The village nestled between rolling hills like a secret cupped in gentle palms. Dawn light spilled over thatched roofs, glinting off morning dew. Smoke curled from stone chimneys in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of pine and bread. Farmers trudged toward their fields, tools slung over bent shoulders. Dogs barked. Children laughed. Life continued.

  Norn watched it all with detached interest.

  He sat outside the barn, legs crossed in the dirt, methodically running a whetstone along a scythe's curved blade. The metal sang with each stroke—a high, thin sound that cut through morning birdsong. His movements were precise, economical. Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.

  "A few weeks here," he thought, testing the edge with his thumb. "Longest I've stayed anywhere since... the Reavers."

  He was twenty-two now—leaner, harder than the man two years ago who had fled the Maw. Sinew stretched over bone like rope, face weathered beyond his years. He'd grown a short beard that did little to soften the rigid line of his jaw. His eyes, once wide with terror, had narrowed into permanent vigilance.

  The sleeve of his threadbare shirt rode up, revealing the brand. The Ashmark pulsed dully against his skin—fainter now, but still alive. Still present. A ghost of its old fury. He yanked the fabric down with practiced quickness.

  A shadow fell across his work.

  "Morning," said the village elder, a basket of fresh bread propped against his hip. Gray stubble peppered his chin, and his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. "You've been at that since first light."

  Norn didn't look up. "Blade was dull."

  "You've got a steady hand, wanderer," the old man said, watching Norn's methodical strokes. "Ever think of putting down roots?"

  The whetstone paused mid-stroke. Norn's grip tightened around the wooden handle, knuckles whitening. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  "Tools break," he said flatly. "People leave."

  The elder's smile flickered but held. He'd grown used to Norn's abruptness over the months. "Well, there's fresh bread when you're hungry," he said, placing a small loaf on the stump beside Norn. "My wife insists."

  He left without waiting for thanks. He wouldn't receive any.

  Norn waited until the elder's footsteps faded before reaching for the bread. It was still warm, the crust crackling beneath his fingertips. He tore it methodically into pieces, chewing without tasting.

  "I should move on," he thought, not for the first time. "Getting too comfortable here."

  But comfort wasn't the problem. He'd never been comfortable. Every night, he arranged chairs against his door. Every meal, he sat with his back to the wall. Every conversation ended before it started.

  The problem was routine.

  Dawn rose. He worked. Sun set. He slept. Dawn rose again.

  No purpose. No direction. Just... existing.

  By midday, Norn had butchered a deer for the innkeeper's wife. Blood coated his forearms like gauntlets, yet his face remained detached as he separated muscle from bone. His movements were mechanical—efficient in a way that made the innkeeper's boy stare a moment too long.

  "You cut meat like my pa cuts men," the child said, eyes wide.

  Norn's hand stilled. The knife hovered over sinew.

  The innkeeper quickly shooed her son away, muttering apologies. Norn said nothing. The knife resumed its work.

  Afterward, he mended a fence at the eastern edge of the village, wood splinters digging into his palms. He pulled them out with his teeth, spitting them into the dirt. The pain was a companion he understood.

  That night, he stood guard at the gates, dagger loose in his grip. The village had no militia, only farmers with pitchforks and ancient hunting bows. They'd been lucky. Bandits considered them too poor to bother with. The Reavers considered them too insignificant to burn.

  For now.

  Norn's eyes scanned the darkness beyond the wooden palisade. Nothing moved except wind in the trees. His thumb traced the dagger's hilt—worn smooth from years of the same motion.

  “Hunt. Work. Sleep. Repeat.”

  The words ticked through his mind like a metronome.

  “No purpose. No direction. Just... existing.”

  When his shift ended, he tossed a handful of copper coins onto his bedroll, counting them by moonlight. Barely enough to fill a small pouch. Barely enough for a week on the road.

  Not yet.

  But soon.

  The tavern was crowded that night—farmers celebrating the first harvest cull. Ale flowed. Fiddles screeched. Bodies swayed in drunken circles around the hearth.

  Norn sat alone in the corner, nursing a single mug. The shadows clung to him like old friends, keeping the revelry at arm's length. Villagers laughed around him, but the sound seemed to bend around his silence, as if joy itself knew better than to touch him.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  His fingers twitched against the wooden mug. Not from fear—from disuse. Violence had always lived in his hands, coiled like a serpent waiting to strike. The longer it slept, the deeper it burrowed.

  A farmer approached, swaying slightly, courage borrowed from three mugs of ale.

  "You saved my friend’s ass last week," he said, sliding onto the bench across from Norn. "The wolves would've killed his family."

  Norn grunted. The wolves had died quickly—five arrows, five kills. No waste. No cruelty. Just necessity. The way the Maw had taught him.

  "My fields border the western road," the farmer continued, leaning forward. "We've been having... trouble."

  Norn's eyes flicked up.

  "Bandits," the farmer whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "They've been threatening us the last few weeks. Said they’ll take what they want, burn the rest."

  Something stirred behind Norn's gaze. The pattern was familiar: isolated targets, regular timing, intimidation tactics.

  "How many?" Norn asked, voice low.

  Relief and fear warred in the farmer's expression. "Around five, maybe six? I’m sure they’ll be coming tonight… can you handle it..?”

  Norn took a slow sip of ale. "Double my usual pay."

  "Done." The farmer nodded eagerly.

  No complications. The serpent uncoiled.

  The moon hung bloated and yellow above the western fields, illuminating the scene in sickly light. The bandits surrounded the farmer's cart, torches in hand, their shadows dancing grotesquely across the muddy road. Five men, as promised, though "men" was generous—two were barely old enough to shave.

  They wore mismatched armor, dented and stained. But their weapons were clean, well-maintained. Their leader wore a green kerchief tied around his arm. His grin flashed yellow beneath a patchy beard as he pressed a jagged knife to the farmer's throat.

  "Nice of you to deliver supper—" he began.

  The arrow took him through the chest before he could finish. He dropped like a stone, knife clattering uselessly in the mud.

  The others froze, eyes darting in the blinding darkness.

  Norn was already moving.

  He flowed from shadow to shadow, silent as death. His dagger flashed once, twice, three times. Blood arced across the moonlight. Bodies fell in his wake.

  "This, at least, I remember how to do." he thought, blade sliding between ribs with surgical precision.

  No wasted motion. No hesitation. Years of training took control, muscle memory guiding the blade with cold efficiency. He was not a fighter; he was a mechanism—a tool designed for this single purpose.

  The last bandit, barely sixteen, dropped his sword and ran for the trees. Norn's dagger found the back of his head before he made it three steps.

  Silence returned to the clearing.

  The farmer stood frozen, hands still raised in surrender, surrounded by corpses. Blood pooled in the moonlight, black as tar. Norn wiped his blade clean on a dead man's shirt, his breath steady. Too steady.

  Five attacks. Five dead. Just like the Maw drills.

  Norn thought, sheathing his dagger.

  The farmer stared at him, gratitude twisting into something closer to fear as he took in Norn's calm posture, the way he stepped over bodies like they were firewood.

  "T-that was… unexpected…" the farmer stammered, backing away slightly.

  Norn's eyes snapped to the man's face. For a heartbeat, his irises contracted—for a split second, they reflected not the farmer, but his own face, mouthing those hollow words from years ago: "...I'm not one of those beasts."

  “LIAR.” something inside him snarled.

  Norn replied simply. "Your cart's intact. Go home."

  The water in the tavern's back room was cold enough to numb his hands, but Norn scrubbed anyway, watching blood swirl and dissipate. Pink water sluiced between his fingers, staining the wooden bucket. He scrubbed until his skin cracked, raw and angry.

  For a moment, the blood seemed to form a pattern in the water—the Black Sigil Reavers' spiral insignia—before dissolving into formless red.

  Memory crashed over him like a wave:

  Fourteen-year-old Norn kneeling in the Maw, a Reaver's hand heavy on his shoulder as they watched a prisoner beg for mercy. The man had stolen bread. Nothing more.

  "This is what you are now, Ashmark," the Reaver had whispered, breath hot against Norn's ear. "The blade doesn't judge."

  In the present, Norn's fist crashed into the bucket, sending red water splashing across the floorboards. The wooden vessel cracked, a jagged splinter embedding itself in his knuckle. He didn't flinch.

  “The blade doesn't judge,” he thought, watching fresh blood bead along the cut. “But I remember.”

  That night, Norn jolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, his dagger already drawn. Moonlight sliced through shutters, illuminating the small inn room in bars of silver and shadow. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  Three fresh scratches marked his forearm—self-inflicted, still weeping. He'd done it in his sleep again. Trying to tear out the Ashmark.

  The wall beside his bed seemed to bleed into the shape of a small handprint. Elia's hand. The girl from the ruins. Her voice whispered through the darkness:

  You promised you weren't like them.

  The brand on his arm seared black for the first time in years, emitting thin wisps of smoke. Not from Reaver proximity—from shame.

  “I lied to her,“ Norn thought, watching the Ashmark pulse. “I lie every time I hold a blade.”

  But the killing came so easily. So naturally. As if his body had been born for it.

  Dawn crept through the shutters, finding Norn still awake, still clutching his dagger. The sounds of the village drifted through the window—laughter, barking dogs, a cart's wheels groaning over stone. Life continuing, unaware.

  The broken fragment of Elia's emerald pendant rested against his chest, cold against his skin. He'd kept it all these years, a talisman of failure.

  Her voice, faint but clear, echoed from memory:

  "You're different from the others…”

  Norn stared at the ceiling, wide awake.

  “I'm not.” he thought.

  Outside, he dumped a bucket of icy water over his head, washing away night sweats. The villagers gave him a wide berth, whispering about last night's "heroics." A child pointed. A woman crossed herself.

  In the puddle at his feet, his reflection distorted, briefly showing not his face but a Reaver's cruel smirk. He stomped it into mud.

  In the fields, he worked the harvest like a machine, scythe moving with the same lethal precision as his dagger. The blade sang through wheat, cutting clean and deep. An old woman watched, crossing herself again.

  "This is the truth," Norn thought, sweat rolling down his spine as the sun climbed higher. "I saved them because killing is the only thing I've ever been good at."

  The scythe flashed. The wheat fell.

  Nothing wasted. Nothing excessive.

  Just another kind of violence.