When Valen finally stopped running, he found himself near the edge of the forest.Before him stretched vast plains — silent and empty, bathed in the pale light of dawn.
He couldn't move any further.Not just because of exhaustion, but because grief and guilt had wrapped themselves around his heart like chains.
Once again, his Blood Blade remained unchanged — dark and lifeless.No matter how far he went, sorrow always followed him.
He stood there for a long while, then forced himself forward, wandering aimlessly.He had no destination — only the dull ache of loss guiding his steps.
Days bled into each other. The sun rose and fell; the road never seemed to end.
Then one afternoon, he came across a merchant's wagon creaking along the dirt path.On it rode a middle-aged man and a young girl about Valen's age. Neither looked dangerous — only weary travelers of a harsh world.
The merchant raised a hand when he saw Valen's figure in the distance.
"You seem tired, young man. Are you all right?"
Valen didn't answer right away. His clothes, though torn and dust-covered, still carried the marks of noble tailoring — enough to spark suspicion.
The girl leaned forward curiously.
"Are you… a noble, sir? If you'd like, we can take you back to your estate."
Her voice was kind, but cautious.
Valen hesitated before replying.
"My name is Valen de Noir. I am the son of Auren de Noir… and I do not wish to return to my estate. Thank you for your offer."
The merchant's eyes widened.The House of Noir — one of the great names of the North.
He jumped down from the wagon and bowed deeply.
"My lord! Forgive our unseemly behavior. Please, allow us to make up for our mistake — at least share a meal with us."
Valen shook his head gently.
"No… there's no need. Goodbye."
He turned and kept walking without looking back.
The merchant watched him disappear into the horizon, sighing.
"A noble boy, lost and angry… he'll come to his senses soon enough. Life out here isn't kind."
The girl said nothing. She only stared after Valen, trying to memorize his face — the quiet sorrow in his eyes.
You never know when a noble might cross your path again.
Valen walked on, his thoughts heavy.It hadn't been long since he left home, and already he had lost one of the few people who truly understood him.
He thought of Leon's mother — the kind woman who always smiled at them during training.
What will I say to her when I return?That her son died because he followed me? Because he believed in me?
A tear rolled down his cheek, vanishing into the dust of the road.
But he couldn't turn back now.If he did, every sacrifice — Leon's, his family's, his own pain — would be for nothing.
So he kept walking.Step by step.Into the endless plain.
Pig's Song
The noise around him grew louder with every step.
Carts creaked, merchants shouted, and the air buzzed with the chatter of hundreds.
Valen blinked, realizing where he was.
He had wandered all the way to Trade Town — one of the largest settlements under the rule of House Noir.
The familiar sight of stone streets and bustling stalls struck him like a memory from another life.
He straightened his posture and brushed the dirt from his cloak. There was still a long road ahead of him, but first, he needed to prepare — new clothes, a warm coat, and a place to rest.
Those were simple matters. Trade Town was still part of his family's territory, and he had visited here many times before.
No one would question him — not if he played his part well.
He walked through the bazaar, eyes scanning rows of merchants and tailors shouting over one another.
The air was thick with spice, smoke, and the faint metallic scent of coins.
Valen stopped at a stall selling clothes.
He picked out a plain shirt, a set of dark trousers, and a heavy winter coat — thick enough to withstand the cruel Noir winters.
After paying the merchant with silver coins, he disappeared into the crowd once again.
By the time the sun dipped behind the rooftops, he found himself standing before a familiar inn:
The Pig's Song.
A crooked sign hung over the entrance, its paint half-faded, its letters barely legible.
He pushed the door open.
The scent of ale and roasted meat filled the air. The room was warm, noisy, and full of travelers and mercenaries drinking away the night.
Behind the counter stood a large, bald man with a magnificent beard that seemed to have more pride than its owner.
Valen remembered him instantly — Igor, the innkeeper.
Back when he had come here with his father, Igor had treated him like a prince.
Now, he was just another face in the crowd — a 16-year-old boy in travel-worn clothes.
Valen approached the counter.
"I'd like to rent a room."
Igor didn't even look up from the glass he was polishing.
"Is that so? Then I assume you can pay for it… boy."
Valen said nothing. He simply placed two gold coins on the counter.
Igor's eyes widened. The smirk on his face vanished instantly.
"Ah! My apologies, young master — I mean, young traveler! Of course, we have a room for you. Number six, upstairs. You'll find it quite comfortable."
Valen took the key silently and walked upstairs.
The wooden steps creaked under his boots. Inside his room, there was nothing but a bed, a small window, and the faint smell of dust and ale.
He dropped his bag beside the bed, unbuckled his sword, and lay down.
Every muscle in his body screamed. A month of walking, fighting, and grief had left him hollow.
Sleep took him quickly.
But peace did not.
In his dreams, he saw his homeland — the fields of Noir blanketed in red.
He saw his siblings, their faces fading one by one.
He saw his father kneeling in blood, his mother's hand outstretched toward him.
And finally, he saw Leon — standing in the dark, smiling, before the shadows swallowed him whole.
Valen woke up gasping for air.
His chest heaved, his body drenched in sweat.
He sat up, gripping the sheets, eyes wide open.
The moonlight leaking through the window painted the room in pale silver.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Why does it hurt more when I sleep…?
The night said nothing.
Only the wind outside answered — cold and lonely,
just like him.
Valen couldn't sleep anymore.
After the dream he saw, he knew rest would not come tonight.
The first hints of dawn crept through the shutters — soft purple light bleeding across the walls.
He sighed. No point sitting here waiting for sleep that won't come.
Might as well go downstairs and drink until the sun chases the ghosts away.
The tavern was quiet. Only Gori, Igor's younger brother, moved among the tables, wiping away the remains of last night's laughter. A few mercenaries snored in their chairs, faces buried in their arms.
Valen took a seat at the bar and ordered a mug of beer. Then another. Then another.
He drank until the morning light climbed over the rooftops and poured through the window like a silent reminder of time's cruelty.
When he finally stood, his balance faltered. He caught the edge of the counter, chuckled under his breath. No matter.
For the first time in a long while, the weight in his chest felt lighter — not gone, but dulled by the burn of ale.
He went to the washroom, splashed cold water over his face, straightened his shirt, and tied his coat properly.
When he looked in the mirror, a tired boy stared back — not a noble, not a knight, just someone trying to stay standing.
He left the inn and stepped into the bustling morning.
Trade Town was already alive — merchants shouting, wagons creaking, life moving forward.
Valen took a breath, steadying himself.
Then he turned toward the Adventurer's Guild.
A new life starts with a single step, he thought.
So let it be this one.
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