The road was nothing but mud and sticks. Cold wind bite at Arthur's face, soaked through his cloak, and pressed into the seams of his boots. Every step left him heavier, each mile a reminder that the world did not pause for him.
He adjusted the pack on his shoulders again. Ector's lessons echoed in muscle memory: balance, steady your weight, keep your grip firm. The sword at his side was a plain iron thing. He could feel its chill through the wrappings. It was not a weapon for glory. It was a tool, and even tools demanded care.
Is this enough? he wondered. Am I strong enough yet? Every time he asked himself, the answer felt like a weight pressing down, heavier than the back pack he carried. And still, he moved.
He had no other choice.
————±————±————±————
By midday he reached a small hamlet. Smoke rose in the air thin, gray lines from low houses, and voices carried away faintly, rough with labor. A woman knelt outside, scrubbing a garment in a frozen trough, a thin child beside her. Their eyes flicked to him, wary.
"Sir, have any pare anything?" she asked, voice quiet, measured.
Arthur reached into his pack, handing her a small loaf of bread. The child's eyes widened immediately, but the woman's expression remained neutral, as though she expected nothing more.
Do they even see me? he thought. Or am I just another shadow passing through?
"Thank you," she said. No smile. Not a tinge of warmth. Just acknowledgment.
Two men stood nearby, eyes sharp, hands lingering near crude swords. They watched Arthur a little too closely.
He kept walking. Do they mean to test me and make? Or are they only waiting for a mistake? One of them laughed. "Generous for a boy passing through."
Arthur said nothing. He didn't need to. The way the men shifted, the tension in their shoulders, told him enough.
A moment later, they let him pass. Not out of respect. Not out of fear. Because the moment had not ripened yet into an opportunity.
Arthur's shoulders dropped slightly once the hamlet faded behind him. He had given what he could, avoided conflict, preserved a life. Yet unease gnawed at him. Did I do the right thing? Could I have done more? It was not relief. It was awareness. Every choice he make had cost something, even if he could not name it yet.
————±————±————±————
By evening, he left the main road, following a narrow hollow toward the hills. He built a small fire, low and careful, hiding its glow from anyone who might pass.
The quiet lasted only a little while before sounds reached him: A— cart, slow and heavy, drawn by a horse too tired to protest. 10 men walked alongside it; a third rode atop the load, chains rattling beneath a crude canvas covering.
Arthur's stomach tightened.
He did not even need to see to know what was beneath. He could imagine the weight of bodies pressed together, the muffled moans, the desperation. The ownership. The chains. The stripping of will.
And here I am powerless.
'No not yet.'
He clenched his fists around his sword, imagining the strike, the clash of steel, the cries of men freed.
Then he imagined the aftermath. Blood. Chaos. Questions he could not answer. Who would protect them when he left? Who would guide them? Who could survive the chaos he would leave behind?
Arthur loosened his grip. He could not act now at least—not yet.
Patience is a weapon, too, he reminded himself. I need strength first. Discipline. Wisdom.
The cart passed, and he stayed hidden until the last clatter faded. Returning to the fire, he stared into the embers. Nothing felt lighter. The knowledge that he could intervene, and had chosen not to, pressed into his chest like stone.
Am I already failing before my journey has begun?
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He lay awake that night, eyes open to the dark. The weight of failure did not sting with immediate pain—it lingered, slow, insidious. He was alone. Unprepared. Immature in the only ways that mattered.
Is this what it means to be a king? To always carry the cost of choices you cannot undo?
Morning came, gray and silent. Arthur packed quickly, dousing the fire until the earth swallowed it. He would not swear. He did not vow. He did not call upon destiny. He only acknowledged a simple, bitter truth: walking away was also a choice.
Next time, I will not no I cannot turn my back.
————±————±————±————
By the river, the water ran cold and gray. Arthur washed the dust and sweat from his hands, staring at his reflection. The boy who looked back at him was not the boy who had left the household. He was heavier, sharper, a little more aware of the weight he carried—and the cost it demanded.
Who am I, if not the sum of the choices I've made? he thought. And who and what will I become when I make the choice ones I must choose?
He had survived. He had learned. He had failed. And somehow, the road continued.
And so must I.