"I don't know why that memory came back to me... It's so damn painful to think that after all these years, I'm still a grown man crying over my mother's death." Joe's voice softened as he added, "Mother, you were a good person."

  He lay on his bed in a cheap inn nestled within the capital. The fading light of dusk poured through the small window, catching his attention for a moment before he turned his gaze back to the ceiling. With a deep sigh, he muttered, "I ran. Just a cowardly noble kid with nothing but my father's wealth to my name. I was nothing—could’ve died at any moment... huuuuuuh, I just..."

  Joe closed his eyes and let out another long sigh, this time tinged with sarcasm. "As my father always said, some people are so poor, all they have is money."

  Trying to push the thoughts away, he rolled over, hoping for sleep. But the memories crept back—back to the days just after the funeral.

  A week had passed in the village when a group of knights appeared, escorting two carriages making their way toward Goven. In the first carriage sat Hamell, while in the second, Leader Rhothomir accompanied an elderly man dressed in fine blue noble attire. The older man, with white hair and a calm demeanour, carried no weapon—only a book, which he read silently as they travelled.

  Rhothomir glanced at the old man and asked, "Uncle, are you finished with that book? We’re almost at the village."

  Bot, his uncle, smiled warmly as he closed the book. "It had a happy ending. I quite enjoyed it."

  Rhothomir hesitated, trying to find his words, but before he could speak, his uncle interrupted. "What was the name of the soldier who saved you again? ... Ah, Jeffrey Gostave, correct?"

  "Yes, uncle," Rhothomir replied with a respectful nod. "A brave man, no doubt."

  "I look forward to meeting him," Bot said, his curiosity evident. "After all, I have some business with him. Tell me, Rhothomir," he asked with an intrigued expression, "is he a clever man?"

  Rhothomir considered the question for a moment before answering. "If you’re asking whether he’ll bow to a noble, yes, like anyone else. But as for his loyalty? That’s something you’ll have to earn. Money and power won’t win over a man like him."

  Bot clapped his hands, laughing, and gave Rhothomir a playful punch on the back. "I like him already! And thank God his wife died; that’ll make things easier."

  Rhothomir’s expression darkened instantly, and he glared at his uncle. Bot, still smiling, waved his hands dismissively. "Oh, don’t get upset. I won’t say it to his face. I’m trying to win him over, after all."

  Rhothomir didn’t soften. His voice remained firm. "That was cold and heartless, even for you."

  Bot chuckled, brushing it off. "Doesn’t matter. I’ve got plans, Rhothomir, and sometimes you have to be cold. Ideally, I would’ve waited longer—his wife’s funeral was just a week ago—but I need that man. I need him now."

  Rhothomir turned to look out the carriage window, sighing deeply. But Bot, sensing the hesitation, grabbed his hand and drew his attention back. His tone grew serious. "I need your help to convince him—money, honour, lies, whatever it takes. Just help me get him on board."

  Hamell glanced at Rhothomir, who tried to object. "Uncle, he saved—"

  "I DON’T CARE!" Bot’s sudden outburst silenced him. "Just help me this once, Rhothomir. I need a shoulder to lean on, and yours is the only one I trust right now. Please... don’t let me down in my time of need."

  For a moment, Rhothomir looked like he might throw open the carriage door and leap out. But instead, he sighed, forcing himself to calm down, and gave a reluctant nod.

  Meanwhile, in Goven village, Tyka was busy helping Cox at the shop. He carefully took the red-hot sword from the forge and plunged it into the water. A cloud of steam hissed and rose as the blade met the cold water.

  Tyka walked slowly, dragging his broken right leg, and sat down to rest while Cox continued hammering away.

  Looking at his father, Tyka said, "Father, I’m back. Why are you still working? You should rest, take care of my kids, or travel. Or..."

  Cox shot him a sharp look, silencing him. "With that damn leg of yours? And even when the nuns patch you up, I’m not stopping."

  "Why?" Tyka pressed. "Once I heal, why would you still work? You hated this job. You were thrilled to hand the shop over to me."

  Cox smiled grimly as he struck the sword with his hammer. "Because it took me, young Joe, and weeks of struggle to get these skills back. It wasn’t easy. And when those damn nobles start another war, who’s going to put food on your kids’ table?"

  Tyka lowered his head. "I miss Gula... I really miss her."

  Cox sighed heavily. "That whore? She left you and the kids to chase a living in the capital. Damn her!"

  Tyka’s eyes flashed with anger. "You don’t need to speak like that! She’s the mother of your grandchildren."

  Cox spat on the ground in disgust. "That was before the nobles came calling with their invitation. We begged her to stay, but she chose gold over her family."

  Tyka looked up at the sky. "I waited for her... but she never even sent a letter. Maybe she’s just moved on."

  Cox threw the hot sword into the water with a sizzle and muttered, "And like any whore, she opened her legs for a higher bidder."

  "Father!" Tyka shouted, his voice sharp with anger.

  Ignoring him, Cox stomped into the house, yelling, "I’m hungry. Finish the work yourself!"

  Meanwhile, at the village guard post, Urien sat silently, reading a book. His eyes flicked occasionally to the empty spot where Titus once sat, studying magic. The memories weighed on him, and he closed his eye, trying to shake them off and focus.

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  But his thoughts dragged him back to the funeral. He remembered lowering his head, avoiding everyone’s gaze, consumed by regret and shame. He closed his eye again.

  A gentle hand touched Urien’s shoulder, and he opened his eye to see Jeffrey standing beside him. His face and arm were bandaged, and his eyes brimmed with tears. Jeffrey looked at Urien with deep sorrow, and Urien noticed the villagers watching him too. Jeffrey, his voice breaking, said, "You did what you could. You saved who you could and protected who you could. Now rest, my old friend."

  As Urien met Jeffrey’s gaze, memories of Beatrice flooded his mind. His eye drifted to the faces of the villagers—Safle, Lyra, Cox, Tyka. In a flash, the faces of the good people who had died appeared in his mind, each loss a fresh wound.

  Tears streamed down Urien’s face. His voice cracked as he wept, his body trembling, as if the weight of the world pressed him into the ground. He collapsed, head bowed, and whispered through broken sobs, "...I... am... sorry... forgi...ve me..."

  Jeffrey knelt and embraced him while Tyka and Cox gently patted his back. It was a nightmare Urien couldn’t escape.

  "Can you get yourself out of it?"

  Urien blinked, pulled back to reality by the sounds of horses and two approaching carriages. He stood up and glanced at them.

  His gaze lingered on the second carriage, where his eyes locked with Hamell's. They stared at each other in silence, and Urien’s face flushed red as the memory of that day returned—the day when the knights had done nothing to help.

  At Gostave's house, Jeffrey was in pain. He fell to the ground, holding his broken arm. He removed the bandages and the wooden splint, unable to bear the agony any longer.

  Breathing heavily, he called out, "Joe!? Where are you, son!?"

  But then he remembered Joe was away making deliveries between villages, selling what remained of Kaelen’s shop to prevent the goods from going to waste.

  Jeffrey gripped his arm tightly, his face contorted in pain. He screamed, his voice weakening as he called, "Beatrice... please... help me... dear..."

  At that moment, the door creaked open, and Lyra walked in. "Jeffrey! Where are you!?"

  "Here!" Jeffrey shouted.

  Lyra rushed into the bedroom, her eyes widening as she saw the deep purple bruising on Jeffrey’s arm. "Jeffrey! Your arm... it’s purple! What happened?"

  She hurried to his side, gently guiding him to sit on the bed. Concern etched into her face, she asked, "Did you fall? Or hurt yourself?"

  Jeffrey shook his head, gasping for breath. "No... I don’t know... It’s been hurting ever since they bandaged me... after the war."

  Lyra nodded, worry filling her eyes. "I’ll call Urien. Maybe there’s something left from Kaelen’s supplies. Just hold on..."

  Before she could finish, the sound of horses echoed through the village. Lyra helped Jeffrey to his feet, and together, they made their way toward the door.

  When Lyra opened the door, she and Jeffrey watched as the knights parted, making way for the carriage to stop. Urien stepped out of the guard post, his gaze locking with Hamell’s through the carriage window. Hamell stared back, his expression unreadable.

  Rhothomir and Bot disembarked, scanning the village. Bot’s voice was sharp with urgency. "Where is the one called Jeffrey?"

  Rhothomir’s eyes widened as he took in the scene—the weary men of the village. Tyka, dragging his injured leg as he peered out from his shop; Safle’s husband emerging from his home, his hands trembling, his son’s face still bandaged from the wounds of war.

  Rhothomir’s attention then fell on Jeffrey, noticing the disturbing purple hue of his arm. He walked over, concern etched on his face. "Why... why haven’t the nuns arrived?"

  Rhothomir covered his face with his hands, guilt crashing over him. The memory of Lorence, the Crystal Priest of the Light Temple, resurfaced, his confident promise echoing in Rhothomir’s mind: "We will send the nuns. All soldiers just need to be patient."

  Rhothomir muttered bitterly under his breath, "You meant the nobles first? You damn liar..."

  Bot, noticing his nephew’s distress, slapped him on the back. Rhothomir flinched, startled. Bot spoke firmly, "Pull yourself together! We’ll fix this mess."

  Regaining his composure, Rhothomir turned to the villagers, raising his voice. "The nuns will arrive. Give us just one more day!"

  The villagers exchanged tired, indifferent glances before returning to their duties. Their silence spoke volumes. To them, the kingdom had always favoured the nobles. Even anger seemed pointless—they had long accepted where they stood.

  Jeffrey, noticing the pain in Rhothomir’s eyes, spoke softly, "They’ve lost faith in the kingdom. Don’t blame them. The knights never came for us."

  Rhothomir’s face fell, but he nodded, understanding their disillusionment. But then Jeffrey smiled faintly, surprising him. "I still have faith in you. You’re my leader, my companion."

  Rhothomir forced a small smile in return. "Friend."

  "Friend," Jeffrey echoed weakly, nodding.

  Rhothomir, determined to help, knelt beside Jeffrey and used ice magic to numb the searing pain in his arm. A layer of frost formed, soothing the swollen flesh.

  Jeffrey gazed at his frozen arm and let out a soft chuckle. "If I can’t feel anything anymore... is that a good or a bad thing?"

  Rhothomir smiled warmly at Jeffrey. "It's a good thing. They’ll fix you, I promise."

  Jeffrey chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "And if not, you can start calling me the one-armed Gostave."

  Rhothomir, missing the joke, replied with sincerity, "If you lose it, they can take mine too—as repayment!"

  Shaking his head, Jeffrey replied, "I was just joking. I still want my arm!"

  After entering the house, Jeffery chatted with Rhothomir while Bot wandered around, his eyes taking in the small details—the worn kitchen table, the window with a view of the quiet village. He muttered to himself, "A calm life... not bad."

  Kyra arrived then, carrying cups of honey tea. She served Rhothomir, Jeffrey, and Bot, who paused to study her for a moment. Bot glanced at Rhothomir with a look of concern. Rhothomir subtly shook his head, signalling that Jeffrey wasn’t involved with another woman. Bot exhaled in quiet relief before accepting his cup.

  Outside, Lyra handed tea to the knights, warning them, "It’s hot, be careful."

  The knights nodded politely, bowing their heads as they accepted the tea. As they drank, their tense posture softened, and they visibly relaxed. Lyra, still curious about the nobles' sudden visit, turned to head back home.

  As she passed Hamell, who stood with his head lowered, she shot him a glare and snapped, "No tea for you."

  Hamell remained silent, eyes fixed on the ground. "Understood," he muttered quietly.

  Without turning back, Lyra’s voice rang out harshly, loud enough for him to hear. "I hope you die, coward!"

  Back inside the house, the silence that followed their quiet drinking was eventually broken by Bot. "Jeffrey Gostave," he began, "first of all, thank you for saving my son. He may be my nephew, but I’ve always seen him as my own. You saved his life, and for that, I owe you deeply."

  Jeffrey gave a humble nod. "It was an honour to fight by his side."

  Bot continued, his voice carrying more weight now. "As nobles, we recognize how much you’ve suffered without proper healing, and for that, we’ll compensate your village and others with coins. On top of that, we'll ensure the women and families who were neglected during the war receive what they’re owed."

  Jeffrey was taken aback by Bot's apparent generosity, but he reminded himself who he was dealing with—a noble and, above all, a businessman. There was always a catch.

  He glanced at Rhothomir, then turned his attention back to Bot. "If you need something, talk to Urien. We don’t have a leader or chief around here, just him as the closest thing to authority."

  Bot chuckled softly and shook his head. "No, Jeffrey, I need *you*. You're the hero who saved important lives. You're the man people respect."

  Jeffrey stared down at his tea, his brow furrowing. "But why pay out of your own pocket when the kingdom promised to handle that? Won't it cost you a lot?"

  Bot’s professional smile never faltered. "Yes, it's expensive. But consider this—if Renolva's kingdom fails to meet its obligations, even to the housewives, it risks tarnishing its reputation. It’s better for the nobles to step in and cover the costs. It strengthens our standing and makes the kingdom indebted to us, not the other way around. It’s strategy, not charity."

  Jeffrey nodded slowly, processing the words. Then he lifted his gaze to meet Bot’s eyes. "And what’s my role in all of this?"

  Bot’s smile widened as their eyes locked. "Jeffrey Gostave, would you like to make a deal? A profitable one, I swear on my name, my father’s name, and my family’s name."

  Jeffrey remained silent, his face a mask of contemplation, while Rhothomir turned away, avoiding his gaze. Bot leaned in slightly, his voice lowering. "Care to listen?"