Chapter 47 : The Neighbors Beyond the Field
The morning air was sharp, filled with the smell of dew and soil. I was tugging on Father’s sleeve, pointing to the basket of monster ash he carried.
“Trading trip, huh?” he muttered, more to himself than me. “Can’t farm without tools.”
I nodded furiously. “I’m coming too!”
He gave me a look—half stern, half amused. “…Fine. But you stay close.”
We walked past the growing tree, its green glow lighting the path like a lantern. Beyond it, the land sloped gently toward a dirt road I hadn’t noticed before, worn by wheels and hooves.
As we followed it, signs of life appeared. Smoke rose in the distance. Wooden fences leaned crookedly against the wind. A few scattered houses stood, patched with whatever wood or stone people could find.
I blinked. “Papa… there are other people here?”
He gave a short nod. “Aye. The borderland’s no paradise, but not everyone sent here dies. Some… choose it.”
The first person we passed was an old woman sitting on a porch, grinding herbs with gnarled hands. She looked up as we passed, her eyes narrowing.
“Valemont, eh? Thought you lot were too proud to live among dirt and ash.”
Father didn’t answer. He only adjusted the basket on his back and kept walking.
I clutched his sleeve tighter.
A little further, children darted past us, chasing a ragged ball. They paused when they saw me, whispering behind their hands. One beastkin boy with furry ears pointed and whispered, “That’s the exile kid.”
My cheeks burned.
But then one girl tilted her head, eyes widening as she whispered, “He’s kind of… pretty.”
The others giggled. My face turned redder, and Father’s grunt of disapproval nearly shook the ground.
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At the hamlet’s center was a small market square—if you could call it that. A handful of stalls, patched tents, crates of dried goods, skins, and battered tools.
A broad-shouldered man with scars across his arms waved Father down. “Darius Valemont! Thought I’d never see you trading your own hands instead of swinging steel.”
Father scowled. “…Good to see you alive, Rask.”
The man laughed. “Alive, aye, though barely. Beasts don’t let us rest easy out here.”
His gaze flicked to me, then back to Father. “That your boy?”
I straightened my back, puffing my chest out. “Rooga Valemont!”
Rask chuckled. “Brave little thing. Watch that one, Darius. Borderlands raise boys into men faster than you’d like.”
Father’s silence was his only answer.
As we left with a sack of tools, I glanced back at the hamlet. People watched us with mixed eyes—fear, envy, curiosity, and something else I couldn’t name.
The HUD flickered faintly:
[Community Discovered: Borderland Hamlet]I gripped Father’s sleeve tighter. “Papa… are we gonna live with them?”[Reputation: Neutral]
His eyes stayed on the road ahead. “No, Rooga. We’ll live beside them. Not with them.”
And I understood—
Even here, we were different.
As we made to leave the market, Father slowed, his eyes narrowing at the sound of hammer on steel.
Clang! Clang!
The steady rhythm echoed from a squat building at the square’s edge, smoke curling from its chimney. A forge.
Father muttered, almost to himself, “This place still stands?”
We stepped inside. The heat hit me first, hot enough to sting my cheeks. The smell of metal and soot filled the air. At the anvil stood a broad man, his hair streaked with grey, his arms corded with muscle.
He looked up. His eyes widened. “Darius Valemont.”
Father’s jaw tightened. “…Torren.”
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy with old memories. Then the man chuckled, setting his hammer down. “Never thought I’d see the Empire’s Sword exiled to my backwater forge. Guess the world still has humor left in it.”
Father’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “…Still breaking steel instead of bones, I see.”
The two clasped forearms, the sound firm, like iron striking iron.
I blinked between them, wide-eyed. “Papa, you know him?”
Father nodded. “We fought side by side once.”
Torren laughed. “Aye. And he still owes me three casks of ale.”
Before I could ask more, movement caught my eye.
From the back room came a girl, her hair tied up in a messy bun streaked with soot, her apron too big for her frame. She looked about Elara’s age, maybe a little older, her arms strong from swinging a hammer.
Her eyes fell on me—and widened.
“You’re… pretty,” she blurted.
My face turned red instantly. “I-I’m not pretty! I’m a boy!”
She tilted her head, grinning mischievously. “Then you’re a pretty boy.”
Torren barked a laugh. “Rooga, meet my daughter, Kaela. She’s sharper than she looks—and louder too.”
“Dad!” she hissed, smacking his arm with a rag.
I puffed my cheeks, crossing my arms. “Hmph!”
But her grin only widened, and I felt the heat of the forge creep into my ears.
Father clapped Torren on the shoulder. “Good to see a familiar face here. Maybe… this borderland isn’t as empty as I thought.”
And for the first time, I thought—maybe neighbors weren’t so bad after all.