The spear warrior left at dawn.
He did not give Edward comfort.
He did not give him praise.
He did not even give him his name.
"Go back," the man had said, tying his cloak. "If there's anything left."
Edward walked alone.
The smoke had thinned by the time he reached the village.
What remained did not look like home.
Charred beams.
Collapsed roofs.
Ash drifting like grey snow.
There were bodies.
Covered with cloth.
Some not covered at all.
Edward searched.
He didn't know what he was hoping for.
A miracle, perhaps.
He found her near the edge of the square.
Elsa.
Someone had closed her eyes.
Her small hands were folded awkwardly over her chest.
She looked smaller than he remembered.
Like she had already begun to fade.
Edward knelt beside her.
He waited for tears.
They did not come.
Instead, something else settled inside him.
Heavy.
Permanent.
He had run.
And she had not.
---
The village did not rebuild.
There were not enough people left for that.
The survivors scattered.
Edward left with nothing but a small cloth bag and a vow he did not yet
understand how to fulfill.
He found work wherever he could.
Carrying crates.
Cleaning stables.
Digging trenches.
Anything that paid in coins instead of sympathy.
He trained at night.
With sticks at first.
Then with rusted blades he bought cheap from traveling merchants.
He swung until his palms bled.
He ran until his lungs burned.
He fell.
He stood up.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But talent never came.
Other boys his age learned quickly.
Their movements sharpened.
Their strength grew naturally.
Edward remained average.
Always a step slower.
A strike weaker.
A breath shorter.
He noticed.
Others noticed too.
"You're working too hard for someone like you," a local guard once told
him with mild amusement. "Not everyone is meant to be a hero."
Edward didn't argue.
He simply bowed.
And returned to training that night.
He did not want to be a hero.
He only wanted—
Not to run.
---
Years passed.
He grew taller.
Lean rather than broad.
Scars mapped his arms from clumsy mistakes.
At nineteen, he applied to the Adventurer's Guild in a nearby town.
They tested him.
Sword forms.
Endurance.
Reaction.
The guild officer frowned at the results.
"You're persistent," the man said.
Edward waited.
"But unremarkable."
The word stung more than he expected.
Unremarkable.
He bowed again.
"I understand."
He was given the lowest rank.
Errand work.
Herb gathering.
Rat infestations.
He took everything.
Never complained.
Never refused.
Other adventurers laughed at how many small jobs he accepted.
"You'll die before you climb ranks like that," one joked.
Edward only smiled faintly.
If climbing slowly meant not failing again—
He would climb slowly.
---
At twenty-five, Edward was decent.
Not strong.
Not famous.
But steady.
He could hold his ground against a pack of goblins.
He could endure wounds without panicking.
He could think clearly under pressure.
That alone made him valuable in a world filled with reckless bravery.
He rented a small room above a bakery.
The owner liked him.
"You're quiet," she would say, handing him leftover bread. "Quiet men
live longer."
Edward wasn't sure that was true.
But he appreciated the bread.
Sometimes, late at night—
He would dream of a burning sky.
Of a girl standing in front of him.
Of a back that never looked back.
He always woke before she fell.
---
One evening, a request was posted at the guild hall.
Low rank.
Simple extermination.
"Goblin Pack — Western Cave System."
Edward stared at the notice longer than necessary.
Goblins were manageable.
Predictable.
Dangerous in numbers, but not clever.
It was safe work.
Safe was good.
He tore the notice down.
"I'll take it," he said.
The guild officer glanced up.
"Alone?"
Edward nodded.
A pause.
Then a shrug.
"Don't be reckless."
"I won't."
He never was.
---
The western cave sat near the edge of a forest that felt older than it
should.
The air there was damp.
Heavy.
Edward adjusted his grip on his sword as he approached.
He expected noise.
Goblins were loud creatures.
Crude laughter.
Bickering.
The smell of decay.
Instead—
Silence.
He slowed.
Step by step.
Inside the cave, he found them.
Dead.
Every single one.
Clean wounds.
Not claw marks.
Not torn flesh.
Crushed.
Burned.
Some split apart by force far greater than any goblin could manage.
Edward's brow furrowed.
This wasn't normal.
He moved deeper.
Careful.
The air grew warmer.
Not naturally warm.
Oppressively warm.
Like something immense was breathing in the dark.
Then—
He heard it.
A slow exhale.
Heavy.
Pained.
Edward's hand tightened around his sword.
He stepped forward.
And saw—
A shape in the cavern's deepest chamber.
Massive.
Wounded.
Scales dulled with blood.
Eyes half-lidded.
A dragon.
And beside it—
Something small.
Something moving.
Edward froze.
His heart began to pound.
This was not goblin work.
This was beyond his rank.
Beyond his ability.
Beyond his vow.
The dragon's eye shifted.
And met his.