Nelgar gathered his hair into a ponytail as he walked away from Liora’s cottage. It had grown far longer than he’d ever planned. Years ago, he’d kept it trimmed short, practical for hunting and working around the village. But after his mother passed, he’d simply stopped cutting it. At first, it was an afterthought, one of the many small tasks he no longer had the heart to manage. Yet, as the months passed, it became something else—an unspoken tribute to her, a reminder of the time she’d spent brushing and braiding it when he was a young child.

  He often thought about cutting it, especially when it became a nuisance in the heat or tangled after a long day in the woods. But every time, he hesitated. The idea of losing it felt too final, like closing a door he wasn’t ready to shut. Instead, he let it grow, finding solace in its familiar weight against his shoulders and the warmth it brought during cold nights.

  Nights like the one he was expecting tonight. The winds had shifted, carrying a crispness that bit at him occasionally. Summer was giving way to autumn, the shift marked not just by the chill in the air but also by the earthy scent of fallen leaves. Yet, beneath it all, another scent caught his attention—the faint aroma of fresh bread. The baker must have been preparing an extra batch for the festival.

  The village square wasn’t far, and from where he stood, Nelgar could already hear the hum of activity—voices raised in chatter, the occasional hammer striking wood, the rustle of banners in the breeze.

  By the time he arrived, the square was alive with energy. Villagers bustled about, hauling tables, arranging decorations, and stringing lanterns overhead. Nelgar rolled up his sleeves and joined the effort without a second thought. He found himself holding one end of a long, colorful banner while a group of children eagerly tugged at the other side.

  The fabric was a patchwork of vibrant hues, stitched together over the past weeks by the village’s weavers. The children giggled as they tried to coordinate their efforts, their enthusiasm infectious despite the uneven lines they created.

  “Easy there,” Nelgar called out, his voice light. “You don’t want to tear it before the festival even begins.”

  The children giggled, their laughter mixing with the distant sounds of hammering and the occasional bleat of a goat. The festival was the village’s way of celebrating another year’s harvest—a tradition as old as Mosswick itself. Though small in scale compared to the grand events in Eastmoor, it was a time for the villagers to forget their hardships, if only for a night.

  “Nelgar! Hold it tighter!” a voice called from above. Galen, the village carpenter, leaned precariously from the top of a ladder, a hammer in one hand and a fistful of nails in the other. “You’ve got the strength of a sapling, lad. Pull it taut, or it’ll sag like last year!”

  “I’m pulling, I’m pulling!” Nelgar shouted back with a grin, planting his feet and bracing against the tension. He could feel the roughness of the fabric against his calloused hands, its weight heavier than he expected.

  Gunther shuffled by with a wooden crate in his arms, grumbling to no one in particular. “We hung banners tighter when I had two good knees.”

  Nelgar’s attention shifted at the sound of something heavy rolling across the cobbles.

  Otis was pushing a fresh barrel toward the tavern, whistling off-key and not watching where he was going. Liora had once told him Danica used to sneak off just to watch Otis work—gods knew why.

  But it made Nelgar smile.

  This was his home. His people.

  Every banner hung, every table set, and every lantern strung was a testament to their resilience. He thought of his mother, who had once led efforts like this, organizing the weavers to create the patchwork banners that now fluttered in the breeze. She had always made it seem effortless, her sharp eyes catching every loose stitch and crooked knot. “A festival’s not just for celebrating,” she’d told him once, her hands busy with needlework. “It’s to remind us what we’ve built together.”

  A sincere smile spread across his face. Nelgar held these memories close to his heart, rarely mentioning his mother to others. Talking about her felt too sacred, as if a part of her departed with each uttered word.

  He shifted his focus to the village girls setting tables and arranging flowers, their laughter carrying on the breeze. Mira’s warm smile caught his eye for a brief moment, and Elseth’s melodic voice rang out as she teased one of the younger children. They were lovely, he supposed. Yet, something in him always hesitated—no, resisted.

  It wasn’t that they weren’t good enough. He knew that wasn’t fair, even as the thought floated through his mind. It was something deeper, harder to articulate. His mother had set an impossible standard—not in beauty or grace, but in the way she filled a room with quiet strength and warmth. No one could compare, and he wasn’t sure he wanted them to.

  Because deep down, he feared that letting someone else in—truly in—would mean making space. And if he made space, where would that leave her? The thought gnawed at him, a quiet ache he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge.

  Instead, he kept his distance. Not cold, but guarded. Safe. The girls teased him for being aloof, Mira calling him “the untouchable prince,” but Nelgar let it roll off him. It was easier that way, easier than explaining the longing that bound him to the past.

  A cool breeze stirred the banners overhead, the sound of fabric rustling pulling Nelgar from his thoughts. He glanced up, watching as the colorful patchwork swayed in the fading light. The breeze carried with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth from the forest beyond the village—familiar, grounding, and strangely bittersweet.

  The forest. His thoughts drifted to the dream that had consumed him since he was a boy. The idea of becoming a ranger, of walking the wilds and safeguarding the lands, had always held a strange allure. It wasn’t just about the adventure—it was about purpose, about proving himself worthy of something greater.

  Yet, as he tied off the banner’s end to the wooden post, a weight settled in his chest.

  The thought struck him suddenly: If I become a ranger, will I still belong here?

  Since the day Nelgar learned that Brynnor had once been a ranger, he’d dreamed of becoming one himself. The thought consumed every spare moment outside of chores and training, filling his heart with quiet ambition.

  He could still see it: the forest wrapped in a cool, green haze, the scent of pine and damp earth thick in the air. Leaves rustled overhead; a brook babbled nearby. To young Nelgar, the woods weren’t just a place—they were a kingdom, endless and full of possibility.

  “Look out, Taron!” he’d cried, pointing to a rabbit hopping over the stream. “The Dunvarrians have crossed the Calderian Strait!”

  Taron, always the bold one, nocked a blunt arrow and drew with theatrical flair. His tongue stuck out in concentration—pure performance. Nelgar had spent seasons trying to fix his stance and grip, though Taron would never admit it helped.

  The arrow sailed wide. The rabbit twitched an ear and hopped away, unimpressed.

  “The invaders advance!” Taron bellowed, clutching his chest as if struck. “Everyone for themselves!”

  They dashed through the brush, laughing, dodging invisible foes, their quivers clattering with every leap and bound. Every rustle was an enemy scout. Every shadow, a lurking soldier.

  In a sun-dappled clearing, Taron flung himself onto the grass. “Go on without me!” he wailed. “Tell the village I died a hero!”

  Nelgar collapsed beside him, breathless. “A hero who couldn’t hit a rabbit,” he said, prodding him with a blunt arrow.

  “Details,” Taron grinned, tossing grass at his face.

  They lay there for a while, gazing up at scattered sky between the trees, their voices falling to a quiet murmur. Even then, Nelgar had felt the pull of something deeper—a yearning to be more than a boy with a wooden bow. Back then, it had seemed simple: trade the laughter of childhood for the purpose of duty.

  “Nelgar!” Galen barked, jolting him from his thoughts. “We’re not hanging the moon, lad! Move to the next one!”

  Nelgar grabbed the next length of fabric. As he worked, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment of peace—the laughter and the colors of the festival—was fleeting. In his heart, he knew that one day, if Karr willed it, his profession would take him far from Mosswick. And it would, though not in the way Nelgar imagined.

  “It’s done, lad!” Galen said cheerfully. “Onto the next one!”

  Nelgar turned to grab the next banner when a familiar voice called out from behind him.

  “Still at it, are you, Nel?”

  He glanced over his shoulder to see Taron striding up with a playful grin. He was lean and wiry, built like someone who had spent his life climbing rooftops and making trouble. Though a few inches shorter than Nelgar, he carried himself with easy confidence. His sharp features were framed by a mess of unruly, chocolate brown hair that never seemed to lie flat, no matter how often he pushed it back.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  His large eyes were a striking shade of hazel with flecks of green. They had the look of innocence about them, but Nelgar knew better.

  He was carrying a large bundle of colorful fabric draped over one arm and a basket of nails in the other.

  “Don’t you have better things to do than supervise?” Nelgar asked, smirking as Taron dropped the bundle next to him.

  “Better things than watching you fumble with a bit of cloth? Not likely,” Taron replied, his grin widening. “Besides, Pilos said you’d need the help. Something about your ‘legendary knack for wasting time.’”

  “It’s Elder Pilos to you,” Nelgar said, rolling his eyes but smiling throughout. “Grab that end,” he said, motioning to the fabric.

  Taron obliged, holding the banner taut . “Where is Tomas?”

  “He didn’t show.”

  “Feigning an illness again?”

  Nelgar grinned, “I’ll bet you six aurels, he’ll be up and dancing tomorrow.”

  “No way I’m taking that bet,” Taron said, chuckling.

  “So,” he added, sidling up with a grin, “who’s the lucky one tomorrow night?”

  “Not this again,” Nelgar muttered, tying the knot with a little more force than necessary.

  “Mira’s been looking at you like a prize rooster all season.”

  Nelgar sighed. “Mira’s not—”

  “Or Elseth,” Taron cut in. “She’s been spinning ribbons like her life depends on it. Definitely angling to show off.”

  “Taron.”

  “What? You’ve got options. Just don’t say Rinna—unless you’re into bruised toes.”

  Nelgar gave him a flat look. “I’m not going with Rinna.”

  “So who, then? Don’t tell me you’re skipping.”

  Nelgar hesitated. Taron leaned in, narrowing his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

  “It’s not a secret,” Nelgar muttered, though the heat in his face said otherwise.

  “Well?” Taron folded his arms.

  “I told Liora I’d go with her.”

  Taron blinked. “Liora?”

  “Yes, Liora,” Nelgar said, a bit sharper than he meant to.

  Taron scratched the back of his neck. “She doesn’t usually… you know. Dance.”

  “I know,” Nelgar said, reaching for the next length of fabric. “She doesn’t think anyone wants to dance with her. She deserves to feel included.”

  Taron studied him for a second, then let out a low whistle. “You’ve got guts.”

  Nelgar smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should,” Taron said, his grin returning. “Just hope you’re ready for the village gossip. Liora’s going to be the story of the night.”

  “Let them talk.”

  An awkward silence hung between them as they worked. Nelgar frowned, sensing Taron’s mind was elsewhere. Then it hit him. He turned sharply, his eyes narrowing.

  “You’ve been asking a lot of questions,” he said. “What about you? Got plans for tomorrow?”

  Taron flushed. “What plans?”

  “Oh, come on.” Nelgar smirked. “You’re going to ask someone to dance, aren’t you?”

  “I—uh—might have been thinking about it.”

  Nelgar crossed his arms. “Let me guess. Mira? No—too obvious. Rinna? Too many foot jokes. That leaves... Elseth.”

  Taron sighed, caught. “Alright, fine. I was thinking about it.”

  “You should,” Nelgar said, clapping his shoulder. “She’d say yes.”

  Taron hesitated. “You really think so? What if she laughs?”

  “She won’t. And even if she does, you’ll make her laugh with you.”

  Taron’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “Still... maybe we finish this first.”

  “Fair enough.” Nelgar nodded toward the pasture. “But she was heading that way earlier. Just saying.”

  Taron followed his gaze, then nodded. “Alright. Thanks, Nel.”

  “You’ve got this.”

  As the day wore on, the square began to take shape. Banners fluttered in the crisp breeze, lanterns swayed gently, and laughter filled the air. The festival spirit was infectious, but as the villagers drifted to their evening routines, Nelgar found himself slipping away, his thoughts quiet and heavy.

  The sun continued its descent towards the horizon, streaking the sky with hues of amber and crimson. Nelgar stared at the clear autumn sky, his mind adrift with thoughts of the coming festival and the season's hard-fought harvest.

  He sat cross-legged on a flat-topped boulder, the field stretching before him like a sea of frozen figures. The way the rocks scattered across the land reminded him of Kohol’s bustling market crowds, though Mosswick had never known such liveliness.

  He took a moment to admire the jagged peaks to the east, Tranquil Crest, a constant point of reference for the village. Though his gaze shifted to the empty field to the northeast, where Lord Humbrick’s castle stones had once been gathered.

  Elder Pilos had been so proud. “‘A great honor,” Pilos had said, puffing his chest. “For our liege lord to request rocks from our very own outcrop.”

  Reginald, ever the skeptic, had grumbled as usual. “But who’s gonna be gathering the rocks, Pilos?” he’d asked. “Is he bringing folks to help?”

  Pilos had only shaken his head, the solemn motion enough to pull a coy grin from Reginald. “Just what I thought,” he’d said, “with my luck, I’ll be stuck doing it.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Nelgar remembered the miller rolling boulders onto wagons under the masons’ watchful eyes, muttering curses between strained breaths. Even years later, Reginald hadn’t let the memory go. It became a village truth: the longer you spoke to Reginald, the greater your chances of hearing about the boulders.

  Nelgar smiled faintly at the thought. It was the same year Brynnor first visited the village, though Nelgar hadn’t realized then how much that visit would change everything.

  “Ah, that’s right! Brynnor!” He smacked his forehead with his palm, a little harder than he meant to. “I was supposed to go see him before sundown!” He told himself out loud.

  Nelgar took off running. His previously injured leg long forgotten.

  Nelgar’s boots crunched against the gravel streets as he ran, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The chill of the evening nipped at his skin, but he barely noticed it. He skidded to a halt outside Dalke’s cottage, doubling over to catch his breath.

  Brynnor was in the yard, working on a marten. His knife moved with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. When he glanced up and saw Nelgar, a smirk tugged at his lips.

  “Relax, lad. Catch your breath,” Brynnor said, waving a hand.

  Nelgar straightened, still panting. “You’ve never kept me waiting,” he managed between breaths. “I’m trying to follow your example.”

  Brynnor chuckled. “You’re barely late. Sit down.” He gestured to a nearby stump.

  “I told you I needed to see you for an important matter.” Brynnor’s words were measured and clear; he never spoke the Grissin dialect, always proper, and had taught Nelgar to do the same.

  “You did,” Nelgar replied, his breathing finally steady as he sank onto the offered seat. His curiosity burned, but he held his tongue, knowing Brynnor would speak when ready.

  Brynnor’s hands paused mid-motion. He set the marten carcass down carefully, wiping his knife on a cloth. His gaze drifted past Nelgar, far beyond the yard, his eyes distant as though caught in a vivid memory.

  Moments stretched into silence, the growing tension thick enough to feel. The faint rustling of leaves in the evening breeze was the only sound, a quiet reminder of the creeping dusk.

  Finally, Brynnor gestured toward the horizon, his movements slow and deliberate. “It’s the ridge to the west,” he said, his tone low but weighty, each word carrying an undercurrent of gravity. His sharp eyes locked onto the faint outline of the ridge as the sunlight faded behind it. “I saw a shape there.”

  Nelgar’s eyes quickly focused on the ridge in the distance. It glowed a deep red color as the sun began setting behind it.

  “Someone’s watching the village.”

  A chill ran down Nelgar’s spine, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. What if the shape on the ridge was a bandit—or worse? Could it be soldiers from Earl Valmere? The thought made his stomach turn. Stories of Valmere’s brutal tactics weren’t uncommon, and tensions between him and Earl Humbrick had been simmering for months.

  Nelgar opened his mouth to ask Brynnor about it but stopped short. He didn’t want to sound paranoid—or worse, like he was gossiping about things beyond his station.

  It’s probably nothing, he told himself.

  A traveler, maybe... or someone from the village.

  His mind turned to Brunda’s family, known for their long foraging trips into the wilderness. It wasn’t impossible they’d ventured farther than usual.

  “Maybe it’s one of Brunda’s lads,” Nelgar offered after a long pause.

  “Maybe,” Brynnor replied, his tone neutral.

  There was a long silence as Brynnor finished skinning the marten. Nelgar watched quietly, his eyes tracing the familiar motions he’d been taught so many times before.

  Without looking up, Brynnor said, “You need to investigate. Track whoever was watching from the ridge. Identify them if you can.”

  Nelgar straightened, tension prickling down his spine.

  Brynnor met his gaze. “This is your first trial.”

  Nelgar’s voice faltered, hope lighting his eyes. “My first trial? You mean… ranger trials?”

  Brynnor gave a slight smirk. “Don’t go celebrating yet. Scout quietly, get a count if they’re a threat, and come back alive. Do not engage unless you have no choice.”

  “What if they see me?” Nelgar asked, his voice cracking slightly.

  “Then you’re not ready to be a ranger,” Brynnor said with a shrug. “But I’d prefer you prove me wrong.”

  Nelgar’s excitement wavered, doubt creeping in. Was he ready to start his trials? Brynnor had been training him for years, but this was no training exercise. His mind swirled with memories of missteps and failures:

  Falling into a mud pit after mistaking a beaver trail for something bigger.

  When the loose arrow veered off course, nearly hitting a villager.

  The sparring match where he’d tripped over his own feet, landing in an unceremonious heap while Taron had laughed so hard he’d fallen over too.

  These past shadows lingered in his mind, tugging at his confidence and threatening to drown it in an abyss of self-doubt.

  Brynnor’s face softened, as if he could see the turmoil playing out in Nelgar’s mind.

  “Lad…” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now. “Do you trust my judgment?”

  Nelgar blinked, startled by the question. “Of course, sir.”

  “Then listen to me when I tell you this: I wouldn’t ask this of you if I didn’t think you were ready.”

  Nelgar had stopped sinking, but Brynnor had been there to steady him. He wouldn’t carry him forward—that much was clear—but he’d always been there to pull him back to the surface when doubt threatened to drag him under. His throat tightened, and he quickly brushed at his eyes, determined not to show any weakness. This wasn’t just a test of his skill—it was a test of Brynnor’s trust in him.

  Nelgar met Brynnor’s gaze, a newfound resolve lighting his own. “I’ll go right away.”

  “You’ll go tomorrow, lad.”

  Nelgar felt his excitement wane. “But tomorrow’s the festival,” he said, his voice softer now.

  “It’s getting dark. You’ll break your leg stumbling around out there.” Brynnor said.

  “Can it wait until after tomorrow?” Nelgar asked, his enthusiasm dimming.

  Brynnor raised an eyebrow. “If you knew bandits were scouting the village, would you wait?”

  Nelgar shook his head, determination replacing hesitation. “No.”

  “Good,” Brynnor said, nodding. “Rest tonight. You’ll need a clear head.”

  Brynnor’s promise was made long ago: train hard, and one day he would test him. Passing the trials would be the first step. Once Nelgar proved himself, he would take him to the Duke for his official enrollment in the Eastmoor’s Rangers—a dream that had fueled Nelgar’s determination for years.

  As Nelgar turned to leave, his eyes lingered on the west, where his quarry lay waiting. The set’s fiery glow bled across the horizon, painting the ridge in hues of red and gold. The boundary between light and shadow felt ominous, a silent warning of what lay ahead.

  He shivered, though the air was still. It’s not just my trial, he thought. The village is counting on me.

  His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, the metal cool against his fingers. It felt steady. Reassuring.

  “I won’t let them down,” he whispered to himself, stepping into the twilight, his resolve carrying him forward.