Ryden walked alone through the village. His steps were steady, his eyes sharp, taking in everything around him—the worn paths, the old homes, the way people peeked out of windows only to pull back the moment he looked their way.
This place didn't feel safe, but not because of danger. It felt heavy, closed off. Like the village itself didn't want him there.
He didn't take it personally.
"People like us have made a mess in places like this," he muttered to himself. "No wonder they're careful."
His first stop was the bakery. A young boy covered in flour opened the door. Ryden gave a calm smile and asked if he knew who was in charge of the village.
The boy didn't speak. He just pointed to the road behind Ryden, then slowly closed the door.
Next, Ryden walked past a man fixing a cart wheel. The man didn't stop working, even when Ryden greeted him.
"Looking for someone in charge," Ryden said. "Anyone help settle things around here?"
The man shrugged without looking up. "No one's in charge. We manage."
Ryden had heard that before. In places where no one wanted to say too much.
He didn't stop there.
At the village well, an older woman was washing carrots. The bucket rope got stuck, and Ryden gently helped pull it free.
She gave him a long look, unsure if he was trouble.
"I'm not here to cause problems," he said. "Just looking for someone people trust."
She kept working, but after a moment, she spoke.
"Eldric."
Ryden raised an eyebrow. "Is that a name or a title?"
"He's just an old man," she said. "Been here longer than anyone. People go to him when they don't know what to do. That's all."
"Where can I find him?"
She pointed toward the edge of the village. "Little house near the trees. Looks like it should've fallen down by now, but it hasn't."
"Thank you," Ryden said.
The woman didn't answer, just went back to her carrots.
As he walked through the village, Ryden heard more pieces. Quiet talk. Stories. A man said Eldric helped settle a fight last spring. A woman spoke of how he stopped a family from tearing each other apart. There were no rules written down, no leaders with loud voices. But when things got hard, they went to Eldric.
That told Ryden everything he needed to know.
By the time he reached the house, the sun was slipping low. The old home stood alone near a few trees. One side leaned slightly, and the walls were patched in spots with wood that didn't match. But the roof held. The windows glowed faintly with light.
Ryden leaned on a fence post and looked up at it.
"Doesn't look like much," he said. "But sometimes, the best walls are the ones still standing when everything else breaks."
He stayed there for a few quiet seconds, then turned and headed back to the well.
It was time to tell the others what he'd found.
.......
The village felt different at night.
Lanterns flickered on crooked posts. Warm lights glowed behind windows, casting soft shapes on the dirt roads. Chickens had gone quiet. Dogs barked less. But the people? The people were wide awake.
Inside the baker's home, three neighbors sat around a low table, sipping weak tea and talking in hushed tones.
"I saw the tall one, Ryden, near the well," said the baker's wife. "Didn't say much. Just helped with the rope and asked for Eldric."
"So?" asked the carpenter. "That's what they do. Make small talk, earn trust, then ask for gold or shelter. I don't like it."
"He didn't ask for anything," she replied. "Just helped and left."
At the same time, near the blacksmith's shed, a group of older men were sharing a bottle of something strong. One of them wiped his mouth and leaned back.
"Girl with the bow, what's her name—Merys?—came by the tannery," he said. "Polite enough, but sharp eyes. Like she was always looking for a weak spot."
"Adventurers always look like that," another man grunted. "Doesn't mean they're planning something."
A third man spat into the dirt. "All I know is, folks start disappearing when men like them stick around too long."
Not far from there, under a big tree in the middle of the village, a few younger villagers sat on crates, whispering.
"I thought the sword guy was cool," one said. "He didn't even flinch when Old Bren spat near his boots."
"He didn't punch Bren either," another laughed. "I'd have decked him."
"I don't trust them," a girl muttered. "Doesn't matter how they act. Outsiders only come here for something. They're not here to help."
From a nearby window, an old woman listened. Her hands were wrinkled, and she clutched a half-mended shirt in her lap. The thread dangled forgotten as she stared out at the dark path leading to Eldric's home.
"They're meeting with him tomorrow," she said softly, mostly to herself.
Her daughter, washing dishes behind her, looked over. "So?"
"I just hope he's careful," the old woman said. "Eldric's not as strong as he used to be. He trusts too easy."
The daughter chuckled. "Ma, you worry too much. He's dealt with worse."
Another neighbor who'd wandered in raised her cup. "Maybe we should be worrying less about Eldric…"
They all looked at her.
"…and more about the three strangers sleeping near our livestock."
There was a pause.
Then laughter.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't exactly warm. But it carried through the room, drifting into the quiet night like a tired exhale from people who'd lived long enough to laugh at their own fear.
But even as they chuckled, no one quite relaxed.
The adventurers were still strangers.
And strangers, no matter how polite, always brought change.
.............
The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows between the rows of trees in the family grove. The leaves rustled softly in the breeze, and the sweet scent of fruit blossoms filled the air.
Liam sat cross-legged beneath a tall tree, the grass cool beneath him. Birds chirped overhead, but he barely noticed. He was focused on the old book resting in his lap.
The cover was cracked, and the pages smelled like dust and time. He turned each page carefully, tracing the lines with his finger as he read.
He had found this book tucked away in one of his grandfather's old crates, marked "Codes & Rulings — North Borderline Edition."
It wasn't much, but it was all he had.
His eyes moved quickly across the faded words. Most of the laws were about land borders, stolen goods, or livestock fights—nothing surprising. But then he came across a sentence that made his chest tighten.
"Whosoever found closest to a dead body and with a weapon in hand having blood on it be convicted of the murder."
Liam froze.
He read it again.
Then again.
He shut the book with a loud thump and stared ahead, lips pressed in a tight line.
"That's not law," he said softly.
He stood up, book still in hand, and paced the grassy path between the trees. He turned and looked at the line of fruit trees, the land his family had worked for years. The land people bled for. Lived for.
And this—this was how the world decided guilt?
He opened the book again, tapping the line with one finger.
"No questions asked. No chance to explain. No truth, no reason… just a guess dressed up as justice."
He clenched his fists.
"Laws are supposed to be fair. They're supposed to protect the innocent. Not punish the unlucky."
His voice trembled—not from fear, but from anger. Real, quiet anger.
"This isn't justice," he said, setting the book down carefully on the grass. "This is a joke. And not even a clever one."
A breeze passed through the orchard, shaking the branches.
He looked up, eyes hard.
"One day," he muttered, "someone's going to fix this mess. Might as well be me."
"Sounds like you're planning something dark, old man."
Liam jumped at the voice. He looked up to see Merys leaning casually against the nearest tree, arms crossed, smirking.
"I'm five," Liam said flatly, closing the book with a thump.
"Sure you are," she replied. "But you talk like a grumpy librarian who's been alive since the war."
Harlan strolled up beside her. "What's the verdict, little judge? Found us guilty of something yet?"
Ryden followed, more quietly, but with a small smile. "Didn't expect to find you out here."
Liam dusted his tunic and stood up. "Didn't expect to be interrupted while reading about terrible laws."
"Terrible, huh?" Ryden asked, tilting his head.
"There's a line in here that says anyone found near a dead body, holding a bloody weapon, is automatically guilty." Liam held up the book. "Doesn't matter why. Doesn't matter what happened. Just—guilty."
Merys raised an eyebrow. "That's... not great."
"It's stupid," Liam said sharply. "Laws are supposed to find the truth, not make it up on the spot. This isn't law—it's a joke. A dangerous one."
The three adventurers looked at him. This time, there was no teasing.
But then Liam blinked and looked past them. "Wait... what are you doing here anyway?"
"We're looking for someone," Ryden said.
"Yeah? Who?"
"The village chief."
Liam blinked. "The chief?"
Merys nodded. "We were told he lives near here."
Liam glanced behind him, at the old creaky house at the top of the slope.
"There's no chief in that house," he said. "Just my grandfather. Old man who reads more than he sleeps and still sucks at grammar."
Harlan gave a short laugh. "Name wouldn't happen to be Eldric, would it?"
Liam stared.
Ryden stepped forward. "We've been asking all over the village. People kept pointing us this way. They said he's the one folks turn to when there's a real problem."
Liam looked from one face to the next, a little stunned. "You're telling me... the guy who once said 'I seen-ed it happen' in a town meeting... is the village chief?"
"Unofficially," Ryden said. "But yeah. Sounds like that's him."
Liam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You're all doomed."
Merys grinned. "Well, he raised you, didn't he?"
"Exactly," Liam muttered.
Ryden looked at the house. "We're going to talk to him. He needs to know what's coming."
Liam was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "He'll listen. Just… try not to correct his grammar."
"No promises," Merys said.
They walked past Liam toward the old house, boots crunching the dirt. As they neared the door, Ryden paused and looked back.
"You're not what we expected, kid."
"I get that a lot," Liam said, flopping back under the tree with his book. "Now go get scolded by a man who thinks commas are optional."