Silent Guardian

Copyright

Copyright © 2026 by Sam Larson

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Eriyen strolled through the streets of Bronriver that morning, easily carrying the two pails of fresh milk with well-muscled arms. He breathed in the cool air, sweet with the scent of early spring.

He missed his brother, Kelti.

What on Shalmor’s good earth was Kelti doing at that silly university, anyway?

Eriyen turned onto a row of two-story wooden shops. A few shutters creaked open as shopkeepers began their day. Someone swept a doorway further down the street, and the low bray of a donkey drifted from down the road.

He’d never been much for cities, but these streets on the edge of Bronriver suited him well enough. Most folks here knew his face. After all, he’d lived on his family’s farm just outside the town since the age of seven.

Still, sometimes he wondered where his home had been before that.

Kelti would say there will always be things we don’t know.

Easy for him to say.

Eriyen wanted to know where he came from. Kelti wanted to find out the average circumference of turtle eggs, or other useless things like that.

And Eriyen often sensed that he did remember where he’d come from—before the forest, before stumbling upon that farm—but something blocked that memory from his mind.

Eshad, a local farmer, passed by with his son and a donkey cart creaking under sacks of grain. Eshad dipped his head politely but kept moving.

Even after all these years, most townsfolk spoke little to him. Perhaps they thought him slow. Or perhaps they simply didn’t want the trouble of trying to understand his hands.

A shop door opened ahead, and the warm and comforting smell of fresh bread drifted out.

Timros the baker—curly-haired, round-faced, and wearing a flour-stained apron—stood in the doorway.

“Morning, Eriyen. Bring the milk round back, will yeh?”

Eriyen nodded and turned down the alley beside the bakery, his stomach fluttering.

He always looked forward to this delivery.

“Father! Tell Alrod he must wear his white shirt. I’m drying it here!”

Mara’s voice.

Eriyen stepped into the back courtyard. Mara stood beside a clothesline, pinning a shirt to the line. Her braided dark hair shone in the morning sun, and her sky-blue dress hugged her body perfectly.

She turned and saw him.

Eriyen froze.

“Oh—um, good morning.” Mara’s cheeks reddened. She gathered the basket of laundry and hurried back through the bakery door.

Timros emerged a moment later, humming as he wiped flour from his hands. “My Mara’s getting engaged today,” he said with a wide grin.

Eriyen’s stomach sank. He forced a smile.

Timros had three unmarried daughters.

Well. Soon to be two.

“May the gods bless the union,” Eriyen signed with his hands, knowing the baker only understood a handful of basic signs.

Timros chuckled. “I’ll take that kindly, lad. Thank you. See you tomorrow?”

Eriyen nodded. Timros had already paid for the week.

The baker began to shut the door. Then he stopped.

Timros leaned forward slightly, frowning, eyes squinting toward the distant hills. His face went rigid.

Eriyen turned.

At first, he saw only the pale line of the road winding through the fields.

Then movement.

Black and gold glinted in the rising sun.

Armored figures—some mounted, others on foot—marching in three steady columns down from the hills.

Belgarans.

A cold weight settled in his gut.

He’d heard the stories. Villages visited in the early morning. Men taken away in chains for this charge or that.

“Go home, lad,” Timros muttered quietly as he stepped back inside.

Eriyen was running before the door swung shut.

The milk pails clattered forgotten against the wall as he sprinted down the road.

Father and Mother were home.

And they’d already had trouble with the tax collectors the previous season.

---

Eriyen’s breath tore at his throat by the time he rounded the bend. His home came into view on the outskirts of Bronriver.

Six Belgaran soldiers stood in the yard. Father was speaking to the one in the center, with crimson stripes on his shoulders, who seemed to be the officer in charge.

Mother stood on the front steps, gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing holding her up.

Father’s voice carried across the yard, thin with strain. “It’s not even harvest-time,” he said, gesturing wildly. “I’ve no produce to sell to make a profit!”

Eriyen skidded to a halt.

One soldier turned and pointed. “You there! Don’t move!”

Eriyen froze. The command seemed to strike through him. Whatever might have driven him forward drained away, leaving his limbs heavy and unresponsive.

“He’s got nothing to do with this,” Father said.

“Quiet,” the officer said.

Two soldiers broke away from the group and strode toward Eriyen. Before he could react, they seized him—one clamping onto each arm.

“Leave him be!” Mother cried, stumbling down the steps.

Eriyen twisted his face toward her.

Don’t come closer, he prayed. They’ll hurt you.

The soldiers ignored her and marched Eriyen before the officer. The man studied him with detached interest.

“What’s your name, boy?”

Eriyen opened his mouth and shook his head. His tongue felt thick—useless—the hands he used to communicate pinned at his sides by the soldiers.

“He can’t speak,” Father said quickly. “He’s a mute.”

The officer’s eyes flicked toward him. With a look of bored malice, he backhanded Father across the face.

Eriyen flinched, muscles bunching—but still frozen. Father staggered but remained standing.

“You will speak when spoken to, kulud,” the officer said.

Mother rushed toward Father, clutching his arm.

The officer turned back to Eriyen.

“Young men are required for labor service,” he said. “Your father’s unpaid taxes have already earned this household attention. Your son here will work off the debt.”

Father’s face went white. He looked like he might collapse. “But—I spoke with the constable. The repayment plan. He assured me—”

“I’m not paid to explain things,” the officer said.

He stepped closer to Eriyen. “Now,” he said, “what’s your name, boy?”

Father’s hands trembled as he ran them through his graying hair. His eyes locked with Eriyen’s. Forgive me. Play along, they said.

“Apologies, sir,” Father said hurriedly. “My son, Eriyen—he’s as daft as a donkey. Can’t form words and barely understands simple instructions. If you asked his name, he couldn’t have told you.”

Tears slid down Mother’s cheeks.

Eriyen felt the soldiers’ gazes burning into him. Warmth filled his face as he plastered a slack, vacant look on his face, and met their stares. He let some spit dribble down his lips.

There is nothing here. You see nothing useful—no intelligence. Go on.

The officer watched him closely. Then he grabbed a fistful of Eriyen’s hair, jerking his head back.

Eriyen’s scalp screamed in pain, but he let his body sag in the soldier’s grip.

“Please!” Mother cried. “He didn’t do anything—”

“Silence!” a soldier barked.

The officer leaned close, his hot breath filling Eriyen’s ear. “So,” he murmured. “You didn’t yelp. Interesting.” He studied Eriyen like a merchant examining a questionable animal. “Look at me, boy.”

Eriyen kept his gaze on the dirt.

“Look at me!”

The officer grabbed his chin and forced his head upward. Cold, pale brown eyes stared into his.

Eriyen forced his own gaze to remain dull, unfocused. Hatred blazed in his chest, but he buried it—deep with the dark, scattered fragments of his life in the forest.

The officer held his stare for several long seconds. Then he shoved him back toward the waiting soldiers. “Eh,” he said with a shrug. “Whether he’s daft or not is for my superiors to decide. Orders are orders. Able bodies are coming with us.”

Father stepped forward. “Take me instead. I'll work off my own debt.”

Mother sobbed. “Please,” she whispered. “Please…”

The officer didn’t even glance at them. “Take him.”

The soldiers turned to drag Eriyen away.

“No!” Father shouted.

Mother wailed.

Eriyen staggered as they pulled him forward. The world seemed to tilt, as though the ground was shifting.

Was this real?

Who would feed the animals? Deliver the milk?

How would Father manage the farm alone?

Father stepped forward. Two soldiers lowered their spears. The steel tips stopped inches from his chest.

He froze there, trembling. The agony in his eyes was palpable. Eriyen could see him wrestling with whether to abandon the lie. Whether to fight.

Eriyen gave the smallest shake of his head.

Don’t.

Father’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, my boy,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll get you out. I swear it.”

The soldiers began dragging Eriyen down the road.

Something inside his chest cracked open.

He had always believed it true, but never had he felt it so fiercely.

Father loved him as one of his own.

---

Eriyen hugged his knees to his chest and pressed himself into the corner of the caged wagon. Each jolt of the wheels drove the iron bars harder into his back. Twenty men and boys from Bronriver were crammed inside with him as the wagon rattled through the Mosonian hill country.

About thirty soldiers marched behind them. A few more rode ahead on horseback.

They were being taken to Farkad-Rhun—a Belgaran labor camp and fortress. Just the name made his stomach shrivel.

And he was alone.

Again.

Just like in the forest.

He tried to force air into his lungs, but something felt stuck in his chest. The wagon stank of sweat and urine, and despair hung thick as fog. He turned away from the press of bodies and tried to draw in the cool spring air drifting through the bars.

Memory fragments scraped through his mind like jagged shards. Trees. Vines. Endless leaves.

Nowhere to go. No one around.

Alone.

No, Father would find the money somehow. He would get him out.

But Father would have to sell the farm. How would they survive?

A harsh, wheezing cough broke through his thoughts. Eriyen glanced to his right.

A boy—no older than fourteen or fifteen—leaned against the bars. Dark curls clung to his damp forehead. His skin shone with sweat, and he shivered violently.

No one sat beside him. No father. No brother.

Same as me.

Eriyen looked away. The countryside rolled past in dim greens and browns as the sun dipped behind distant hills.

The boy coughed again.

Eriyen kept watching the hills. The boy needed medicine, but Eriyen couldn’t help him.

Another cough.

He glanced back. No one else even looked at the boy.

Oh, all right, then.

Eriyen sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He squeezed through the cramped bodies until he knelt beside the boy.

He pressed a hand to the boy’s forehead.

Hot. Too hot.

Eriyen signed slowly: “What’s your name?”

The boy frowned. “What?”

Eriyen pointed to his mouth, then made a quick slicing motion across the air: “I don’t speak.”

The boy nodded slowly. He hugged his arms around himself. “I’m… Tref,” he croaked.

Eriyen pulled off the thin jerkin he wore over his shirt and draped it across the boy’s shoulders. Tref murmured a weak thanks.

He needed water.

Eriyen glanced around the wagon. Fat chance of that.

As twilight settled over the hills, the Belgarans halted in a forest clearing beside the road. Soldiers stretched their legs and drank deeply from their canteens. Others pulled rations from saddlebags and ate.

Eriyen watched them, his stomach twisting. He’d never been so starkly confronted with the Belgarans’ cruelty. He’d heard stories—whispers of sons taken from families, daughters harassed, atrocities against those who resisted—but never had they so brazenly strolled into his life and turned it upside down.

Dusk deepened into night. The soldiers planted several poles around the clearing and hung lanterns from them. After a while, they hauled the captives from the wagon and marched them to the edge of the clearing to relieve themselves, ringed by spear-wielding guards. When they were done, each man received a crust of dry bread before being shoved back inside. The gate slammed shut with a hollow clang.

Eriyen sat with Tref in the back corner and made sure he ate every crumb. His mind flashed to that strange, dream-like time before he’d stumbled upon his adopted family’s farm. In a deep forest, a little boy hunched under a canopy of tangled branches, gnawing on a handful of unripe blackberries.

Two soldiers passed beside the wagon, their armor softly clinking.

Eriyen pushed his arm through the bars and waved. One of them slowed, brow lifting. Eriyen pointed at Tref, scrunched his face into a sick expression, then mimed drinking.

“What’s wrong with this kulud?” the soldier asked.

The other laughed. “He can’t speak. Something wrong in his head, probably.”

The voice struck Eriyen like a blow.

The officer from his farm.

Then a sharp hiss split the air.

The officer collapsed, an arrow buried deep in his neck. Other soldiers stumbled and cried in pain throughout the clearing,

Another hiss—Eriyen caught the movement this time—a swarm of arrows streaking from the forest.

“Shields! Form up!” someone shouted.

“What’s happening?” a captive yelled, his voice breaking with terror.

Eriyen dropped to the wagon floor, pulling Tref down with him. His heart hammered in his ears.

Rebels?

The word seemed unreal. He’d heard rumors, but had never believed them.

A horn blared.

Arrows continued to whistle through the clearing, clattering off shields and armor, some finding flesh with sickening thuds.

A group of soldiers broke into a run, trying to reach cover behind the wagon. One of them stumbled mid-stride—an arrow sunk deep in his side. Another struck him before he could fall. He staggered and crashed into one of the lantern poles.

The pole toppled. The lantern smashed against the ground. Oil spilled. Flames raced across the dry grass beside the wagon wheel.

The flames caught on the wooden wheel.

And no was looking.

---

An icy grip squeezed Eriyen’s chest.

The wagon was unhitched. If the flames spread …

They would burn alive.

A sudden commotion erupted behind him. Soldiers screamed.

Eriyen spun around. Arrows slammed into the wagon’s wooden panels, making the whole cage shudder. Over the crouching captives, he saw Belgarans huddling behind shields as more arrows streaked toward them.

The attackers were striking from both sides. This was well coordinated.

Something glinted in the mix of firelight and moonlight.

Keys.

A ring of then hung from the belt of a dead soldier sprawled behind the wagon, blood pooling black beneath him.

Too far to reach.

Eriyen’s mind raced. They needed something long. A pole. A hook.

A roar burst forth from the treeline. Eriyen turned.

Figures charged from the forest, their faces painted green and brown. They hurled javelins at the Belgaran soldiers now packed into a defensive circle, shields raised. The rebels crashed into them—axes, swords, and spears rising and falling.

Men bellowed. Steel clashed.

Eriyen stared in horrified fascination as men fell clutching bleeding wounds.

A blond figure drove through the center of the clash, wielding twin short swords. He moved like lightning—darting, striking, slipping past spear thrusts. His blades flashed in a dizzying pattern. Two Belgarans dropped in quick succession.

Eriyen tore his gaze away. Flames licked higher along the wagon wheel. He scrambled to the other side of the wagon, peering through the bars at the dead soldier with the keys. The soldiers nearby were locked in combat with another wave of attackers pouring from across the road.

Other villagers noticed the fire. They pressed their faces against the bars, yelling, but the clash of weapons and dying screams swallowed their frantic cries

How to reach the keys? They had nothing long enough.

They needed to move the wagon.

Eriyen waved his arms. “Everybody!” he signed.

No one looked. All eyes were fixed beyond the cage.

Eriyen stamped his foot. He turned to Tref, curled and shivering on the floor. Eriyen jabbed his finger at the dead soldier, then mimed turning a key. Tref followed his finger. Understanding lit his face.

Eriyen ran two steps and drove his shoulder into the bars. Pain shot through his arm. The wagon barely shifted. He backed up, grabbed at nearby men, and pointed again at the bars.

Then he charged once more. The metal gave a dull ring under the impact.

“It’s useless, lad,” someone said. “You won’t break through.”

Gods be damned.

Eriyen shook his head and signed furiously: “Not break. Tip it!”

Behind him, Tref pushed himself upright.

“Listen!” the boy rasped, pointing. “We can reach those keys! Do what he’s doing!”

Eriyen backed up again, beckoning urgently to the others.

Tref staggered beside him. “Come on!” He coughed hard. “Tip the wagon!”

Smoke seeped through the bars. The front of the wagon crackled as flames took hold.

They ran together and slammed into the bars.

Garmund—a blacksmith from Bronriver—suddenly stepped forward. “He’s right!” Garmund shouted. “If we tip it, we can reach the keys! Move!”

The captives surged to the opposite side of the wagon.

“Go!” Garmund roared.

They charged.

The wagon rocked—tilted—then slammed back down with a creaking thud.

“Again!” someone shouted. “Harder!”

Please, Eriyen prayed. Let me see my family again.

Heat rolled over him. Smoke thickened. Flames crawled along the wood panels to his right.

“NOW!” Garmund bellowed.

They charged again.

The wagon tipped farther. Several men grabbed the upper bars, hanging their weight from them.

The wagon groaned.

Then it tipped over and crashed onto its side.

Eriyen shoved through the tangle of bodies, eyes stinging, lungs burning. He thrust his arm through the bars and ripped the key ring off the soldier’s belt. Helping hands hauled him upright. The crowd parted. He stumbled to the rear gate as the flames roared and wood cracked.

The key slid into the lock. His hands trembled as he turned it, his mind racing three steps ahead.

Jump out. Stay low. Crawl to the trees.

The lock clicked. The gate swung open.

The press of bodies behind him surged forward, shoving him through the opening. Eriyen hit the ground hard. People tumbled over him. Someone’s heel slammed into his stomach. An elbow struck his head.

Everything was a blur of smoke, darkness, and chaos. The smell of burning wood filled his nostrils. Steal rang. Battle cries sounded. He crawled forward, gasping, seeking to escape the heat at his back.

The forest waited beyond the clearing.

Go.

You’ve survived there before.

Eriyen paused.

He looked back through the smoky haze. A small figure lay inside the overturned wagon.

Tref.

Flames billowed. Embers flew upward and disappeared into the heavy smoke. Jumbled footfalls thudded around him. Hoarse shouting filled the air.

Too dangerous. Go.

No.

Eriyen surged to his feet—ignoring the survival instincts that had kept him safe as a boy. He shoved past a stumbling villager, gulped in a deep breath, and plunged back into the smoke.

The metal bars were already scorching hot. Flames devoured the wooden underside of the wagon on his right. He grabbed Tref and hauled the boy over his shoulder. Heat seared his face and hands. He staggered toward the opening. His vision swam—strength fast draining from his limbs.

His foot caught on the bars beneath him. He fell to his knees. The metal burned through his clothes. He couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He covered his mouth with the crook of his arm as smoke filled his lungs.

He pictured Father’s worried face.

Mother’s smile.

Kelti’s laugh.

He clenched his teeth and forced himself upright, lifting Tref again.

Two more steps.

Eriyen burst out of the wagon and collapsed onto the churned earth. He dragged Tref away from the spreading flames.

The battle sounds had faded. Only scattered shouts remained. Eriyen waved his arms weakly, trying to get someone’s attention.

Tref coughed.

Relief flooded through him.

Villagers gathered around them. Someone knelt with a waterskin.

Eriyen coughed, sucking in the cool night air. He looked up at the stars.

Some ancestor had been watching over him tonight.

Pity he hadn’t the faintest idea who they were.

---

Several hours later, Eriyen sat on cracked, moss-covered stone, chewing through strips of tough beef jerky the rebels had taken from the dead Belgarans. His foot bounced furiously, his muscles still clenched even hours after the battle.

The rebels had not lingered—stripping armor, weapons, and supplies before slipping deeper into the forest with the rescued villagers. Now, they rested among the ruins of an ancient fortress. Broken pillars and half-collapsed walls surrounded what had once been a great hall that was now open to the night sky. Eriyen knew the place. It lay about a day’s hike from Bronriver.

Tref lay beside him, curled beneath a rough wool cloak. Eriyen pressed a hand to the boy’s forehead. Still feverish, but at least he had food, water, and warmth. The rebels had seen to that.

Across the hall, the blond warrior rose and strode to the center of the ruins. A black cloth held back his curls. Blood had dried in dark streaks on his breastplate and chain-mail sleeves.

“I am Bailen,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the broken hall. “And we are the Guardians. We fight the Belgarans so that one day we may live free of their rule.”

His stern gaze swept over the rescued villagers. He looked no older than twenty-five, yet he spoke with the confidence of someone used to being obeyed.

“All of you we rescued today have seen what the Belgarans do,” Bailen continued. “They take your freedom. Your homes. Your livelihoods. All for their own gain—and they call it the law.” His jaw tightened. “They will not stop unless someone makes them.”

Bailen raised a clenched fist. “For every village they raid, we must make them pay. Every man they enslave. Every family they tear apart. And so I ask you to join us.”

A murmur rippled through the villagers. Some shifted. Others avoided his gaze.

“I caution you against returning home,” Bailen said. “The Belgarans keep good records. They’ll remember who they marked for slavery. They may come for you again.”

He gestured toward a pile of captured weapons stacked against a fallen column. “But here, we can give you a weapon. Teach you how to use it. Together, we can rescue others. Protect our people. Fight back.”

Eriyen stared at the swords. Something stirred in his chest—sharper than mere hope. A turning point. A chance to do something that mattered.

But the thought of home rose just as quickly.

The farm. Mother. Father.

The Belgarans would come again for the unpaid taxes.

His hands tightened into fists. He could not protect them. But if he went back... They might take him again.

Around him, villagers whispered to one another. Some shook their heads. Others stared at the weapons.

Garmund the blacksmith slowly rose to his feet. “I’m staying,” he said. “Those bastards nearly took my sons last winter.” He jerked his chin toward the swords. “I’ve hammered iron my whole life. Maybe it’s time I start swinging it.”

A few uneasy chuckles passed through the crowd. Another man stood. Then another.

Eriyen remained seated. Across the hall, Bailen’s gaze settled on him. “The one who tipped the wagon,” he said.

Heads turned. Heat crept up Eriyen’s neck.

“You cannot speak,” Bailen said. Eriyen shook his head.

Bailen studied him a moment. “But you can think. And you can act.” His eyes flicked toward Tref. “And you went back for the boy. That is the kind of courage we need.”

Bailen nodded once toward the pile of weapons. “If you want to fight, we will teach you.”

Eriyen looked down at his hands. Angry red burns crossed his palms, still raw from the wagon’s bars. They still trembled slightly. Slowly, he rose and walked to the weapons. He picked up a sword and turned it in the firelight. It felt wrong in his grip. Unfamiliar. Heavy. He pictured himself back on the farm—mending fences, hauling pails, waiting. Waiting for the Belgarans to come again. He lowered the sword.

When he looked up, Bailen was still watching him. The rebel leader gave a small nod. “Think on it. We leave at dawn.”

Eriyen stood there a long moment, the sword hanging loose at his side. Beyond the broken walls, the forest stirred in the night wind, whispering of paths untraveled, heroic deeds awaiting.

An owl hooted in the distance—low and hollow. He thought of the owl that nested in the barn at home. Eriyen let out a slow sigh.

---

The last whispers of sunset faded from the sky above Eriyen’s home.

He stood on the front porch for a long moment, staring at the worn wood near his feet where he and Kelti had etched their names many years ago. Finally, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

Warm air wrapped around him. The smell of flour and wood smoke brought a sharp wave of nostalgia tinged with guilt. His boots fell softly on the old carpet where he and Kelti had often wrestled and played games as boys. He passed the hearth in the corner, where Father had told stories on winter nights while Mother stitched by the firelight.

Eriyen had a fleeting thought to just stay, eat a home-cooked supper, and resume his normal life.

Forget the Guardians—and the Belgarans.

This is your home.

Mother stood in the kitchen with a sack of flour in her arms. She looked up. The sack slipped from her hands, thudding to the floor in a puff of white dust.

She let out a cry and ran to him. “Oh—oh! My boy!”

She threw her arms around him, clutching him so tightly he could barely breathe. Her shoulders shook as she buried her face in his chest.

“What happened? How did you come back?” she gasped.

“Eriyen!”

Father stood frozen in the doorway to his bedroom, his mouth slightly open. He staggered forward. “H–how?” he whispered.

Eriyen wrapped both parents in a crushing hug. None of them spoke for a moment. Eriyen blinked back a sting in his eyes. He stepped back and signed quickly, explaining what had happened.

Father’s brows knit together. “The Guardians? Never heard of them.” His expression darkened. “What do they want?”

Mother turned Eriyen’s face toward the firelight. “Is that a burn? Were you hurt?”

Eriyen waved the concern aside and recounted the ambush and rescue as best he could—and Bailen’s offer.

When he finished, the kitchen had gone quiet. Father leaned heavily against the table. Mother twisted a loose thread on her apron.

“I don’t want to leave,” Eriyen signed. “You need my help.”

Father let out a low breath. “If you stay, those star-cursed Belgarans might come right back tomorrow.”

“I know.” Eriyen’s hands moved more firmly now. “They must be stopped.”

Father snorted. “Bah. You think a handful of rebels will stop an empire?”

Eriyen hesitated, then signed: “Maybe not. But we can make it too costly for them to rule us. To abuse us.”

Mother shook her head gently. “That’s not your burden to carry, Er.”

“I can help them.”

Father studied him for a moment—fear, frustration, and pride all tangled in his gaze. “You’re going to make a fine man someday, son. But you’re not a fighter.”

Eriyen met his gaze. “I can learn.”

Father’s mouth twisted in a resigned grimace. He knew what Eriyen had decided.

Eriyen pulled out a small leather pouch from his pocket. He dropped it into Father’s hands. Coins clinked softly inside.

“The Guardians gave us a share of what they took from the soldiers. It should cover most of the taxes,” Eriyen signed.

Mother sucked in a breath.

Father loosened the pouch and peered inside. His eyes widened. “I can’t accept this.”

“You can. And you must. You’ll need to hire help for the harvest. Or Kelti will have to return.”

Father closed the pouch, lowering his gaze. “I’ve already written to him.”

Eriyen tried to picture Kelti’s reaction. He’d hate to leave the university. He’d fought too hard to get there. But would he understand?

A faint hope flickered. Would Kelti join the Guardians?

No, that wasn’t him. Kelti’s scholarly mind had always pushed him toward more academic pursuits.

Father sighed. “Where will you be?”

“They won’t tell me where their base is. Not yet.”

He could never tell them. Better that way. If the Belgarans came, they’d have nothing to hide.

“But I can visit from time to time,” he signed. “We will see each other again.”

The fire popped in the hearth.

Mother wrapped her arms around him again. “I’m proud of you,” she whispered, a slight tremble in her voice.

Father watched them. Eriyen thought the older man might argue. Instead, Father gave a slow nod. He stepped forward and cupped Eriyen’s face in both hands. “May the stars watch over you. May the earth be firm under your feet.”

Eriyen pulled him into a tight embrace.

Later that night, Eriyen stepped outside. The yard lay still under the moonlight, aside from the animals shifting softly in their pens. A faint breeze ruffled his hair—the way Mother used to brush her fingers through it when he was a boy. He crossed to the fence and checked the latch out of habit. It was loose.

He’d have to remind Father to replace it soon.

He tightened it, then moved to the next post, running his hand along the worn wood. It had taken him years, as a child, to feel comfortable working the yard alone.

After the forest, he’d clung to Mother’s skirt. Refused to leave Kelti or Father’s side.

The memories weighed heavily on his chest. That same clench in his stomach crept in at the thought of setting out for the Guardians alone.

He drew in a slow breath as he paused at another post, giving it a push to make sure it held. Pain flared through his hands.

He turned them over, studying the red, peeling skin. Father was right. These weren’t the hands of a fighter.

Not yet.

He flexed his fingers slowly. The skin pulled and burned—but they held.

Eriyen lowered his hands and looked across the dark field at his home.

Tomorrow, he would leave them behind.

He turned back toward the house.

---

Thank you for reading!

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