The village had settled into routine, a place untouched by war, carrying none of the weight of rebellion or bloodshed. Arkanis had lived among its people for weeks now, adapting to a life that was quiet, steady, shaped by small responsibilities instead of grand battles. His hands had learned the patience of farming, the rhythm of working alongside others for a purpose that had nothing to do with survival.
But even in peace, something lingered beneath the surface.
At night, when the village quieted and the stars stretched endlessly above the fields, Arkanis found himself unsettled—awake longer than he should be, listening to the rustling of wind through trees, feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing against him. He had left the war behind, but war was not just a place. War was a state of mind, a presence that did not disappear simply because the battles had stopped.
One evening, as he walked through the marketplace, he noticed a stranger lingering near the baker's stall. The man was dressed like a traveler, his cloak dusted with the remnants of long journeys, his posture relaxed yet aware—too aware. Arkanis recognized the stance immediately. This was someone who had seen battle, who understood the weight of danger even in a place without it. Their eyes met briefly, but neither spoke. The stranger completed his purchase and moved on, disappearing into the quiet hum of the village streets.
The encounter stayed with Arkanis longer than it should have. That night, as he sat near the river, watching the water catch the reflection of moonlight, he heard approaching footsteps. The stranger stood behind him, waiting before finally speaking. "You left it behind," he said, his tone carrying neither judgment nor curiosity—only certainty. Arkanis exhaled, keeping his gaze on the river. "It doesn't belong here." The man stepped forward, settling onto the earth beside him. "That doesn't mean it won't find you again."
Arkanis considered the words carefully, weighing them against the silence that had followed him since he left his old life behind. War had a way of lingering, of pulling those who had known its weight back into its grasp, even when they sought escape. He had come here looking for something different, something beyond the shadows of his past. But maybe peace was never truly a destination—maybe it was something that had to be fought for in a different way.
The stranger studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "I have seen men like you before. Soldiers who walked away, believing they could forge new lives. Some manage it. Others find themselves returning, not because they want war, but because they don't know how to exist without it."
Arkanis clenched his jaw. "That's not me."
The stranger smirked slightly. "Maybe not yet."
A breeze carried across the water, lifting strands of Arkanis's hair. He turned his gaze back to the rippling surface, his reflection distorted, unfamiliar.
"I don't want to go back."
The stranger rose to his feet, adjusting the pack slung across his shoulder. "Then don't."
Arkanis stared at the river long after the man had gone, feeling the weight of the past pressing against his mind like an unspoken whisper.
Could he truly remain here? Could he truly live beyond war?
Or was something inevitable waiting for him just beyond the horizon?