The village was quiet, untouched by war. It did not carry the weight of battles won or lost—it simply existed, steady and unburdened.
Arkanis walked through the streets, his steps slow, deliberate. The people here did not recognize him, did not whisper his name the way they had in the rebellion. He was no war hero, no leader, no savior.
He was just a traveler.
And for the first time in years, that was enough.
The First Days
The mornings here were different. They did not begin with orders, strategy meetings, the tightening of armor.
They began with the scent of fresh bread from the baker's stall, the sound of water streaming through the river, the laughter of children chasing each other through the fields.
Arkanis had never lived like this—not really. Even before the rebellion, before the war, his life had always been shaped by conflict, by expectation.
And now?
There was nothing guiding him except the road ahead.
He found himself returning to the marketplace each morning, watching the way merchants bartered, farmers unloaded fresh produce, tailors mended worn fabrics.
The rhythm of life here was simple, cyclical.
A man approached him one afternoon, an older villager with weathered hands and a knowing gaze. "You're not from around here," he said.
Arkanis nodded. "Just passing through."
The villager eyed him for a moment before nodding toward the fields. "If you plan to stay, we could use a hand with the harvest."
The offer surprised him.
For years, his hands had only known the weight of a blade, the tightening grip of war.
Now, someone was offering him something different.
A chance to build instead of destroy.
He hesitated for only a moment before answering.
"I'll help."
The Turning of Seasons
Days turned into weeks, and with them, Arkanis found himself settling into the quiet rhythm of the village.
He worked alongside the farmers, learned the trade of planting, harvesting, understanding the land in a way he never had before.
His muscles, once trained for combat, now ached with a different kind of labor—the steady pull of lifting, the strain of working beneath the sun, the satisfaction of seeing something grow instead of wither.
Elara's voice still lingered in his mind—"You carried this for all of us. Now, let it go."
And maybe, here in this small place, he finally was.
The villagers never asked about his past. They did not seek stories of battle, did not inquire about the scars that traced his arms like forgotten maps.
Here, he was just Arkanis.
A man working the fields.
A man learning how to live.
The Letter Never Sent
One evening, as autumn settled over the valley, Arkanis sat beneath the largest tree in the village, watching the orange glow of the setting sun.
He pulled a worn scrap of parchment from his pack, hesitated, then began to write.
Elara,
I don't know if I'll ever send this. Maybe I just need to write it. Maybe I just need to feel like I'm reaching out, even if my hands never deliver these words.
You were right. I was always carrying something I didn't know how to put down. War. Duty. The weight of every decision I ever made.
I think I finally understand what you meant.
The war is gone, but I am still here. And for the first time, I am learning how to just be.
If I ever return, it won't be because I have nowhere else to go. It will be because I choose to.
Take care of them. Take care of yourself.
Arkanis stared at the words for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he folded the parchment and tucked it away.
Maybe someday, he would send it.
Maybe someday, he would return.
But for now, he was here.
And that was enough.