The wind was sharp as Kaelis rode Valrion through the thinning woods, the trees bowing low with the weight of dusk. Her injuries still ached, hidden beneath cloth and hardened resolve, but Valrion moved with purpose. The Embersteed seemed to know where it was going, its hooves striking the earth with rhythm as steady as a war drum.
In the distance, nestled between the shadows of two hills, a faint plume of smoke rose. Not from ruin, Kaelis hoped. Just hearths, she told herself. Yet something in the air—something tight and tremulous—told her otherwise.
The village was called Windmere. Small, humble, but not without charm. Cob houses leaned together like old friends. Children scattered at the sight of the approaching steed. Men looked up from broken tools, and women pulled their cloaks tighter, peering past doorways.
Kaelis dismounted slowly, boots crunching over gravel. Valrion snorted and remained close.
"Ho, traveler," came a voice. An old man approached with a limp, gripping a hoe like a weapon. His gray beard swayed with every step. "You do not look like one of them."
"One of whom?" Kaelis asked.
The man looked behind her, then around, as if fearful the air itself might betray him.
"Varren's riders," he said. "They come at dusk now. Take what they will. Food. Tools. Daughters."
Kaelis felt her jaw tighten. "How many?"
"No more than ten. But bold, armed. They say they act for some greater cause. The gods or some such nonsense."
Kaelis turned to the gathering crowd. Tired faces. Frightened children. Ragged men who once must've been proud hunters and workers.
"How many blades do you own?"
A murmuring passed. Someone produced a rusted cleaver. Another, a pitchfork.
"Tools," Kaelis murmured. "But with enough resolve, they will do."
The old man blinked. "Do what, exactly?"
Kaelis looked him dead in the eye. "Defend what is yours."
An hour passed. The villagers gathered in the open square. Kaelis stood on a crate, sword across her back, hair still damp from her ride. Her voice, formal and sharp, cut through the gathering dusk.
"You fear death. That is no weakness. But if you cower and let evil go unchallenged, you give death permission to claim more than your lives—you give it your dignity."
Eyes turned upward. Some doubtful, some hopeful.
"Varren's men are not gods. They bleed. I have seen them fall. And I have seen courage rise from smaller hearts than yours."
A woman asked, voice shaking, "But what can we do? We have no training."
Kaelis descended from the crate. "Then we learn. In haste, perhaps. But it will suffice."
She taught them how to stand, how to hold a weapon, how to strike. How not to flinch. She posted watchers on rooftops. Dug shallow ditches. Positioned carts and barrels to create chokepoints.
By the time the sun kissed the horizon, Windmere had become a makeshift fortress.
The riders came—just as the old man said. Ten of them. Confident. Laughing as they approached.
"Another dusty patch of the map," one spat. "Another offering for the gods."
Their laughter died the moment they entered the village and saw the barricades.
Kaelis stood at the center of the path, her dress patched, her blade in hand.
"Turn back," she warned.
The leader of the riders, a bearded brute with a spiked helm, sneered. "Or what? You'll pray us away?"
"No," she said. "I shall cleave you from spine to throat."
Battle broke like a thunderclap.
Kaelis was a tempest—darting between blows, parrying, disabling with precision. Villagers fought with desperation, but now with direction. They overwhelmed two riders near the well, one man breaking his rake over a bandit's head. Another woman slammed a pot into a rider's helmet, dazing him just long enough for a child to stab his leg.
It was over in minutes. Four dead, five fled, one captured.
Kaelis stood in the square, blood on her cheek, sword heavy in her hand.
The villagers stared. Some cried. Some smiled. Some simply breathed for the first time in weeks.
The old man stepped forward. "You... you saved us."
Kaelis looked at him. Her eyes softened. "You saved yourselves. I only reminded you how."
As the stars blinked awake overhead, she walked beyond the crowd, leading Valrion to a hilltop.
She sat in silence, recalling Jobe's words:
"Leadership is not in commands. It is in service. In walking where others dare not, and standing so others may rest."
Kaelis looked back at Windmere—torches lighting homes once again, voices lifted in quiet song. Then she looked to the dark horizon, where Varren's shadow still stretched.
She tightened her grip on Valrion's reins.
"There is much to do yet."
And rode into the dark.