before Adrian could stop him, Matthew lunged.
He wasn't fast, and he wasn't trained, but he was driven by a year of suppressed resentment. He swung a wild punch that caught Silas on the jaw. The older boy stumbled back, shocked.
"Matthew, no!" Adrian shouted, grabbing his son's shoulder to pull him back.
But the damage was done. Silas spat blood onto the cobblestones and grinned maliciously. "The weakling has teeth. Fine. If you want to act like a man of iron, let's see if you can bleed like one."
Silas signaled to his two friends, who began to close in. The crowd didn't move to help. In their eyes, Matthew and his father deserved whatever happened next.
Matthew stood his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He realized then that his father was right—he wasn't strong. But as he looked at the hostile faces around him, he knew one thing for certain: if the world was going to hate him for surviving, he might as well give them a reason to fear him instead.