The day began with the usual rhythm: the smell of oat porridge in the kitchen, the soft warmth of burning firewood, my mother already up, and Lina still curled under the furs.
We spoke little.By now, my parents no longer questioned my daily walks.I continued my quiet routine — walking, observing, absorbing.
But today, my focus was different.
I had already walked through the fields, visited the workshops, and breathed in the sharp scents of the tanners.Now, I wanted to observe the people.The true heart of Eberholm.
The village pulsed around its small central square — a wide open space of packed earth, surrounded by houses made of clay and timber.
In the center stood the water well, encircled by an improvised ring of stones, always with someone pulling buckets or washing baskets.
It wasn't an official market day — in fact, Eberholm barely knew the concept of a market as I remembered it from my previous life.Yet each morning, villagers gathered here for small trades and exchanges.
Everyone knew exactly what each family produced.There was no coin.Everything operated on direct barter or future harvest promises.
As I left the house and made my way toward the square, I greeted a few familiar faces.
— Good morning, Torren — said Garet, carrying a heavy sack of grain on his shoulder.
— Good morning, Mr. Garet.
A bit further, I passed Lysa, the seamstress's daughter, balancing a basket full of folded fabrics.
— Good morning, Torren — she said with a gentle smile.
— Good morning, Lysa.
With each greeting, I noticed their glances lingered a little longer than usual.As if quietly surprised.
A few steps ahead, I caught whispered words exchanged between two men leaning against a stack of firewood.
— Strange... the boy seems different lately.
— Yeah. He even looks more... respectful.He used to be quite careless, never paid much attention to anything.
I continued walking as if I hadn't heard them.But their words echoed briefly in my mind.
It makes sense they'd think that... after all, I'm not exactly a child anymore.My mind has always been grown, even before this place.Being respectful isn't something new for me — I've always been that way in my previous life. This is simply returning to my nature.
The village was the same.But I… I was no longer who I once was.
As I reached the square, I recognized several familiar faces trading goods.
— Good morning, Torren! — called Brenor, one of the elder farmers, nodding as he carried a basket of carrots.
— Good morning, Mr. Brenor — I replied with a smile.
Nearby, Lady Lysa, the seamstress, was carefully arranging several rolls of fabric on a makeshift bench.
— Torren, dear — she greeted me in her always gentle voice.
— Good morning, Lady Lysa. The fabrics look beautiful today.
— Ah… if the weather stays clear, I may be able to dye a few more before winter — she said, proud of her work.
I moved closer to the well, where small groups calmly bartered.
— Two wheels of cheese for one piece of salted meat — offered a butcher with a deep voice.
— Three loaves for a basket of eggs! — bargained a short woman with a nearby farmer.
There were no heated arguments.Everyone knew who produced what, and trust carried every trade.
It was… organic.
Simple.
And efficient — in its own primitive way.
Under the large tree in the square, I spotted old Yorn, the village's unofficial leader.
An aged man, his skin marked by time, his eyes always sharp as if seeing further than most.In front of him, set upon a small log, was a polished wooden board.Hand-carved pieces occupied its squares — figures representing kings, generals, nobles, and common soldiers.
The game immediately caught my attention.
It wasn't something I had seen elsewhere in the village.The other villagers barely seemed to notice it, as if it were nothing more than a decoration in Yorn's hands.
But Yorn caught my curious gaze.
— Never seen a Rekal before, Torren? — he asked in his calm tone.
— No, sir Yorn — I admitted. — It doesn't seem common around here.
He offered a faint smile, one that hinted at unspoken knowledge.
— It's not. Few here would give it much thought.It's an old game.It requires patience, vision, and a certain understanding of human nature.Kings protect, generals command, nobles negotiate, soldiers execute.
I studied the board more closely.Its structure reminded me vaguely of military strategy games from my previous life, though with its own rules and a class-based hierarchy.
There's a social and political weight in this board.Even here, far from the centers of power, the logic of authority repeats itself.
Yorn calmly moved one piece, reorganizing the lines.
— If you ever wish to learn, I'd be happy to teach you — he said naturally, without any pressure.
— I'd like that, sir Yorn — I replied. — It seems… intriguing.
He simply nodded, turning his attention back to the board, as though seeing more than just carved pieces.
Meanwhile, my eyes wandered instinctively across the square.
That's when I saw her again — discreetly.
Laris.
She stood beside her mother, carefully folding colorful fabrics with precision unusual for a child her age.The other children played noisily near the well, chasing loose chickens and screaming in laughter.But not her.
Laris remained focused, as if her mind was always one step ahead.
For a brief moment, our eyes met.
She simply nodded politely, then returned to her task.
I nodded back.
No words were exchanged.
Yet even that small gesture felt significant.
The scent of the square was a rich mosaic:freshly baked bread, newly harvested vegetables, wood smoke, raw wool, cured leather, and the soft aroma of earth.
Dogs lazily stretched in the shade.Children chased rolling straw wheels across the dirt.Women laughed together, sewing or sorting herbs and roots into small piles.
Life flowed.
The village was alive.
And I continued absorbing every small detail.
They've sustained themselves this way for generations…There's so much to learn simply by watching how things work.Perhaps one day I'll offer something — perhaps not. For now, I simply observe.
Each piece of this village slowly fit together inside my growing understanding.