It's been a week since my training ended.
Seven days without swinging a sword at dawn.
Without hearing Varric bark corrections over my shoulder.
Without mud under my nails or bruises on my ribs.
Without aching feet or the taste of sweat on my tongue.
At first, I thought I'd miss it.
But… I don't.
Not really.
Because now I get to live the kind of days I used to think only belonged to normal people.
The kind I watched from inside the rundown apartment of my old world.
Or the kind I imagined when I couldn't sleep in that cold cage.
Here in Willowmere, the days begin with the soft clang of pots and the echoes of morning chatter.
The air always smells faintly of dew and bread. Sometimes sweetberries, when Lina's left them by the windowsill.
I help chop wood.
I carry baskets for the old farmer who has a bad leg.
I chase the younger kids when they play heroes and monsters and always let them win, even when they try to tackle me.
Sometimes, I catch myself smiling without realizing it.
And when the sun starts to fall, I sit by the river with my feet in the water, hands resting on my knees, and breathe.
The flame inside me is quiet now.
Not dim.
Just content.
It hums like a heart at rest.
Even without Varric, I still train on my own.
I go through my sword forms behind the house, slow and steady.
I practice aura control in the early light, stretching it from my hands like sunlight off water.
Some days, I light a fire in my palm and just watch it dance until it fades on its own.
Rennan watches sometimes from the porch with a mug in hand. He doesn't say anything. Just nods.
Lina always leaves more food when I train harder.
She says nothing either—but I see the second loaf, the extra stew.
That's how she speaks love. In quiet ways.
This life… feels full.
I know peace doesn't last.
But right now, I let myself believe in it.
Just for a little while.
. . .
The next morning, I wake up to voices.
Not the usual quiet chatter or kids arguing over who gets the last honeycake.
Loud ones.
Urgent.
I sit up in bed and glance at the window.
Something's wrong.
I throw on my tunic, strap the old dagger to my belt out of instinct, and hurry to the window.
There's a crowd forming near the village gate.
Dozens of villagers—all turned toward something outside.
I can't see what.
I run out the door, heart climbing up my throat.
Each step brings the noise into focus—shouts, metal boots clanking, sharp commands.
Then I see them.
Soldiers.
Their armor gleams in the morning sun. Their tabards—grey with a crest I almost forgot—flicker in the wind.
But I know that bear shaped mark.
My feet stop moving.
My breath catches.
That's the same crest the men wore in Ferrosum.
That cursed place of smoke and ash.
My vision narrows.
My stomach twists.
I feel like throwing up.
I take a step back, heart thundering in my ears.
Not again.
Not here.
Behind me, I hear footsteps. A hand touches my shoulder.
Lina.
"Albus?" she asks. "What's wrong?"
I can't speak. My eyes stay locked on the soldiers.
I can feel my aura flickering. Unstable. Fear pushing it too high.
Rennan appears beside her, concern growing in his face.
But I barely hear them.
One of the soldiers steps forward.
He's taller than the rest. Broad. Scar along his jaw.
He raises his voice.
"We're looking for a runaway," he announces. "May have come from the south, sometime in the past few years. Anyone suspicious passed through?"
The villagers murmur. Heads shake. A few shrugs.
I edge toward the corner of a nearby building, heart racing, breath tight.
One of the villagers calls out:
"No strangers here. Just farmland and good folk."
Another adds, "No new faces since the spring festival—and that was just a merchant."
The lead soldier narrows his eyes. "Still. We'll need to search the area."
That's when I panic.
I turn to run.
But Lina's hand grabs mine, firm and gentle all at once.
Her eyes meet mine and in a heartbeat, she understands.
Then she looks at Rennan.
He nods.
And they lead me away, fast but calm, ducking behind the cottages, past the chicken pens, toward the back of our house.
Rennan lifts the wooden hatch behind the well.
The crawlspace under the house.
"I'll block the door after," he says.
"Stay quiet," Lina whispers.
I nod, sliding down into the darkness, the cool earth wrapping around me like old memories.
Please, I whisper inside my head. Don't let them find me.
It's damp beneath the house.
The crawlspace smells of old soil and cedar.
Tiny roots hang like fingers from the planks above, brushing my hair whenever I shift too much.
Dust clings to my skin. The wooden beams creak gently with every step taken overhead.
My breath is slow.
Measured.
I focus on keeping it quiet.
Every so often, boots stomp across the porch.
Voices.
Soldiers.
I can't make out their words anymore, just the weight of them—deep, firm, intrusive.
They're walking close now. Checking every doorway. Every shed.
At one point, I hear a loud knock, and Rennan's voice answers from directly above me. Calm. Steady.
"This is our home. You won't find anything here."
Then silence.
Then retreating footsteps.
I don't know how long I stay down there.
Minutes stretch like hours.
Every sound is a warning. Every creak is a threat.
Eventually, there's nothing left.
Only birds again.
And the wind.
A few quiet voices speak near the gate, and then hooves crunch gravel.
Gone.
The soldiers are gone.
Still, I wait until I hear Lina's voice.
"It's safe now."
Rennan lifts the hatch slowly.
Light pours in.
I blink up at their silhouettes—Lina crouching, arms open. Rennan standing behind her like a wall.
I climb out with shaking limbs.
I collapse into Lina's arms before I can stop myself.
They take me back inside without saying anything.
We sit around the fire, the embers from breakfast still glowing faintly.
They wait for me to speak first.
But it takes time.
The fear still lingers behind my ribs.
The guilt.
I stare into the flames, lips pressed tight.
And then—
"I think they were looking for me," I say quietly.
Lina's fingers twitch on her lap. Rennan's brow furrows, but neither interrupts.
"I recognized their armor. I saw it before… in Ferrosum."
I look at both of them.
And finally, for the first time since I arrived in Willowmere…
I tell them everything.
From the very beginning.
The cage.
The chains.
The ash-covered fields.
The mines.
Elaria.
Her voice.
Her hands.
Her death.
Every word feels like I'm ripping open a seam stitched too tight for too long.
I speak slowly, sometimes stopping to breathe through the tremors in my voice.
Sometimes I can't look at them at all.
I stare at the fire.
At the floor.
At my hands.
I tell them about the nights I cried myself to sleep, even here.
The nightmares. The magic. The flame.
I even tell them I wasn't born in this world.
That I remember another one.
With screens instead of scrolls. Cars instead of carriages. A name I don't even say aloud anymore.
I tell them everything.
And when I'm finished…
There's silence.
Long and thick.
I'm too scared to lift my head.
Then I feel it.
Lina's arms.
She pulls me in, and I hear her voice—soft, cracking:
"You poor, brave boy…"
Rennan wraps an arm around both of us.
He doesn't speak at first. But I feel his hand on the back of my head.
They don't ask questions.
They don't demand proof.
They just… hold me.
Like I'm not cursed.
Like I'm not broken.
Like I'm not a mistake.
When I finally pull away, wiping my face with my sleeve, I speak again:
"I should leave."
They both look at me in surprise.
"I can't risk dragging the village into this," I say. "If they're looking for me, they might come back. With more men. With worse."
Lina opens her mouth, but I stop her.
"I've already decided. I have to go. But… I'll come back. I promise."
Her eyes well with tears again, but she nods slowly.
Rennan swallows hard. "You don't have to do this alone, Albus."
"I know," I say. "But I think… it's time I learned what's beyond this place. And if anyone else comes looking, I don't want Willowmere to be in their path."
They're quiet for a while.
Then they both nod.
And just like that, they begin preparing.
Rennan talks to the village leader.
Lina gathers supplies: dried meat, herbs, clean clothes, a new satchel.
That night, they help me pack.
And I sit at the edge of my bed, staring at the night sky out of the window.
Not the same boy who came here.
Not anymore.
. . .
The next morning, the sun rises like it always does.
Soft. Gentle. Gold spilling across rooftops.
But the village feels different.
Heavier.
Word spreads faster than I thought it would.
I don't even have to say anything at first.
People can tell just by the way I carry myself now.
The way my satchel is packed.
The way Lina clings to my arm just a little tighter than usual as we walk down the main road.
Eyes follow us.
Some in confusion.
Some in knowing silence.
I reach the well near the center of the village and climb up to stand on its stone edge.
The same place Varric once sat when I first asked him what came next.
Now… I'm the one with answers.
Even if they're hard.
Even if they hurt.
"I'm leaving," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The crowd stiffens. Murmurs ripple.
"I've decided it's time I find out what else is out there. What lies beyond Willowmere."
I scan the faces.
The baker's daughter clutches her apron.
Nella stares at me with wide eyes.
The old woman who knits near the porch each day blinks, already teary.
I take a breath.
"But I'll come back. I promise. One day."
That promise doesn't stop the sadness.
But it softens it.
A few villagers nod.
Others lower their heads.
But no one protests.
They understand.
Even if they don't want to.
Even if I don't want to.
The village leader approaches.
"We'll miss you, boy," he says. "You brought life back into this place."
I rub the back of my neck, embarrassed. "It was already alive. I just… joined it."
He chuckles.
"Well," Erdric says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, "you're still one of us. That doesn't change."
He looks toward the far road leading east, where the horizon bends low beyond the tree line.
"There's a merchant caravan due in two days. They stop here for trade before heading to Oakhart."
I nod. "I'll go with them."
"Smart," he says. "You'll have cover. Less attention."
The crowd begins to shift into motion again—soft conversation, slow footsteps. But everyone still lingers nearby.
No one wants to walk away first.
The rest of the day moves slower than usual.
I visit the river one last time.
Stand under the tree where I trained with Varric.
Practice one last fire conjure behind the house—just a small flicker. A goodbye.
When I pass through the village square again, small gifts find their way into my hands.
A pouch of dried fruit from the baker.
A knitted scarf, green and brown, from the old woman.
A leather bracelet from the blacksmith's son—rough, but heartfelt.
"Something to remember us by," he says, eyes cast downward.
Each one I tuck carefully into my satchel.
They aren't just gifts.
They're pieces of home.
That evening, we gather in front of my cottage.
Lina has been quiet most of the day.
Not cold. Just… trying not to fall apart.
She finally speaks when the sky is dark and the stars blink overhead.
"You've always been strong, Albus," she says.
"But don't forget to be kind to yourself, too. Not everything out there needs to be a fight."
I nod.
"I won't forget."
She reaches up to fix my collar, but her hand lingers.
Then she pulls me in, holding me so tight I can barely breathe.
"Come back to us," she whispers.
"I will."
Rennan hands me a folded piece of parchment.
"Map of the roads east," he says. "Oakhart is bigger than Willowmere, but still friendly. You'll find good people there."
I open it slowly. His handwriting marks a trail of ink between villages, rivers, and roads.
"Thank you," I say.
He pulls me in next.
One strong arm. One quiet squeeze.
He doesn't say "goodbye."
Just, "We'll be waiting."
And so… I wait too.
Two more nights.
For the caravan.
For the road.
For the beginning of what's next.
But even as the journey draws closer, the weight in my chest stays.
The quiet ache of leaving something behind…
That finally felt like home.