“It is truly easy for the strong to reprimand the weak for their weakness, while they do not even understand the reasons things are the way that they are.

  Our society has been stagnant for more years than other empires have existed, our rules binding and blinding us to standards so high and unreasonable that only our baseline excellence has managed to stem the profuse bleeding that is happening under everybody's eyes.

  We have so many examples coming from the so-called “ Lower Races” showing us how to properly care for and foster our young, and yet we are there, throwing them at the forefront of a fabricated conflict that has nothing to do with their truths and their future, while their forefathers, still alive and watching from their high perches in their gilded palaces, lament how little talent is trickling up from those conditions they set up eons ago.

  And here, I must be frank with your reader: The bastard dragons, the old scaly goat fuckers that leave their spawns around to murder and for murder are making fun of us. Fun!

  Statistically, fewer elves than dragons make it out of adulthood! It’s madness! It’s disgusting. It’s wrong.

  And forgive me, Mother, but you taught me that wrongs must be righted.

  And forgive me, Father, for it is you that wronged us.”

  “Shatter Prince” Tael The Iconoclast biography notes, solely responsible for the second rise of the elven empires, ascended to power after breaking his father's rule, alongside his body, mind, and much of his vicinity.

  The remaining early evening was spent trading stories, Omri’s old host enthusiastically telling him of her life as a teacher in the mainland, about his late husband, a sailor born and raised in the islands, who came to the great capital to make it big.

  How he didn’t get to, but still managed to snatch her away from her boring routine.

  She told him of their peaceful life in the community, a tranquil place where everyone knew each other, mainly sustained through fishing, hunting, and the occasional merchant ship coming to trade for the few unique wares the village had to offer.

  About her kid, an only child, unusual for a lot of families, but still their pride and joy, and of how he became a successful merchant, by capitalizing on his mother's few connections to open up a small shop that was thriving in the inner continent’s central marketplace.

  He didn’t contribute back a lot, but when he did, he spoke of his training, of the rare happy moments he had when he completed a particularly harsh task, or about the few times his masters gave him a word of encouragement.

  Not looking to give a stroke to the elderly, he gracefully glossed over the majority of trauma-inducing scenarios, but he didn’t hide a lot, relying more on half-truths and misdirection to paint the life he believed was normal for a fledgling warrior.

  She didn’t seem very convinced, but didn’t push the matter, and just sipped some of her spicy red tea while listening to his tales, making a worried face as he explained to her how he got “hired” at the ripe age of 14 to guard the son of some important noble, only to end up on an inhospitable island, fending for his life against a wide ensemble of furry opponents.

  He toned down his exploits, but the warm woman's eyes glistened, a mixture of pity, worry, and respect at the youngster's actions.

  Omri found that some part of that gaze bothered him, that while he enjoyed the respect, he didn’t want her pity. Life had been rough for him, but no more than for everyone else. A few people could say they were born lucky, but the vast majority all had to contend with their battles.

  And in the boy’s books, knowing how to fight already put him ahead of many others, much more unfortunate than him, unable to protect themselves when facing one of the most common mundanities of life: violence.

  In the end, he decided to leave the thought for himself, and as the dialogue toned down, he was invited to his room, a small but tidy place neatly decorated, with a desk full of notes, square with one of the corners, flanked by a tall bookcase heavy with knowledge.

  Mabel hushed him in, voice raspy from the long talk.

  “This is where my son rests when he comes home, so don’t mess with anything on the desk. If you want to read something, the case has some nice text, and some I can already tell you will find…interesting.”

  She grinned, the wrinkles near her eyes forming a web.

  “And don’t forget what you told me: tomorrow is a big day for me, ah!”

  He smiled weakly, knowing already he had put himself in a pickle by agreeing to help with some of her chores.

  “Yeah, Mabel, don’t worry, I’ll be up and about at the first lights in the morning like you said.”

  A harsh cackle was his answer, as she muttered a last “I’ll hold you to that, boy” before carefully shutting his door.

  Omri instantly slumped on the bed, battling with himself.

  On one side, heavenly sensations rose from contact with his comfortable nest, the freshly laundered sheets smelling of some kind of flowers, while the mattress promised a softness rarely tasted before.

  On the other hand, he just opened up about the majority of his life with a random stranger who invited him into her home, seeing in him something he was not: not a lost child, nor a surrogate grandson to coddle while his career-oriented son made the big bucks.

  What in the end won was reason.

  “In the end, she hit the nail on the head: I’m not a criminal, the shipwreck happened years ago, and nobody would be searching for me even if they knew I was alive. I’ll help her, she is happy, I’m confused but happy, and everything is more than fine, I guess”.

  Either the bed was even better at lulling him to sleep than he thought, or he was more tired than he felt, but it was with these last messy wonderings that Omri’s eyes closed, and the sweet embrace of the dark claimed him for the night.

  The next day came too quickly, but as he promised, he got up before the first sunrays shone through his window.

  Life in the village was, for certain, a novelty to Omri, and old Mabel decided to fully make use of her new helper.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He found her standing over the stoves, a soft melody humming out from her lips as she flipped eggs and sausages in a pan, a list of things to do already splayed out on the table, on which also rested a steaming mug of tea.

  He got to enjoy his breakfast before taking on his quest: a definite plus for the boy, who now no longer looked at the new day with the bleary, hateful eyes of someone woken too soon from a sleep too deep.

  The chores were nothing exciting compared to his life on the island, although the boy had to admit that not having to look over his shoulder every moment of his waking day was more than relaxing, but he still had mixed feelings about the entire situation, having found something deeply concerning about himself in light of the tasks.

  He was enjoying the attention.

  The news of a wild stranger had spread quickly through the small community, people passing by pretending to be busy but secretly scanning, trying to catch a glimpse of the news.

  As he approached each new tedious task with the same steady tenacity, a gaggle of people looked at him, turning his work in a way to showcase some small amount of prowess.

  He genuinely didn’t know what to think of them but feeling their gazes warming him while he worked was a strange experience.

  It all started when he went to the forest to pick up some logs since he decided that keeping well stocked with the fuel that brought to life his amazing meals was a good first step to tackle on his list.

  Stripping down the dry wood, he idly played with the borrowed axe, thinking about the astounding difference between steel and what he was forced to use during the past couple of years.

  After getting used to the island's improvised tools, seeing the blade shear wood with such ease was a joy for him, and he got maybe too carried away, massacring two chestnut trees in the time it took for a kettle to boil.

  Taking them apart had still been less conspicuous than carrying them home, each trip earning him some more followers, and now, after the sound of a bell, the majority of his company had left, with just some unusual suspects remaining behind.

  Finding the courage to investigate the stranger after so much looking, some children shyly approached him from the back, their hushed tones and shuffling feet betraying how nervous they felt.

  Omri heard a squeaky little voice whisper behind him, “Come on, Mattias, you said you'd do it,” followed by a more uncertain one, “Shh, speak softly or he'll hear us... Besides, haven't you seen how he was halting that tree? He’s giant-blooded for sure!”

  Intrigued by the conversation, the young warrior did not interrupt, pretending to be unaware of the brat’s presence.

  A third voice joined the conversation, “Aaah, you're scared, aren't you? You were acting all brave before, and now you chicken out.CooCoo, I’m a scared dunghead. Besides, everyone knows giants are not real”.

  “Stop it!” the designated spokeschild of the gang paused briefly, checking if the stranger had heard him, to then continue, “Anyway, I'm not even sure it's him, my mother said he was dirty and all dressed in fur”.

  The lame excuse did not go well with the group, which was getting more and more agitated, their stealthy approach almost forgotten as they blundered around, before one of them simply said.

  “Na, naw, I saw him yesterday with Ma at the market, he just washed up, the furs are probably at the old crazy lady's house drying”.

  They kept up with the pressure until Mattias was forced to relent "Alright, alright, I'll just go and do it now," the boy said in a defeated voice, approaching the young man.

  “Uhmm, excuse me, sir?”.

  Omri shoved down the smirk that was by now splitting his face in half, stopped with his work, and turned to look at the gang’s leader, a slender boy of ten at most, with a bob of curly black hair and, on his face, the expression of someone who was regretting many of his choices.

  Behind him, a colorful little group was silent in anticipation.

  “Yes, kids?”

  Mattias, standing a bit taller, maybe bolstered by the hunter's assent, went on with his query.

  “We were wondering if you were the wild stranger who had arrived in the village?”

  For a moment, malicious thoughts went through Omri’s head, the idea of dropping on all fours and chasing the group as they collectively lost their shit almost too much to handle as he threatened to burst out laughing.

  Looking at their terrorized expression, probably confusing his silent grimace for anything other than him biting his tongue, he decided to abort the plan. Instead, he simply answered.

  “Yes… that would be me, but as you can see, I’m not wild. I’m an…adventurer and I was coming back from a long, long quest,” Omri replied uncertainly.

  “See! I told you it was him,” a small voice rose from the gaggle, as the group's eyes shone with interest at his mention of a quest.

  Fear quickly turned to excitement after the confirmation, and little by little, the conversation became a shower of questions.

  “Is it true that you killed a bear the size of a house by yourself?”

  “And that you only eat raw meat?”

  “And that you can talk to animals?”

  “Yes, and it was just a cub; the mother is twice as big and will be the next target in my hunts! No, younglings, I only drink of their blood, and I cannot talk to animals, but I know of one who can,” replied the young hunter, steadying his expression, trying to remain as serious as possible.

  The eyes were now wide like saucers, and some of the children had started to push each other, simulating his fights, while he corrected their stances and regaled new stories about his enemies' abilities.

  Another bell went off, and the children, satisfied with his stories, waved him goodbye as they rushed to lunch, while Omri went back to work finishing up with his wood splitting and shed stocking.

  After half an hour, it was time for the next item on his list, and so off he went, to get groceries for the cranky old lady.

  Mabel had insisted on properly cooking some game, and considering his culinary skills, paired with what he ate while on the island, he did not mind the idea in the slightest, so he reached for the butcher, easily finding him in the square where he had met the old woman the previous day.

  The man was busy haggling for fresh meat with a group of boys in their twenties.

  The small team consisted of three individuals, each sporting a forearm-long hunting knife on their belts and a bow plus quiver pair on their backs.

  “Those must be some of the village hunters,” Omri judged as he quickly closed the distance from the stall, their argument becoming clearer with each of his steps.

  “Come on, Ed, you know very well that it's worth more than that!”

  “Yes, and you know very well that I won't be able to sell it all before it goes bad.” A short, poignant pause landed heavily between the pair, as the butcher, a giant of a man as tall as Omri, but twice as wide, added in an almost apathetic voice, “And don't call me Ed like we’re friends, lad. Your father calls me Edward, so for you, I’m Mr. Carlson”.

  The young villager's temper frayed, and his voice rose in a shout.

  “It must be twenty years my father has been doing business with you, and we are not even afforded to sell you our catch without getting stiffed?!”

  His gesticulating hands suddenly stopped alongside the beginning of his rant, the heavy thud of a cleaver cutting bone and hitting wood shutting him down, as the butcher brought down his knife on the meat below him, silencing the trio with a single glacial gaze.

  “Yes, that's right Sebastian, your father. The one who would not have killed this splendid mare, to let her have more fowls. The one who brings me prey with unruptured spleens. Your father,” the previously apathetic voice was now turning into a low growl, “The one who will tan your ass bloody once I tell him what you and your dumb friends did, so now, get your silver, get the rest of that ruined meat, and get the fuck out of my face”.

  Completely shutting them off from a reply, the scary giant turned towards Omri, locking his gaze on the youngster.

  The youth met his eyes, ready for a tongue-lashing from the clearly upset man.

  Who half bowed his head, plastered the brightest salesman smile Omri had ever seen on his rough-featured face, brought his hands together, and sweetly, almost coyly, asked

  “And how may I be of service to you today, sir?”