"Sir, madam, is anyone inside?" a man's voice called from outside, hopeful and exhausted. Thalric rose slowly, his shoulders tensing like a soldier returning from war. Every step carried the trained vigilance of years spent fighting. He opened the door cautiously, and eight men stood there, faces haggard, bodies grimy, clothes torn and dust-streaked. "Sorry to disturb you this late, sir, but my friends and I smelled food coming from your house... We're merchants from Aurelion, from Brightwater. We were bound for Greenhaven in the Elven forest-kingdom of Eldarion to trade, but unfortunately we were attacked by the forest aranea—giant spiders that tore our horses and scattered our caravan," one of them explained in a pleading voice.

  Thalric studied them sharply, looking for truth in their eyes, then cut him off. "Enough. Come in; it's far too cold out there."

  "Thank you so much, sir," the man said gratefully. They entered, their faces coming into clearer view by the hearth's firelight. They all looked young, exhausted, and a little pale from the cold. Lirael watched them intently, noting their restless manners. "I'm Geoffrey," said the man who had spoken first. He pointed to two others. "These are my brothers, William and Reynard. And these are five of our men." Lirael offered a faint smile and a nod. "Sit. You must be hungry."

  Because the table couldn't seat them all, they took places in the main room and ate the food offered. While they ate, Lirael asked for more details about what had happened to their caravan. Geoffrey drew a long breath before he explained, "We'd just been at Greenhaven selling our seafood. On the way back to Brightwater we had to pass through the Tenebris forest. Unfortunately it was late and we couldn't return to Greenhaven to spend the night. In the forest we were unlucky... the forest aranea attacked, and before we could react our horses were shredded. We ran as fast as we could, leaving everything behind, until we finally saw the light of your home." They all looked shaken as they recalled the incident; fear still showed on their faces.

  When they finished, Geoffrey looked at Thalric with respect. "Thank you so much, sir, madam. We owe you our lives." Then he turned to Lirael and asked, "Pardon me, madam, are you an elf from Aurelion or from Eldarion?" Lirael smiled faintly. "I was born and raised in Eldarion, in Greenhaven—the town you just visited."

  "I'm from Aurelion," added Thalric. Reynard, who had been silent until then, finally asked, "Which town are you from, sir? Are you from Brightwater like us?" Thalric shook his head; his gaze drifted as if reaching back into distant memory. His voice was heavy, like a stone rolling slowly down a hill. "No. I was born and raised in Eldorfen, Aurelion's forward fortress against Valterion's invasion." He paused and drew a deep breath. The air in the room thickened with tension, mixed with the scent of burning wood and the lingering fear on their guests' faces, mingled with the aroma of the spices from the meal they'd just eaten.

  William swallowed, feeling the atmosphere shift. He stole a glance at Geoffrey for reassurance, but his brother stayed silent, letting Thalric speak. "I have died and been reborn on battlefields more times than I can count," Thalric continued, his voice deeper now, like the sea carrying secrets beneath. "I was grievously wounded in the Frostfang sea war. My ship was destroyed, my body smashed by waves and swallowed by a sea as cold as death itself. I washed up on a shore alone, freezing and near death." He clenched his scarred fingers as if he could still feel the ice biting his bones. "I walked as far as I could, across stony plains and dense woods, until my steps brought me to the edge of Tenebris." Reynard swallowed, doubt plain in his eyes. "And there... you met your wife?" he asked almost in a whisper, afraid to pry deeper. Thalric nodded slowly, his gaze softening at the memory. "Lirael found me. She nursed me, gave me shelter when I was on the verge of giving up. After that, I chose not to return to Aurelion and built a life here with my family."

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  Conversation in the main room quieted, absorbed by the shadows that danced across the walls from the restless firelight, mirroring the emotions churning inside. The hearth's glow threw moving shapes on the timber walls that kept time with the darkness in Thalric's tale. A few of the men exchanged looks; most remained silent, though the tension was tangible. Reynard rubbed the back of his neck, appearing uneasy. One of Geoffrey's men cleared his throat to dispel the hush. "How many battles have you fought, sir?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly. Thalric regarded him for a long moment before nodding slowly. "Too many to count. Each battle teaches you something—about your enemy and yourself. Some last a heartbeat, others feel like a lifetime. Every battlefield leaves marks, not just on my body but in my memory."

  The air in the room seemed to thicken; each breath felt heavy, as if the burden of Thalric's past lay over them all. William could feel cold sweat running down his neck despite the fire. Geoffrey finally leaned back in his chair, placing his wooden cup on the table with a slow motion. He looked to his brothers, then to his men who were growing uncomfortable. Lirael, who had been quietly seated like a shadow in the corner, finally spoke. Her voice was gentle, yet there was an undeniable firmness in it. "We left that world long ago. Now we want only to live quietly with our family." Geoffrey gave a thin smile though his gaze remained sharp. "Of course. That's a wise choice." He glanced at the plates and bowls left on the table. "You have been very kind to us. At least let us help clear this up as thanks." Lirael refused, but they persisted. Geoffrey, Reynard, William, and one of their men went to the kitchen carrying wooden bowls and smeared knives. Meanwhile, the other four stayed in the main room, talking with Thalion about his hunt.

  In the kitchen, the calm was anything but peaceful—sharp tension hung in the air like a knife ready to fall. The candlelight cast long shadows along the wooden walls, moving in time with tongues of flame from the hearth that smelled of burning wood and melting fat. William, the first to enter, felt a chill bite his skin though the fire burned. They began to fake cleaning the utensils. William scrubbed the inside of a bowl with a coarse cloth, but his eyes were not on the task; they kept flicking to the cabinet where Thalric's weapons and tools might be stored. From the corner of his eye he could see Reynard swallowing hard, his hand gripping his knife's hilt tighter than necessary. "Are we really going to rob them?" one of the men whispered, doubt in his tone and his face a little pale in the dim candlelight. William breathed out slowly, trying to steady himself. Earlier he'd panicked when first seeing Thalric up close—the man's gaze was sharp, like an old wolf who'd survived many battlefields. But now he knew they had to proceed. "There are eight of us; it's just the two of them," he said low and firm. "Besides, me, Reynard, and Geoffrey aren't amateurs. We know how to fight." Reynard bit his lip, still uneasy. "You sure? That man is a former soldier. And the woman"—he glanced toward the door to the main room—"she's an elf. You know elves can use magic. This could get complicated." William stared at him. "Look around. Do you see any weapons she could use? Her sword isn't at her waist. This house doesn't feel like a warrior's home. They've lived peacefully for a long time—that's their weakness." The man who had spoken earlier remained nervous. "Still... something feels wrong. I don't like this." Geoffrey, who had been quiet until then, set his bowl down a little too hard on the table, the wooden clatter echoing through the small room. He looked at each of them; his expression was unreadable in the low light. "Enough. We do it as planned. Don't make a scene. When the time comes, move fast and make sure they have no chance to fight back." They fell silent again, the only sound the crackle of the hearth. William nodded and pretended to keep scrubbing the wooden bowl, but his hand was steadier now. Outside the kitchen, faint laughter floated from the main room—Thalion telling the story of his hunt. But in the kitchen, something far more dangerous was taking shape.