Tolvad slung an arm over Gunnar’s shoulders.

  “Come on, boy. A bet’s a bet, and I’m a man of my word. Let’s head to the Golden Stag.” He looked to Johan. “You coming too, little challenger?”

  Johan, still rubbing his twisted arm, hesitated… but quickly realized it was a good excuse to avoid whatever work Olaf might throw his way.

  “Sure. Someone’s gotta keep Gunnar from drinking himself under the table.”

  Olaf chuckled.

  “Go on then. Just don’t show up tomorrow hungover, Johan. I’ve got work for you.”

  Gunnar gave his cousin a playful pat on the back, smiling.

  “At least now you’ve got something to tell Lene.”

  Johan turned red instantly and muttered something unintelligible.

  As they walked off, Olaf returned to the forge, calling over the remaining boys helping out. The one who had challenged Johan — still a little sheepish from being knocked down by Gunnar — sighed and went back to polishing spear shafts.

  “Settle down, Beric,” Olaf said with a knowing smile. “You’ve still got plenty to learn before picking fights with someone that size.”

  The name suited him — Beric was more fire than sense, but full of the will to prove himself.

  In the village square, the trio reached the Golden Stag, the local tavern. The scent of wood, ale, and hearth smoke wrapped around them like a familiar blanket.

  Tolvad pushed open the door and called out:

  “Drinks are on me tonight!”

  Laughter and murmurs rose in reply. Gunnar looked around — this worn old place was, without question, the heart of the village.

  They found a table in the corner. Tolvad ordered three hearty mugs of ale and a plate of salted meat and bread.

  “You surprised me, lad,” he said after a long swig. “Not many react like that. Have you trained before?”

  Gunnar shook his head, smiling.

  “Nothing serious. Just farm work… and the occasional brawl with Johan.”

  Tolvad scratched his beard, impressed.

  “Then you’ve got something rare, boy — strength and instinct. If you’d trained in the capital, you’d have gone far.”

  Johan, still a little bruised in both body and pride, scoffed:

  “Gunnar’s always been strong. My uncle says he was made to carry sacks on his back since the day he was born.”

  Gunnar gave him a light punch in the shoulder, and the three laughed, raising their mugs again.

  The next morning, with sunlight just grazing the hills, the village of Dunverin gathered in silence in the square. There was no celebration — only hushed farewells.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Gunnar adjusted the pack with his few belongings on the cart, feeling the weight of the moment settle fully over him.

  Brígia approached, gently cupping his face, tears brimming but held back.

  “You grew up too fast for me, boy. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself… not just everyone else?”

  “I promise, Aunt,” he said, squeezing her hands. “And I promise I’ll come back to finally paint that fence Uncle keeps avoiding.”

  She let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

  Brann came next. His face was stern, eyes red, but dry.

  “I won’t ask you to come back in one piece — I know you wouldn’t promise that,” he said, voice rough. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

  Gunnar nodded, throat tight.

  Olaf stood at a distance. He’d already said goodbye, but hadn’t moved far — always watchful.

  “If you can… send word when you can,” he said.

  Johan, never missing a chance for a jab, chimed in:

  “Send word? This guy barely knows how to write! He’ll end up sending stick figures and call it secret code!”

  Gunnar chuckled and tousled his cousin’s hair.

  “Then you write for me, genius. I’ll just dictate.”

  They hugged tightly.

  “Go and come back, Gunnar,” Johan murmured.

  “I will.”

  Just as he climbed onto the cart, Rurik — Ada’s father — stepped forward. He ran a hand through his short hair, visibly uncomfortable, and stood before Gunnar.

  “Gunnar.”

  “Sir Rurik.”

  For a moment, only birdsong and the creak of the cart’s wheels filled the silence.

  “It hasn’t been easy on her,” Rurik said quietly. “Sometimes we don’t understand someone else’s pain… even when we’re part of it.”

  Gunnar sighed, anger threatening to surface.

  “I saw just how not easy it’s been.”

  Rurik met his gaze calmly.

  “She needs time. And you… you need to come back. When all this is over, maybe the right time will finally come for you both.”

  Gunnar lowered his eyes, nodded.

  They shook hands and parted.

  The cart began to move, slowly, carrying Gunnar away — leaving Dunverin behind.

  Less than half a day later, the caravan caught up with another group from a nearby village. Three wagons rolled ahead, covered with plain tarps and pulled by tired horses. A mounted rider accompanied them — another envoy from Trowell — riding beside Alek, the man who had conducted the draft. The two led the march, keeping a measured distance from the wagons.

  Gunnar shifted on the wooden bench, pulling a small block of wood from his pocket. He resumed the carving he’d started the night before. Shavings fell slowly, in rhythm with the cart’s sway. A wolf was beginning to take shape — patiently, deliberately.

  Behind him, voices carried freely.

  “I’m telling you, Beric,” came the booming voice of a man named Torben, “if my wife puts carrots in the meat stew one more time, I swear I’ll plant her right in the garden!”

  Laughter erupted.

  “Maybe she just wants you to see better in the dark,” Beric fired back, drawing more chuckles.

  “Carrots are a luxury. Mine uses turnips!” said another, thin and patchy-bearded. “Now that’s punishment.”

  “Punishment is waking up early, shoveling manure, and still getting complaints from the horse!” a third chimed in.

  “At least horses don’t talk!” Torben roared, belly-shaking with laughter.

  Gunnar listened from a distance, the banter mixing with the creak of wheels and the rasp of his blade. He didn’t join in. Just kept carving. Beric, on the other hand, kept the mood light with jokes and friendly taunts.

  Up ahead, Alek kept his eyes sharp on the road, while the other envoy — a quiet man named Darrek — observed in silence, saying nothing.

  The landscape passed slowly: rolling fields, crooked fences, clusters of brush and shallow creeks. The air smelled of dust, leather, and morning dew clinging to damp wood.

  The pace was steady. Just the wheels, the laughter, and the quiet rasp of Gunnar’s carving knife.

  When the sky turned gold and pink, Alek raised a hand — signaling a stop. The wagons were pulled to the side of the road, where a flat patch beneath a few trees offered makeshift shelter.

  Men climbed down, stretching stiff backs with low grunts. Beric was first to tend to the horses. Others unloaded bundles of dry bread, salted meat, and coarse blankets.

  “Form the circle,” Darrek said in his deep voice.

  In minutes, they had a firepit built. The wagons formed a half-moon. Horses were tied to nearby trees. The scent of burning wood soon joined sweat and road dust in the air.

  Gunnar tucked the carving away with his things and, before rations were handed out, approached Tolvad.

  “Promise still good, old man?” he asked with a grin.

  Tolvad nodded, eyes glinting. They grabbed two makeshift staves — straight-cut branches, quickly trimmed.

  A few men stepped aside to watch in silence.

  Gunnar took up a stance he’d seen often enough. No real technique, but instinct. Feet steady, staff raised.

  Tolvad struck first — a wide sweep. Gunnar dodged. The next blow came from above — he blocked it, but the shock rattled through his arm.

  “Posture!” Tolvad growled, swinging again.

  Gunnar started to feel the rhythm. Block, sidestep, counter. Tolvad corrected him with quick taps, adjusting his stance.

  Finally, the old soldier stepped back, breathing deeply.

  “You learn fast. And you’ve got strength.”

  Gunnar nodded, panting.

  Later, they gathered around the fire. Each man received a slice of salted meat, a tough chunk of bread, and a flask of water.

  Beric made a face as he bit the bread.

  “This stuff could be used as a weapon.”

  Torben laughed.

  “Still better than turnips in stew.”

  The fire crackled softly, its glow dancing on tired faces. Smoke and scorched fat hung in the air.

  Tolvad sat beside Gunnar, chewing in silence. But before he could speak, Gunnar’s gaze shifted. Something had caught his eye.

  Alek and Darrek stood a short distance away, alert. Darrek stepped forward, scanning the treeline.

  Gunnar lifted his chin, trying to follow their attention.

  Then, in one swift motion, Darrek drew a short blade and drove it into the ground beside a wagon wheel.

  A high-pitched squeal cut through the dusk.

  Darrek pulled up the blade. Along with it came the twisted body of a small, furred creature — bloated eyes, teeth far too long, its skin glistening and blotched with dark patches.

  “Cursed kremel,” Alek muttered, spitting onto the ground.

  Darrek tossed the carcass beside the fire for all to see.

  “Stay alert,” he said, voice calm but firm. “Where there’s one, there are more.”

  Men cursed under their breath.

  Gunnar stared at the creature. He knew the stories. A single one of these pests could destroy entire crops in days — swarms that came at night, gnawing at roots, cutting down harvests from below.

  Beric clicked his tongue.

  “Perfect. Haven’t even left the kingdom properly, and we’re already surrounded by vermin.”