This was Knox — a young man from the far countryside of Southern Niessie, a place where rolling green fields met dense, ancient forests.
Once, he had a family there. Once, he had a home.
But monsters had torn it all away.
His village burned, his people scattered or slain. Knox had been just a boy when it happened, his hands too small to hold a sword, his heart too weak to protect those he loved.
He had survived — somehow — and vowed to never be that powerless again.
Now, years later, Knox was a mercenary by necessity and a cook by passion.
He traveled the world, earning coin by taking dangerous jobs: escorting caravans, hunting monsters, sometimes even fighting in border skirmishes.
Each battle made him stronger. Each meal he cooked reminded him that he was still human.
The fire crackled louder.
A shadow moved in the trees, silent and slow.
Knox didn't flinch. He reached casually for his sword with one hand, while using the other to flick a piece of meat from the pan into his mouth.
The flavor was rich and smoky — a simple luxury in a hard world.
"I can hear you," Knox said, his voice lazy but sharp underneath. "Come out, or stay there and starve."
For a moment, there was only the whisper of leaves.
Then a figure stepped into the firelight — a thin, ragged-looking man, clutching an empty satchel and wearing clothes more torn than whole.
"Please..." the stranger rasped. "Just a little food... I've got nothing..."
Knox narrowed his eyes.
Trust was dangerous. Mercy could get you killed.
But he also knew what it felt like to be desperate and alone.
He tossed another piece of meat into the pan and said nothing.
The night held its breath, waiting for his choice.
Knox didn't lower his sword. He let the man approach just close enough to feel the heat of the fire, but no closer.
"Name," Knox said, his voice cool and commanding.
The ragged man hesitated, glancing nervously between the sword and the food.
"Galadriel," he croaked, voice dry like old parchment. "I'm... I'm called Galadriel."
Knox studied him. He was thin as a scarecrow, his hands trembling not from fear, but hunger. His clothes were the patchwork of a man who hadn't known shelter in weeks, maybe months.
"Where are you from?" Knox asked, not blinking.
"From... the eastern valleys," Galadriel said, pointing vaguely over the dark hills. "I was a farmhand... before the raiders came. Lost everything. Been walking since then, trying to find any town that would take me in."
Knox watched him carefully. His grip on the sword didn't loosen, but in his heart, something stirred.
He knew that kind of loss.
He wore it like a second skin.
"What happened?" Knox pressed. "You don't just wander into the woods this deep without a reason."
Galadriel licked his cracked lips. "I followed the river... it led me here. I... I smelled the food. I had no idea anyone was out here."
He lifted his hands slowly — empty palms open, showing he meant no harm.
The fire popped between them.
Knox exhaled through his nose and finally lowered his sword.
He grabbed a chunk of the meat from the pan — still steaming — and tossed it toward Galadriel, who caught it clumsily, eyes wide with gratitude.
"Eat," Knox said simply. "But if you lie to me... this will be your last meal."
Galadriel nodded fervently, already devouring the meat with desperate bites.
Knox leaned back against a rock, watching him.
The road was full of liars, thieves, and worse — but sometimes, just sometimes, it spat out someone who deserved a second chance.
As Galadriel ate, Knox silently turned a thought over in his mind:
Was this a random meeting... or the start of something bigger?