Bennet took a deep breath of air, the musty scent of the old barn filling his lungs. He and Kieran sat facing each other, both on makeshift seats fashioned from overturned crates, the wooden floor creaking beneath them. The lantern’s dim glow threw uneven light between them, illuminating the lines of age and exhaustion etched into their faces.
"Three years," Kieran said finally, voice cracking under the weight of it, "Nearly three years since I’ve seen another friendly face."
Bennet paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Three years?" he echoed quietly, the disbelief soft but sharp, "No real friends in Zavareth?"
"Tch. You tell ," Kieran replied with a dry edge as his gaze drifted to the floor, "I learned the rhythm of boots on the road. The way they pause before turning. I could tell which patrol it was by their laughter. You learn to breathe quieter than the wind. You think soone who has that much ti to learn walking rhythms would have any friends?"
Bennet leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, "Definitely still lonely..."
Kieran’s faint smile wavered like a candle fla, "Lonely... but it’s surviving. Plus, I’ve gotten into a bunch of strange experiences."
He spoke again, a smile gracing his face, "I’ve been a rchant with a false beard, a pilgrim with forged papers, a deserter with a limp."
He let out a low laugh—bitter, cracked, "I almost got caught with the deserter one though."
Bennet tilted his head, "And yet you’re still here."
"Barely," Kieran said with a wry smile, "But still."
He looked up, eyes catching the light as he let out a sigh, "I envy you, you know. You stayed in Eldoria, our ho, in the sun while I hid in its shadow."
Bennet’s lips curved into a small, wistful smile.
"It certainly didn’t make anything easy," he said quietly, "Every choice I make still echoes—every order, every loss. The light burns too, Kieran, just differently."
Kieran studied him, his smirk fading.
"Maybe. But at least your ghosts have nas," he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, "I walk with strangers’ faces I’ve worn, and none of them were ever truly ."
Bennet’s eyes softened, and for a brief mont, both n sat united by their situations. Silence settled between them again, filled not with regret but mutual understanding.
Just then, a rat scurried across the floorboards near the wall, its tiny claws scratching against the wood as it darted into a shadowed corner.
"Still, you’re definitely better than at creativity... You’ve made a ho of scraps," he said, glancing around at the clutter, "Still hard to believe you’re living like this."
"Could be worse, you know," Kieran gave a crooked grin, "The academy bunks had rats too—these ones just don’t chew boots."
"Don’t be so sure," Bennet said with mock gravity, "I swear one just saluted us."
Kieran’s laughter broke through, raw and real. For a fleeting heartbeat, he looked younger, almost whole again.
"You rember the library nights?" Kieran asked, tone softening, "You kept teasing for falling asleep mid-sentence."
Bennet chuckled, "You claid you were studying through osmosis. I told you drool doesn’t transfer knowledge."
Kieran laughed again, shaking his head, "You know, it’s strange... talking with you like this brings back the academy days."
Bennet tilted his head, intrigued, "You an the days when you pretended to study and I dragged you to morning drills?"
Kieran grinned, "Pretended? I was studying—just not the sa way you were. I still rember that night before our combat exam when you fell asleep standing up."
Bennet chuckled, "And you tried to convince the instructor we were ditating. I still can’t believe he bought it."
"Hey," Kieran said, smirking, "we passed, didn’t we?"
"Barely," Bennet replied with a shake of his head, "You almost set the training yard on fire."
"That was an experint!" Kieran protested, "I was testing new oil mixtures. Science, Bennet."
"Science," Bennet echoed dryly, "that nearly burned the whole barracks."
Kieran burst out laughing, clutching his side, "And yet you defended before the headmaster! Said it was ’unconventional problem-solving.’ I still owe you for that."
Bennet smiled faintly, "You repaid it by stealing my boots for two weeks."
"Hey, they were good boots," Kieran said defensively, grinning.
Their laughter settled into a soft quiet.
For a mont, the barn seed warr, as though the years between them had folded away.
Bennet’s smile lingered as he spoke, almost to himself, "Strange how ti runs, isn’t it? Back then we thought the world would wait for us to grow into it."
Kieran nodded, his eyes distant, "And it never does."
Bennet exhaled slowly, "No, it doesn’t. It just keeps moving... and suddenly, you’re responsible for more than yourself."
He paused, gaze softening. "Like a son."
Kieran blinked, caught off guard.
"Wait... a son?" he repeated, his voice softening in disbelief, "Shit, Benny, you got an offspring?"
Bennet nodded with a small, proud smile. "Lucas. He’s the reason I still fight the way I do."
Kieran sat back, stunned into silence for a mont before a slow grin spread across his face, "You? A father? Now that’s sothing I never thought I’d hear."
Bennet sighed, rubbing his brow, "Why does everyone sound surprised when they say that?"
"Because," Kieran said, smirking, "the Bennet Valen I knew once smuggled a full bottle of wine into Headmaster Dray’s lecture. You’ve gone from delinquent to diplomat."
Bennet chuckled, "World’s changed."
"You don’t have to tell twice," Kieran leaned back, feigning awe, "What else have I missed? The heir to Westreach, a husband. And now, a father."
"Not much," Bennet said softly, a faint smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, "And for the record, I’m not the heir anymore. Governor suits better these days."
"Governor? You an the old man finally handed it to you?"
Bennet’s eyes darkened for a mont before he nodded slowly, "He didn’t hand it over, Kieran. He’s gone. Died in battle."
The humor drained from Kieran’s expression, "Gods... I’m sorry, Benny. I didn’t know."
"You don’t have to be. You were in the field," Bennet exhaled quietly.
"When did he go?" Kieran asked quietly.
"It was the Dragon. He was defending Dawnbreak Keep when Zavareth first used it," Bennet answered, a solemn sadness glinting in his eyes. "He stayed behind so the scribes and ssengers could make it to Whitehold. He knew it was a death sentence."
"That is the most Uncle Darius way to go. Defending the kingdom he gave his life to," Kieran lowered his head, voice low, "But couldn’t he have retreated too?"
"Of course he could," Bennet nodded faintly, "But my father knew the impact of the dragon, he stayed behind to reduce the impact of the dragon on the morale of the kingdom. He believed the na of Valen was duty, not glory."
Kieran hesitated, then placed a hand briefly on Bennet’s arm, "I’m truly sorry, Benny. He was a good man."
Bennet breathed in deeply, holding back the ache that always ca with his father’s na.
"He was," he murmured, "And now I live everyday, in his footsteps... trying to make him proud."
Kieran frowned, leaning closer, "What do you an?"
Bennet hesitated, his gaze falling to the lantern fla that flickered between them.
"It’s strange," he said quietly, "losing him made see things differently. People differently."
Kieran tilted his head, "How so?"
"You start noticing who carries pieces of the people you’ve lost," Bennet murmured, "Little things—a voice, a habit, a choice you can’t ignore."
He leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face, "Sotis it’s a curse, seeing ghosts where there aren’t any."
Kieran gave a faint smile, "You’re seeing him in soone else, aren’t you?"
Bennet paused, eyes distant.
"Maybe," he said slowly, "From the battlefield, there was an anomaly."
Kieran’s curiosity sharpened, "Soone from Windbreak?"
"No... not a person. A summon," Bennet replied, voice low, thoughtful, "He’s... different. Sothing about him... reminds of the old ways. My father sent him to us."
Kieran frowned, intrigued but wary, "Different how? You an like the old Valen summons? The ones bound by blood oaths?"
Bennet shook his head, "No. He wasn’t bound. He chose. He’s not like the others, not obedient or hollow. There’s... sothing in him. Sothing aware."
Kieran studied him closely, "You sound almost afraid of him."
"I’m not afraid," Bennet said, though his tone betrayed hesitation, "There’s an intelligence in his eyes that make him seem almost human. And his strength, he fights beyond his rank."
"Beyond his ra-"
Before Kieran could press further, a faint noise interrupted them.
The lantern swayed, its fla stretching. Both n turned their heads.
A single creak. Then another. The sound of footsteps on damp wood.
Bennet’s expression hardened instantly, "That wasn’t the wind."
Kieran’s hand went for his knife.
Another step, deliberate, asured.
"Too careful," Bennet muttered, "Not a drunk, not a farr."
The mory of the boy in the alley—the curious eyes, the way he lingered—flashed through Bennet’s mind. His gut twisted.
Then—three heavy knocks echoed through the barn. Firm. Intentional.
The lantern flickered violently, shadows writhing across the walls.
Bennet’s breath caught. He turned to Kieran, "Soone knows."
Neither man moved.
The wind outside died. Even the barn seed to hold its breath.
A louder knock followed.
The air thickened, trembling with what was about to co.
The betrayal had arrived—though neither dared speak its na.
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