Chapter 20

Breathe His Native Air

> The productive lands surrounding the Great Cities were often granted as leases to peasants of promise, men and women who could bring life to what was thought barren. Many of my peers believe that this upstart program breeds malcontent, laying the foundation for rebellious power bases. But I maintain that the yeomans who till the land for the Empire learn humility beneath the yoke, their labor a bond that enriches both the soil and strengthens their loyalty to the Crown. Upon the leaseholder's death, the land returns to the grantor, and thus the cycle continues, ever in the Empire’s favor.

>

> – Historie and Geographie of the Provincia Empiris

>

> Gaius Elvianus

Godfrey stumbled alongside Griffon, his legs unsteady, the weight of exhaustion heavier with each step. Griffon had the doe slung over his shoulders, the carcass swaying slightly with his strong strides. Godfrey had insisted on walking unsupported, but it was clear he was barely managing. Griffon glanced at him sideways, eyes narrowing in suspicion, as though weighing the sincerity of Godfrey's resolve.

"You sure about this?" Griffon asked, adjusting his grip on the doe. “Seems to me like you can barely hold yourself upright, let alone keep pace.”

Godfrey set his jaw, swallowing the dizziness that threatened to pull him down. "I'm fine," he muttered, though he wasn't, and they both knew it. The cold gnawed at his bones, but his pride was stronger than his fatigue, at least for the moment.

Griffon chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Fine, eh? We'll see how long that lasts. You fall, and I’m pickin’ you up, boy. Don’t try to be a hero."

Godfrey didn’t respond. His steps were uneven, his body straining to keep up. Griffon’s words, meant in jest, seemed to hang in the air heavier than they should have.

Without warning, tears welled in Godfrey’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to keep them from falling, but the grief, the exhaustion, the weight of everything pressed too hard. He glanced away, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m not a hero…”

It came out rough, the words jagged and hollow. “Heroes save people,” he muttered, and the admission felt like it cracked something inside him.

For a moment, there was only the sound of their trudging footsteps, the cold wind cutting through the silence. Then Griffon’s voice came, steady and without pause, as if he hadn’t noticed the crack in Godfrey’s voice at all.

“Okay, kid. Let’s get going. One foot in front of the other, now.”

Godfrey forced himself to move, putting one foot in front of the other.

XXX

The pair had been walking in silence for some time, their breath puffing warm mist into the air. They followed a narrow game trail that was more a vague suggestion of a path than anything defined, blanketed in snow that crunched softly beneath their boots. Around them, the early winter air was crisp and cool, as if Brella herself offered a brief respite for surviving the Gauntlet, granting them milder weather, if only for a little while.

The forest, though hushed, was far from lifeless. Squirrels darted through the branches, and the occasional rustle of a distant deer or fox echoed through the trees. Even in winter, the woods moved, albeit slower, as its denizens prepared for the coming season. Godfrey could smell the damp earth where patches of snow had begun to melt in the afternoon sun, releasing the scent of thawing ground and damp bark.

Godfrey’s right boot had begun leaking water earlier that day, and now his foot was completely numb, each step a dull ache he ignored out of necessity. It was for this reason his body almost collapsed in relief when Griffon indicated they were almost to his home.

As they rounded a bend in the game trail, the forest opened onto an idyllic early winter meadow. The snow here lay in gentle drifts, some areas compacted where the wind had pressed it down, while others revealed patches of still-green grass swaying gently in the cool breeze. It was a rare sight, the last remnants of autumn clinging to life in the face of the coming frost. The sunlight, now lower in the sky, bathed the meadow in a golden hue, catching on the icicles that hung from the branches of old, gnarled oaks. The trees stood like silent guardians, their ancient limbs stretching wide, filtering the sunlight into soft, criss-crossed shadows which played a motley tapestry over the ground.

To Godfrey’s left, nestled against the deeper forest beyond, stood two sturdy buildings, both larger than what he had expected for a country farmer. The main house, the larger of the two, was a well-constructed structure of wood and stone, its weathered walls set firmly into a foundation of smooth, rounded stones. The craftsmanship was evident in the way the beams fit seamlessly together, a testament to careful, deliberate hands.

Beside the house was a smaller building, equally solid in construction, though its purpose was unclear. Both buildings had chimneys from which lively puffs of smoke rose into the crisp air, the smaller structure bearing two separate flumes, hinting at multiple hearths within. A modest stable sat adjacent to the house, and nearby, a well built from the same rounded stone as the foundations stood, its wooden bucket hanging idle, waiting to draw water from the depths below.

The scene was one of quiet prosperity, and Godfrey said as much to Griffon.

Griffon paused as they neared the house, looking at it with a sense of quiet pride before glancing over at Godfrey. “It’s not really mine, not completely," he began, his voice soft but carrying a deep satisfaction. "The main house… well, it’s less than it was when I first moved here, almost nineteen years ago. Back then, it was me, my wife, my brother, and my sister-in-law.”

He gestured towards the sturdy buildings with a nod, his eyes taking in the familiar sight. “The land itself belongs to the Land Registry. It had been leased out before, but the last holder… well, they didn’t care much for keeping it up. Neglected it. Let it go to ruin. So, we convinced the Registry to let us take over the lease. Told them we’d make it productive again. They wanted it worked, and we needed a place to call our own.”

He chuckled, the pride unmistakable in his tone. “We worked day and night, fixing the old place up. Rebuilt the house, patched up the stable, even dug out the well. It took years, but we made it ours. Or, as close as it can be when the land still technically belongs to someone else.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Griffon’s chest swelled slightly as he spoke, the pride of having built something lasting evident in his voice. Godfrey nodded, words currently beyond him. Griffon glanced at him and, seeing the young man’s pale face and trembling legs, quickly realized that Godfrey was barely standing. Before Godfrey could topple over, Griffon stepped forward and gripped his arm, guiding him toward the smaller building.

“Come on, lad. You’ll be no good to anyone if you fall flat on your face.”

Godfrey allowed himself to be led, his vision hazy with exhaustion. Griffon opened the door to the smaller building, and a soft plume of smoke greeted them, curling from beneath the thick wooden frame. The scent of cured meats and herbs hit Godfrey's nose as they stepped inside.

It was a larder, combined with a smoking house. Sturdy walls lined with hanging meats, herbs, and bundles of tubers greeted Godfrey’s bleary eyes. The ceiling was adorned with drying herbs, and the walls held baskets and boxes of preserved food. A large table in the center was laden with buckets, wooden boxes, and tools, and a small bench was set against one side of the room.

Griffon led Godfrey to the bench and helped him sit down. Without a word, he hefted the doe carcass onto the table, the weight of the animal thudding softly against the wood. Godfrey barely registered the sound. As soon as he sat, his body gave out. He slid down onto the bench, curling up with his back against the wall. Before Griffon could even turn around, Godfrey’s eyes had closed, and he was already asleep.

XXX

Godfrey awoke to the sound of Griffon humming and whistling softly, the gruff man moving about the larder with a steady rhythm. For a moment, Godfrey simply lay there, his body still aching from exhaustion but no longer overwhelmed by it. He heard the creak of the smokeroom door opening, and a wave of rich, mouthwatering scents flooded the room—smoked meats, herbs, and the deep aroma of something roasting. His stomach growled, and his mouth filled with saliva, making him reflexively swallow.

He tried to speak, but his throat was dry, and the words caught, coming out as a hoarse croak. Instinctively, he reached for the canteen at his side, but his hand found only empty space. His heart raced as he realized his weapons were gone too. Panic shot through him, and he pushed himself upright, his mind racing as he scanned the room.

Griffon noticed the sudden movement, turning with a surprised grin. "Well, would you look at that! The dead can rise!" he exclaimed, his voice booming in the small space.

Godfrey’s eyes darted around, the panic still clawing at him as he rasped, "Where... where are my weapons?"

Griffon’s smile faded at the question. He sighed, walking over to the bench where Godfrey lay. With a creak, he sat down at the far end, folding his arms across his chest. "Relax, kid," he said, his tone firm but not unkind. "Your weapons are safe. I put them aside when you passed out. Figured you didn’t need to be sleeping with a blade at your hip, not with my wife and child here. From the look of you, I can tell you know how to use those blades, and I don’t take risks with my family."

Griffon’s gaze locked with Godfrey's, the gruffness replaced by something more thoughtful. "You’ll get them back, but not until you tell me why you were really in that forest. And don’t feed me a lie about a whole village being wiped out just to score a free meal. Villages don’t just burn down without me hearing about it, or seeing the smoke. Oakvale’s the largest village in the area, and I knew several good people who lived there."

He leaned forward slightly, voice low and serious. "I don't believe you, but I took you in anyway. So now, you tell me the truth."

Godfrey’s fury surged, and he held Griffon’s gaze, his voice low and sharp. “Go ahead, wait for your friends. I’m sure they’ll stroll up any day now. Maybe set an extra plate at dinner—you’ll be waiting a long time.”

Griffon’s eyebrows shot up at Godfrey’s words, the surprise evident in his face. Godfrey instantly regretted the outburst, feeling like an ass for letting his anger slip. He dropped his gaze, shame settling in his chest as he quickly muttered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, his voice quieter now. “I’ve… seen and done things I can’t forgive myself for. But that doesn’t mean I should take it out on you. You’ve done nothing but show kindness, and reasonable suspicion.”

Griffon stared at Godfrey for a long, uncomfortable moment, his expression unreadable. Godfrey shifted awkwardly, feeling the silence grow. The moment stretched until he could take it no longer. He rose, offering a strained smile. "Thank you for letting me rest my head, Griffon. I appreciate the kindness. But I think I should be going."

Griffon gave a slow, deliberate nod, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Where are you bound?” he asked, the question casual, though there was something in his tone that suggested he already had an idea.

“Centria,” Godfrey replied, his voice steady.

At the mention of Centria, Griffon’s reaction was subtle, but clear—an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the barest flicker in his eyes.

As Godfrey made to leave, Griffon let out a sound of exasperation, rising from his seat with a frustrated grunt. “Boy, sit down,” he said, waving his hand toward the bench. “You’re not going anywhere just yet. Not before you answer some proper questions. You think you can just walk out and wander to Centria, half-starved, after telling me Oakvale’s gone? Sit, and talk.”

Godfrey hesitated but then slowly sat back down, unsure of what to expect.

Over the next hour, Griffon peppered Godfrey with questions, his tone somewhere between a suspicious investigator and a concerned neighbor. The farmer’s questions came fast, each one digging deeper into the details of Oakvale’s destruction.

“What was the girl’s name?”

Godfrey’s throat tightened as he spoke. “Elara Windermere.”

Griffon’s eyes narrowed. “And what did the Knight say the charges were?”

“Something like Dark Knowledge, I can’t quite remember.”

“Was it the Hand or regulars?” Griffon asked, his gaze unwavering.

Godfrey shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “It was the Hand.”

Griffon let out a low whistle, his disbelief palpable. “The Hand? And you survived that? How?”

Godfrey’s voice dropped, the weight of his words heavy. “My mentors… they’d been ex-Hand themselves. They’d taken me in since before I could remember. We cut our way out of the chaos, and the Knight stepped in to stop us. That’s where…they fell, most of my family.

Griffon didn’t push as Godfrey’s voice faltered, allowing the silence to settle for a moment. Finally, Godfrey continued, his voice hollow. “Hawker and I fled the town after that. Then, the Gauntlet hit not long after.”

Griffon took it all in, his expression unreadable. The farmer’s skepticism was still there, but there was something else now—something closer to understanding.

Griffon sat back, thinking over everything Godfrey had told him, his brow furrowed as if trying to piece together a puzzle. After a long moment, he leaned forward again, his eyes narrowing as he recalled something from Godfrey’s earlier words.

“You said we cut through the cordon, not they.” His voice was low, serious. He leaned in closer, his gaze searching Godfrey's face. “Are you dangerous, lad?”

Godfrey closed his eyes, the question igniting a hopeless feeling. He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the burden of his answer. Finally, his voice, quiet but firm, came through the silence.

“Yes.”

Godfrey met Griffon’s eyes then, his expression steady, a fire sparking into life.

"But not to you," he began, his voice steady but low, "or your family."

There was a pause, as if Godfrey were turning the next words over in his mind, feeling their shape before letting them out into the air.

"I haven’t thought of it much," he continued, a flicker of something dark passing behind his eyes, "but I am dangerous, Griffon, and they were foolish to leave me alive."