The Forsaken Hero

The party assembled in the common room, which was practically empty after the night’s festivities. The villagers had returned to their farms and trades around the village, and, much to my relief, the richly dressed merchant from before was gone.

"You sleep alright?" Tana asked, sliding into the seat next to me.

I looked down at my lap, as she set a tray of breakfast in front of me. "Yes."

She pursed her lips together. "Really? You look worse than when you went to bed. Is something bothering you?"

I shook my head, carefully avoiding her concerned gaze, and jumped as a loud clatter startled me from the other side of the table.

"Sorry," Sorrin muttered, settling into his chair. "I forget how easily you startle. Dyson’s out getting information right now, and we’ll leave as soon as he gets back. Do you have everything?"

Nodding, I tapped my spatial ring. It contained everything I’d used on my last adventure, as well as whatever additional materials Thron thoughtfully provided. My most prized possession among the contents was the librarian’s hastily scrawled note, weathered by use, tear-stained, its creases delicate from countless openings and closings. I’d been reluctant to examine the spellbooks, not only because my soul was far from being able to handle them, but because I felt that they were a final parting gift from Thron, and to read them would be to accept that I’d never see him again.

Dyson returned shortly, coming through the inn doors scarcely a minute after we set aside our table scraps. As we departed Westfall Village, I couldn’t help but look behind. Two Foxkin children stood between the houses, nearly swallowed up in the commotion of the village square. Their ears perked up as they caught my gaze, and they both began waving excitedly.

I looked at them for a moment, not quite sure what to do. People had always been waving at Soltair, but what had he done to respond? Nothing I thought of felt proper.

Tana nudged me, smiling. "Wave back," she whispered.

Oh. That made sense.