The rain had not grown any kinder.

  It fell in steady sheets across the capital courtyard as the disgraced knight walked toward the gates, the coins still resting in his closed hand.

  Behind him, the captain’s voice rose again.

  “Remember this,” the man called loudly, making sure every soldier could hear.

  “You should be grateful.”

  The knight slowed.

  Not enough to stop.

  Just enough for the rain to slide down the scar across his cheek.

  “Most traitors don’t leave these walls alive.”

  A few soldiers chuckled nervously.

  The knight stopped.

  This time fully.

  Slowly, he turned his head.

  His eyes moved across the courtyard — across men he had fought beside, bled beside, bruised beside.

  Then they settled on the captain.

  His voice, when he spoke, was calm.

  Too calm.

  “You call this mercy?”

  The captain folded his arms.

  “I call it generosity.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then the knight gave a small nod.

  “Then allow me to return the favor.”

  The soldiers shifted uneasily.

  There was no anger in his voice.

  No shouting.

  Yet something about his words made the air feel colder.

  “One day,” he said quietly,

  “This kingdom will face a war it cannot lie its way out of.”

  The captain scoffed.

  “Is that a threat?”

  The knight shook his head.

  “No.”

  His gaze drifted toward the towering walls of the capital.

  “It is a memory.”

  The courtyard fell silent.

  “And when that day comes,” he continued,

  “Remember the men you cast aside.”

  His hand rested briefly on the sword at his side.

  “Because when your walls begin to burn…”

  His eyes returned to the captain.

  “…you will realize too te that the people who could have saved this kingdom…”

  He paused.

  “…were never the ones sitting on its throne.”

  No one ughed this time.

  The knight turned away again.

  Near the gate's archway stood an old street sweeper, pushing muddy rainwater away from the stone path.

  His back trembled with effort.

  The knight slowed as he approached.

  The old man quickly stepped aside.

  “Forgive me, sir,” the sweeper said, bowing his head slightly. “Just trying to keep the road clear.”

  The knight opened his hand and looked down at the coins resting in his palm.

  Then he pced them gently into the old man’s rough hands.

  The sweeper blinked in surprise.

  “Sir…?”

  “You’ve worked longer than most soldiers I know,” the knight said quietly.

  The old man stared at him for a moment.

  Rain dripped from the edge of the gate above them.

  Then the sweeper closed his hand around the coins.

  “If that is your kindness,” the old man said softly, “then allow an old man to offer something in return.”

  The knight paused.

  The sweeper gave a faint smile.

  “Life burns many things away,” he said.

  “Honor. Homes. Even the people we love.”

  He looked up at the scarred stranger.

  “But the fact that you can still see the work of an old fool like me…”

  He nodded slowly.

  “…means the fire hasn’t taken everything from you yet.”

  For the first time that day, the knight gave a small nod.

  Then he stepped forward.

  The gates opened slowly.

  Beyond them y rain, forest roads, and silence.

  The guards watched as he passed beyond the capital walls.

  None of them spoke.

  The forest swallowed the road not far beyond the city.

  Rain dripped through the dark branches.

  The knight walked until the stone road faded into mud and tangled roots.

  Then he stopped.

  For several moments, he stood there.

  Listening to the rain.

  Listening to the echo of the captain’s voice in his mind.

  “You should be grateful.”

  A strange sound escaped him.

  At first, it was quiet.

  A breath.

  Then it grew louder.

  A ugh.

  Low.

  Broken.

  Soon he was ughing openly beneath the trees, the sound echoing through the empty forest like something half-mad.

  “Grateful…” he muttered.

  The word twisted in his mouth.

  His ughter slowly faded.

  The silence that followed felt heavier than the rain.

  Then another voice surfaced in his thoughts.

  Not the captain’s.

  The old man at the gate.

  The fire hasn’t taken everything from you yet.

  The knight closed his eyes.

  Everything felt distant.

  The war.

  The capital.

  The lies.

  All of it suddenly felt small.

  Pointless.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “What a waste…” he whispered.

  The forest wind moved softly through the trees.

  For a long moment, he stood there — a broken knight beneath the rain.

  Then he finally spoke his own name.

  “Vael…”

  The word sounded unfamiliar now.

  As if it belonged to someone he used to be.

  His thoughts drifted further back.

  Beyond the war.

  Beyond the scars.

  To a time when the world had been smaller.

  Kinder.

  To a vilge surrounded by pine forests and quiet hills.

  A pce untouched by kings and their wars.

  A pce called Thornridge.

  Where a boy once ran through the fields without armor on his shoulders.

  And where a girl named Aerin ughed beneath the summer sky.

  Long before the ashes.

  Long before betrayal.

  Back when the world had not yet taken everything from him.