By the time Galen left the forest and turned his feet towards home, his relief had long vanished, and his anger turned poisonous. Self-loathing crawled around his gut with insect legs and chewed at his heart.

The man had been a thief, clearly—or maybe worse—and the 'trackers' had undoubtedly been the Guard, hot on his tail. If only Galen hadn't been such a coward, he might have helped capture a criminal, and still have his pendant to boot.

"Or you might be a corpse in the woods, with ants eating your eyes by now," he muttered to himself, and kicked a loose stone down the dusty dirt road.

If the man had wanted to kill him, he would have, and nothing Galen did could have stopped him. Most Thrynian twelve-year-olds were taller and weighed more than he did.

As the high wooden gates of the town of Dern came into sight, Galen sighed again. The words carved into the arch above it reflected Thrynian values, and did nothing to boost his spirits.

STRENGTH IN ARMS. HONOR IN VALOR. VIRTUE IN SERVICE.

Strength and Honor were what Thrynians respected most, and one proved these traits through service in the Guard. As they also believed it was impossible to have the first of each set without the second, someone like Galen, therefore, lacked all.

Not everyone thought that way, of course. Harrald had told Galen there were many kinds of strength, many paths to honor, and virtue in all of them. But his opinions were far from popular.

Not that Thrynians were cruel or uncaring; quite the opposite. They considered it their duty to protect the weak and less capable. In their view, that included most of the other races of Sakkara. In Thrynian society, though, the hierarchy was based on the values inscribed above the gates of Dern, and any who failed to live up to them were looked down upon.

Harrald had never pressured Galen to be a fighter, though; if anything, he discouraged him from pushing himself too hard—especially as the physical differences between him and his Thrynian peers grew more noticeable. He showed such concern any time Galen was hurt, in fact, that Galen had taken to hiding his injuries. He healed quickly, anyway, and he didn't need any extra reminders of his weakness.

Especially today.

Passing through the gates, which remained open until sunset, he made his way down a wide cobbled street, and then up a narrower one, winding his way around the large, round hill on which Dern was built. Thrynian towns tended to be built in such a fashion, with the town's sheriff residing in a manor at the top of the hill, the most valorous of the Guard living closest thereto, and the weakest and least valued living at the bottom.

Fortunately, Harrald had accumulated a great deal of virtue and valor over his long career, and though not wealthy, resided in a small house in a respectable area about halfway up the tangle of sloping streets.

By the time Galen reached it, sweat dampened his undershirt and his heart beat a healthy tempo in his breast. The front door was painted blue, to represent Harrald's retired status and honorable service. Little children left fresh flowers there on festival days, and the street sweeper cleaned the step every morning before dawn.

Galen let himself in through the side gate and paused for a moment. From the backyard, he heard the rhythmic clink, clink, clink of a small hammer, which told him Harrald was at his forge, probably working on a piece of chainmail. At least the old man wouldn't see him returning from the forest with bruises and scrapes, this time.

Stealthily, and feeling not much better than a thief or spy himself, Galen unlocked a far less prestigious door with a small, rusty key.

The cellar was Galen's domain, where he kept his healing herbs and other ingredients, and where he experimented and invented new remedies. Harrald didn't take much interest in it, but let him do as he pleased, for which Galen was immensely grateful.

Inside, he shifted his knapsack off his shoulder, flinching as the strap scraped over a bruise and carefully unpacked the various plants and fungi he'd collected that day. He winced as he lifted out the wicker basket containing the mushroom caps. It was crushed on one side, and when he opened it, he found his fears confirmed: the mushrooms had not survived his encounter with the pendant thief.

At least he knew where to go to look for more.

With his remaining ingredients properly stored, Galen climbed the wooden steps to the kitchen, and checked on the vegetable stew he'd set to cook on the coals hours earlier. It was perfect. With a mix of masa flour and leavening, he'd make a simple bread to go with it. He knew Harrald liked meat; he ate it at festivals and the houses of friends any chance he got. But Galen hated to touch dead flesh, and for as long as he remembered, the house had been vegetarian—another oddity in Thryn.

Carefully, he set the top back on the old cast-iron pot, and then winced and nearly dropped it as his sprained wrist protested.

He'd have to wrap it; but if he wore long sleeves and was careful, Harrald wouldn't notice, and it would heal in a day or so.

Leaving the kitchen, he entered the common room, where a long table flanked by benches stretched before an impressive hearth. The table represented the measure of Harrald's status, with places for many comrades in arms, and when Galen was small it was often packed shoulder to shoulder with burly women and men, laughing loudly over shared memories and mugs of ale.

In recent years, it had seen less use, and more often than not had seated only two.

Passing it, Galen ascended the stairs to the second level, where a hallway divided Harrald's room from his. In his room, he stripped out of his sweaty, dirtied clothes, and bathed himself as best he could with his washstand and a bit of cloth. Then he smeared a healing salve of his own invention over his wrist and wrapped it in bandages, before changing into more comfortable attire.

With his injury treated and suitably concealed, he returned to the kitchen, made up the bread, and set it to bake in a pan. Finally, with everything cleaned and the day's meal at the ready, he used the bit of free time he had to indulge in his favorite activity, and read.

-✵-

Books were rare in Thryn. Children were taught to read—everyone was expected to understand signs and posted notices, and later written missives passed among the Guard—but knowledge took a back seat to more physical talents.

When Galen showed a passion for it, though, Harrald had made an effort to acquire whatever volumes he could, whenever he could. He'd given them to Galen on his birthdays, or on high festival days, and Galen treasured every single one.

It had to be admitted that Harrald was not particularly discerning, however, and the selection was borderline comedic.

Galen owned a book of Yuthi recipes (most of which called for ingredients he'd never heard of) a dry, classic History of Sakkara, and a pamphlet titled Treatise on the Relative Discordance of the Celestial Primaries at Variable Temporal Foci and the Possible Arcane Applications Thereof, written by someone named 'Tim,' among various other tomes.

He loved and treasured each of them, even if he understood less than half of what they contained.

Absorbing himself with his most recent acquisition—a fascinating study on the various insects found throughout Sakkara—he was only roused from it by the slam of the back door, signaling that Harrald had finished his work for the day, and would soon be ready for his meal.

Galen set aside his book with care and descended quickly to the kitchen. The bread was done, the stew still hot, and he carried both to the table, wincing again as the strain hurt his injured wrist.

He sat and waited for Harrald to descend from his room. The old man came down a few minutes later, drying his hand on a cloth. His other arm ended at the elbow.

That wasn't the injury that had finished his career in the Guard, though; that was the twist in his back from when his horse had fallen in battle and crushed him beneath her.

Lowering himself into his seat with a groan, Harrald waited while Galen served him, ladling steaming stew into a large wooden bowl, along with a square of bread topped with fresh butter mixed with honey—a small luxury.

Then he waited a little longer, while Galen served himself.

"Delicious, as always," Harrald said, slurping a spoonful of stew. "If you get bored of medicine, the best kitchens in Tal p'Nir could do worse than to hire you."

"As if," Galen scoffed. The Sakkaran capital was known for its fine cuisine. Galen was certain vegetable stew and masa bread were not on the menu. Besides, cooks were little more valued that healers, though both were necessary to keep warriors alive. But Harrald often suggested such things, as if even being a lowly healer might be too dangerous for someone like Galen.

"I'm serious," Harrald said, glancing up over the rim of his bowl. His frizzled red-blonde hair was mostly gray now, and his rugged face was lined and crisscrossed with scars, but Galen could still see how he might have been a handsome man, once. He'd always wondered why Harrald had never married. "They'd be lucky to have you. If you can make a few veggies taste this good, I'd love to see what you could do with better fare."

Galen's mouth twisted, and he bit off a piece of dry bread and chewed it, hoping to disguise his expression. It was a compliment—he knew—but it had unintended barbs, nonetheless. If Galen were a fighter, he'd be in the Guard, making a decent salary, and they'd have enough money for 'better fare.' So, too, if he managed to get an apprenticeship in the Capital, he'd be able to send money home, and make a name for himself at the same time. Earn 'honor,' in his own way.

He swallowed, and then Harrald reached across the table and grasped his arm.

"I didn't mean it that way, Gale," he said, his wiry brows pinched. "I mean you're good at what you do. Worthy of praise. You know I don't give it, otherwise."

This was true, and Galen sniffed and nodded. Harrald was a man of few words, and he didn't waste them. When he spoke, he meant what he said.

Then Harrald squeezed Galen's wrist in a gesture of reassurance, and Galen flinched and withdrew his arm.

Harrald froze. "Are you hurt?"

Galen shook his head.

"Galen..."

Galen shut his eyes and sighed. When his adoptive father used that tone, he knew there was no point in trying to hide.

He pulled up his sleeve, exposing the bandages. "I fell," he said. "It's nothing."

"Hmm." Harrald sat back, arms crossed. "Show me."

Reluctantly, Galen lifted his soft cotton shirt, revealing the bruises on his abdomen and chest.

Harrald scowled, his eyes traveling Galen's thin form, taking in every detail.

"How did this happen?"

"I told you, I—"

Harrald cut him off in a sharper tone. "Galen. How did you get those bruises, and where is your pendant?" 

There was a reason he was among the foremost Watchers in the Guard; nothing escaped him.

Galen bit his lip. He'd never been good at lying to his father, but the stranger had warned him not to speak of him, and the last thing Galen wanted was to bring trouble on Harrald's house.

"I wasn't paying attention," he said, which was true enough, "and I fell. I must have lost my pendant at the same time."

"Where?"

"The forest," Galen admitted.

"Where in the forest?" Harrald pressed.

Galen bit his lip. "Near... Out near the Wild Green."

Harrald's eyes narrowed, and Galen braced himself for the full interrogation. To his surprise, Harrald drew a breath through his nose and returned his attention to his meal.

"Perhaps it's for the best. That necklace was a piece of the past, and it's best to leave the past be."

He chewed a piece of masa bread, swallowed carefully, and took a bracing gulp of ale. Then he spoke the words that Galen feared.

"But you're not to go into the forest again, understand?"

Galen bristled.

"But, Father, I have to! All the best ingredients are—"

Harrald thunked his mug on the table with a force that made Galen start. His voice was rough, and carried the authority of the former Captain he was.

"I said no. You're to stay within the region patrolled by the Guard, and you're not to stray so near the Wild Green again. Do you understand me, Gale? If you can't defend yourself, then..." He huffed in frustration and rubbed his hand over his grizzled face.

Galen lowered his gaze and studied the rough surface of the table. Not high craftsmanship, but sturdy and strong, and... useful. Unlike him.

"Yes," he whispered. "I understand."

No longer hungry, he rose and gathered up his bowl and utensils.

"Gale, wait. I didn't mean—"

Harrald tried to rise as well, but sat back down with a grunt. He'd been hard at work all day, and his back undoubtedly hurt him.

"I'll bring you some mint salve, later," Galen said. "And some willow tea. Don't worry about the mess."

Taking his bowl to the kitchen, he washed it, and left Harrald to enjoy the rest of his meal in peace. As he brewed the tea and prepared the salve he'd promised, though, he made a vow to himself.

As much as he hated it, he'd learn to fight, so the next time someone tried to take something that was his, he'd be able to defend himself. With honor and valor. And even if it killed him, he'd make Harrald proud.

Luckily, he had the perfect teacher in mind.