Chapter 22 - The Taste of Freedom
Taltempla became little more than a blur in his memory. The city’s gates were scarcely behind him before he was already longing for the quieter cadence of the road. He slipped through its bustling streets with his pack cinched tight across his shoulders and his hood drawn low, content to let the crowd wash around him without notice. Even familiar avenues felt louder than he remembered. Merchants barked their wares, dogs snapped at cartwheels, and laughter spilled from taverns until the noise felt like pressure against his chest. By the time he found a modest inn for a hot meal and a rented room, he was exhausted less from the day’s walk than from the constant clamour. Rising before the sun crested the rooftops, he slipped away while the city still drowsed. Each step toward the gates loosened something inside him, and when the stone walls finally sank into the morning haze, he felt lighter, as though the noise of Taltempla had been a weight he had not known he carried.
The road ahead unfurled like a promise he had been waiting years to claim. A ribbon of dirt that wound between field and forest, it stretched toward horizons he had never dared picture and invited him forward with every bend. He found himself pausing often, just to breathe and listen to the shifting quiet he had longed for in the city. His boots settled into a steady rhythm while his mind wandered between distances, maps, and the quiet satisfaction of simply moving onward. Sometimes his hand drifted toward the small pouch at his belt, brushing against Serelune’s sketchbook tucked safely away, as if touching it was proof of his becoming. “I’m doing it,” he thought with a sudden, startled thrill. “I’m actually doing it.”
Hunger pressed him often, sharper than expected, and he learned quickly to ration with care. Bread and cheese at the roadside, berries gathered with fingers stained purple. At night, he cleared a circle of earth, coaxed a flame from fallen branches, and let the fire hold the dark at bay while he sharpened his daggers. Steel caught the glow of embers, sparks glancing off his hands. In quiet moments he wondered if Iris had felt the same on her own journey. Did she wrestle with this strange mix of fear and freedom, choosing to walk into uncertainty with nothing but her own wit and will?
The smallest details etched themselves into his thoughts. Wind sweeping through tall grass. A hawk crying into the sky until the sound faded to nothing. Stars burning clearer without Selathryn’s canopy overhead. Each step felt paradoxical, as though he was shedding the grove that raised him while gathering fragments of the wider world at the same time. Freedom was raw and unsteady. It left him vulnerable, yet it thrilled him, and every breath seemed charged with its presence.
By the third day the trail bent through scattered hamlets and into the sweep of farm country. Golden fields rippled in the sun, ivy climbed fences in tangled lines, and children peeked at him from behind posts with round eyes. Their murmurs carried on the wind, quick and shy, but they waved back when he raised his hand. For a moment warmth stirred in him, a small reminder of what safety looked like, and how precious it could be.
It was not long before warmth gave way to unease. Whispers moved through the fields, low and quick. Farmers traded stories with glances toward the wooded borders. Wagons had disappeared, travellers were missing, and livestock vanished overnight. The tales were spoken with the brittle urgency of people afraid to linger too long on their own fears.
He slowed as the trail narrowed into a village no larger than a dozen homes gathered close around a well. The place looked fragile, as though one harsh storm could scatter it to dust. Tired faces turned toward him, worn down by something more than labour. A few returned his polite greeting, but most glanced away, unwilling to risk trust on strangers. Even in fragments of their speech the same word surfaced again and again, carrying weight every time it was spoken. Bandits.
That evening, as the sky deepened into violet and the scent of tilled fields hung in the air, he sat on the rim of the well and let his thoughts circle. Why stay? He had no ties here and no obligation. Nothing bound him to this place except the road beneath his feet, and he could walk on if he chose. “It isn’t my responsibility,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair. Yet his other hand found the leather grips of his daggers, thumb pressing the familiar texture until his resolve sharpened with it. His training whispered in his muscles. Corvellen had once called it instinct, and it would not let him pass blind. He was a scout. A protector. Turning his back on danger would be denial of everything he had been taught to be.
But it was not only duty that anchored him. The deeper ache still throbbed, the need to prove himself. To Selathryn. To Iris. To the shadowed image of himself that doubted his own strength. If he faltered here, what right did he have to call himself an adventurer? Courage had to begin somewhere. Perhaps it began with this choice. The thought lingered heavily as stars blossomed in the sky. His face tilted upward, his voice no more than a whisper. “What would you have done, Serelune? Corvellen?” The silence offered nothing but its familiar patience. Still, answers were not always spoken.
He rose from the well and brushed the dust from his cloak. Though the night gave no answer, his own resolve had taken shape. If bandits shadowed these roads, he needed to do more than sharpen daggers and whisper doubts to the stars. He needed to face them. With that thought steady in his chest, he turned toward the small circle of houses. Somewhere in this fragile village there would be an elder, someone who carried the burden of its troubles. Elarion set his steps in that direction, ready to listen, ready to offer what aid he could. Perhaps this was where his path truly began.
The elder’s home was the largest in the village, though that was not saying much. Its roof sagged slightly under years of storms, and the walls bore the marks of hurried repairs. Inside, a single lantern cast a warm, wavering glow over shelves of old ledgers and jars of herbs. The elder, an elf with hair long turned silver, listened as Elarion asked his questions, nodding gravely with each answer.
“They come at night,” the elder said. “Never more than five or six, but that is enough. They take what they want and vanish back into the woods before we can rally ourselves. We are farmers, not fighters.” His voice wavered with shame, though there was no need.
Elarion leaned forward slightly, hands clasped before him. “Do you know where they are camped?”
“North,” the elder replied, pointing with a trembling hand. “Half a day’s walk along the ridge, near the old quarry. That is where the tracks lead. We dare not follow them.”
Elarion considered this, piecing together the terrain in his mind. The quarry would give the bandits cover, a place to retreat to quickly if they were pursued. Typical. His lips quirked into the faintest smile; this was familiar ground for him, the kind of problem a scout was made to solve. “If I deal with them,” Elarion said, careful not to let his voice sound too heavy, “would you be able to spare me a roof for the night? Just a place to sleep.”
The elder’s eyes widened. “If you truly can… lad, you will have more than a roof. We will share what food we can. A warm meal. Rations for the road. It is not much, but—”
Elarion shook his head, lifting a hand. “That’s more than enough. You don’t need to worry about paying me in coins or riches. I was a scout in my grove for many years. Protecting people from nuisances like this was our duty. It feels wrong to ignore it now.” His voice softened. “Besides, if I mean to call myself an adventurer, I ought to start somewhere.”
The elder studied him in silence for a long moment, the lantern’s glow flickering across his weathered face. Then he placed a hand over Elarion’s arm and squeezed. “May Rillifane guide your steps, young one. We have prayed for help for weeks now. Perhaps you were sent to answer.”
Elarion swallowed the lump in his throat and inclined his head. “I’ll do what I can.”
The forest swallowed him whole as he slipped into wolf form. The familiar rush coursed through him, body reshaping, senses sharpening until the night became something altogether new. The world was no longer shadow and darkness. Every rustle of the underbrush, every shift of the wind carried meaning. He could smell the damp bark of trees, the musk of deer bedding down nearby, and further still… smoke. Stale ale. Grease and sweat.
The bandits.
He moved low to the ground, paws brushing against damp leaves, each step soundless save for the faint crunch that even his ears struggled to catch. From this shape, the world unfolded in ways he could never fully capture as a man. Their campfire was a beacon long before his eyes saw its glow. He scented the acrid tang of burning pine, the greasy fat of charred meat, the sourness of unwashed bodies. His ears picked out their laughter. Thick, drunken, careless.
Creeping closer, he lay low in the brush and studied. There were six of them, maybe seven. Two already nodding where they sat, tankards slipping from their hands. Another leaned against a cart laden with sacks that smelled of grain and vegetables, likely stolen from the villagers. Their weapons were scattered carelessly nearby, dulled and rusting, but still deadly in desperate hands.
He let his gaze travel over the camp, mapping it silently the way he always did on patrol. Fire in the centre. Wagons pulled in a half-circle for cover. Two half-asleep sentries, more interested in their dice than in the woods around them. Beyond that, darkness. Their perimeter was laughable, no real discipline or system.
His tail flicked once as he filed it all away. He could see the rhythm of their movement, the rise and fall of their voices, the way some disappeared into tents while others lingered near the fire. This was no army. No trained force. They were nothing but opportunists drunk on stolen food and cheap ale. And that would be their undoing.
He eased back, slow as shadow, until the voices dulled and the smoke thinned to nothing. Only when the trees once again smelled only of pine and moss did he shift back, kneeling in the dark forest floor, chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. He already had the plan in mind. Strike before dawn, when the fire burned low and their heads were heavy with sleep. Quick, precise, without mercy.
By the time Elarion padded back into the village, dawn was still hours away. The streets were silent save for the creak of shutters in the breeze and the faint bark of a dog somewhere down the lane. He slipped into his human form near the elder’s house, brushing damp leaves from his cloak before knocking softly on the door.
The elder answered quickly, as though he hadn’t slept at all. His lined face was heavy with worry, but his eyes sharpened when he saw Elarion standing there.
“Well?”
“They’re close,” Elarion said. He stepped inside, lowering his voice. “North, less than an hour’s walk. Six of them, maybe seven. They’ve pulled their wagons into a half-circle and grown careless with their watch. I’ll strike before dawn, when they’re sluggish and the fire’s low.”
The elder let out a long breath, as if part of the weight already slid from his shoulders. “Then you saw them. You’re certain.”
“I’m certain,” Elarion replied, firm. “They’re nothing but drunkards and opportunists. Still dangerous, but undisciplined. I can handle them.”
The elder’s expression softened, his lips parting in a whisper of reverence. “Then may Rillifane’s blessing guide you.” He rested a hand on Elarion’s arm. “For tonight, you should rest. You’ll need strength come morning. I will rouse a few of the younger men to keep watch until dawn, in case the bandits come again before you strike. We are no fighters, but we will not leave our homes unwatched.”
Elarion inclined his head, warmth stirring faintly in his chest. The people here were afraid, yes, but not without dignity. He respected that. “Wake me before first light,” he said quietly. “I’ll be ready.”
The elder nodded and led him to a spare cot near the fire. Elarion unstrapped his pack, setting it down at his side before lowering himself onto the thin mattress. He lay on his back, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling. His mind replayed the bandits’ careless laughter, the way they sprawled about the fire as if no one could touch them.
Tomorrow, they would learn otherwise.
The night air was sharp in his lungs, but his pulse ran hotter than fire. Every muscle in his body thrummed with focus, with hunger, as he crept closer to the quarry camp. He could hear them before he saw them; heavy snores, the dull scrape of boots as one shifted in his sleep, the low crackle of a dying fire.
When his blades struck the first man, it was like slipping back into a language his body knew by instinct. A cut, a thrust, a hand muffling a startled breath, and then silence. He moved to the next, heart hammering, the world shrinking to the heat in his veins and the gleam of steel. Another down. Another.
He had fought before, but never like this. No commander whispering orders in his ear. No brother at his side to cover his back. Just him, choosing where to strike, when to move, how to weave between shadows. The bandits were clumsy, slow with drink and sleep, and he was quicksilver among them, his daggers painting arcs of silver through the dark.
The rush of it nearly made him laugh.
It was wrong, he knew. The work was brutal, bloody, necessary, and yet, for the first time, it felt like freedom. His lungs burned with each breath, his muscles sang with effort, and the thundering of his heart wasn’t just fear. It was exhilaration. The joy of moving as he pleased, of fighting for his own reasons. For strangers who would never know his siblings’ names, who would never bow to Selathryn’s rules.
Fun, whispered something dangerous in his chest. This is fun.
The fourth never had a chance to draw his weapon. The fifth only raised a shout before Elarion’s hand silenced him. The last two scrambled awake, fumbling for rusted swords, but panic made them sloppy. He met them head-on, swift and efficient, the clash of metal brief before both men fell to the dirt.
Breathing hard, he stilled. The quarry was silent but for the crackle of the fire. His chest rose and fell with the rush of exertion, his hands slick with blood. He stood there for a moment, daggers in hand, and admitted to himself he liked this feeling. The freedom. The rawness of fighting by his own design. No scouts beside him, no overseer tallying reports. Just him, the blades, and the knowledge that these people would not prey on anyone again.
He dragged in one slow breath, then another, shaking out his hands as though to rid them of the dangerous delight that lingered there. It was done. He gathered the bodies, dragging them to one side of the camp, then piled their weapons into a crude heap at another. His hands came away sticky, and he wiped them clean on the grass before dousing the fire until only embers hissed faintly in the mist.
By the time he reached the village, the sun was barely cresting the horizon. The elder met him at the well, and Elarion gave a simple nod. “It’s done. They won’t trouble you again.”
The elder’s shoulders sagged with relief. Elarion continued, “I’ll need some of your men to come with me. The camp’s not far. Your supplies are there, and their weapons too. They’re poor quality, but even a rusted blade is better than none. Keep them here in case others come.”
The elder nodded quickly and called out to several younger men, who scrambled to follow Elarion. Together, they returned to the quarry and recovered the stolen sacks and barrels, the villagers murmuring thanks as they lifted their goods. The weapons were gathered as well, bound in cloth and carried home as if they were treasure.
When the last of the goods was carried away and the quarry lay empty, Elarion lingered. His gaze drifted back to the heap of lifeless bodies, their faces slack, their breath long fled. He stood in silence for a moment, then bowed his head.
"Under Rillifane’s hand, all return. Flesh to earth. Breath to sky. Spirit to the Circle," he whispered, the words half-prayer, half-reminder.
He pressed two fingers briefly to his lips, then let out a soundless whistle that barely stirred the air. To the villagers, it was nothing. A breath, a sigh, a habit. But to the wild wolves of the forest, it was a call. A promise of a feast waiting at the edge of the quarry.
Elarion slung his pack over his shoulder and turned back toward the road. The night had been bloody, but he walked with lighter steps, the echo of freedom still pulsing in his veins.
The village square was lit with lanterns that evening, a handful of torches flickering against the dark. It was no grand feast, but the tables were laden with bread, roasted vegetables, and stew thick with the meat the bandits had left behind. Mugs of ale were passed from hand to hand, and laughter — thin at first, then growing stronger — filled the air.
Elarion sat among them, a little stiff at first, but the villagers drew him in quickly. They wanted to hear about Selathryn, about his years as a scout. Lythari were rare, and their curiosity showed in every question. He answered gladly, telling them about the forest trails, the white arches, the calls of the wild. His voice grew softer when he spoke of Nymeris and Ayda, but the villagers listened with respect, never pressing too hard.
The children crowded him most of all. Their eyes wide, they tugged at his sleeves, saying they wanted to grow strong like him, to one day protect their village too. Elarion chuckled and patted their heads, the gesture awkward but kind. “Only if you promise to keep yourselves safe first,” he said. “And remember, there are more ways to protect your home than swinging a sword. Knowledge, skills, new ideas… These can keep you safe too. Sometimes sharper than any blade.”
The elder, watching nearby, smiled at that. His eyes shone with gratitude for the young man who had brought them peace, if only for a time. “You’ll stay another night,” he said, more statement than question. “You’ve earned a rest before the road calls you again.”
Elarion started to protest, then relented with a small nod. Truthfully, he was glad for it. His body ached pleasantly, his stomach was full, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt accomplished. Free. That night, he slept deeply, dreamless and content, as though the weight of old shadows had eased just a little.
The next morning dawned pale and cool. The elder met him at the well, pressing a wrapped parcel into his hands. “Breakfast, and something for the road,” he said simply. Elarion thanked him, shouldered his pack, and exchanged farewells with the villagers who had gathered to see him off.
By midday, he reached a fork in the road and let his steps slow. The map opened in his hands, its lines carrying more weight than parchment should. One path led east, toward Leuthilspar. Toward Iris. The thought of her pulled at him so sharply it almost hurt to breathe. The other turned north, leading to Ruith, a place he had only wondered about until now. The villagers had spoken of it in half‑admiring tones, a city of harder lives and harsher edges, without the polish of the High Elves’ shining capital. Ruith held no certainty, only trial and grit, and the chance to find out what kind of man he could become.
He folded the map with care, fingers lingering as though he could press the ache in his chest flat with the paper. The choice pressed heavily on him. It was not Corvellen’s will. It was not Serelune’s. It was not even Iris’s. It was his own. Yet that truth brought little ease, for his heart strained toward her, but reunion would have to wait. Carrying that weight, Elarion drew a slow breath and set his face north. His steps moved toward Ruith, toward uncertainty, toward the proving ground he had sought. For once, they carried him for himself.