The moon hung low, a pale disc veiled behind drifting clouds. The village of Aeron slept beneath its light, blissfully unaware of what approached through the trees.
Kaen Ardyn crouched behind a low wooden fence, watching the eastern path like a hawk. His hands were wrapped in cloth to hide the blisters forming from long hours of secret training. In his grip was Ironfang, the dulled training sword he'd unearthed days ago.
He knew what was coming. He remembered it too vividly—the fire, the screams, the scent of charred wood and flesh. He had watched his mother burn, his father gutted like a hog while trying to fight back with a pitchfork. Kaen had survived only because he had been dragged into the forest by Tarn, who died from his wounds an hour later.
Not this time.
He had told the village guards two days earlier, pretending he had overheard whispers from travelers or seen "signs" in the woods. It wasn't enough to prepare the village for war—but enough to raise an alert.
A sharp rustle came from the trees.
Kaen tensed. There.
The first bandit crept from the underbrush, a dagger in hand, his mouth twisted in a crooked grin. He was followed by five others—short swords, clubs, and torches in hand.
Kaen stepped out into the open, alone.
The leader squinted at the boy. "Who the hell—?"
Kaen didn't wait.
He lunged forward and struck the man across the jaw with a two-handed swing. Ironfang cracked against bone, sending the man tumbling.
For a second, the others froze.
Then the chaos began.
The nearest attacker swung at Kaen with a rusted axe. Kaen dodged low, drove his shoulder into the man's gut, and rolled aside, slicing behind the knee. The man screamed and fell.
A club slammed into Kaen's side. Pain exploded in his ribs. He staggered—but pivoted and slashed upward, drawing blood across the third man's arm.
Too slow. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.
The fourth came at him with a torch, swinging wild. Kaen ducked under the flames, grabbed a fistful of dirt, and threw it in the man's eyes before jabbing Ironfang into his thigh.
"Bastard!" the fifth growled, grabbing Kaen by the collar and slamming him against a wall.
Kaen choked, vision spinning. He gripped his blade tighter, elbowed the man in the throat, and scrambled backward.
But his body wasn't the same as it had been at age 29. His limbs ached. His breath came ragged. The old instincts clashed with new weakness.
The sixth man, the largest, advanced with a curved sword.
"Should've stayed in bed, boy."
Kaen braced himself—
—but then the night cracked with the blare of a war horn.
From the west gate, the village guard poured in—ten men with shields and spears, roaring as they charged.
The bandits turned too late.
Steel met steel. Men screamed. Two were slain outright. The others scattered into the woods.
Kaen collapsed against the wall, panting. His side throbbed. Blood dripped from a gash on his brow.
But he had done it.
He had changed fate.
From the shadows, villagers emerged—shocked, confused. Mothers clutched their children. Elders whispered prayers.
"Was that Kaen Ardyn?" someone asked.
"The baker's boy?"
"He… he stood alone…"
Kaen's head lolled back. His vision dimmed.
Before he passed out, he allowed himself one small, pained smile.
One life saved is still a victory.