It wouldn’t be wrong to say that there was a lot on Garen’s mind recently.

Forgetting the day-to-day operations and handling the complaints and questions of hundreds of villagers, there was also the upcoming harvest to think about. In the next few weeks, an inspector of the crown will be arriving to examine the condition of the crops and the village to calculate the tax they’d have to pay this year.

Though it was stressful at times to manage the livelihood of the village, he found it very rewarding. Even if he went up the mountain every now and then to vent his rage on the local beasts when someone does something monumentally stupid.

He felt it was a testament to his self-control that he wasn’t marching up there right now after he’d heard about what the malignant trio had been doing under his nose. Rough housing between the young was expected, practically inevitable. Real fights, almost the same.

Jack of nine, as the locals called him - because of his missing pinky finger - obviously still held a serious grudge over Oliver Hudson - for cutting off said finger.

But beating on such a small boy for no other reason than that they could?

The creak of wood snapped him out of his deepening spiral of anger. He looked down to see the hairline cracks forming on his desk around where he was gripping it unconsciously. He took a deep breath and let it out in an attempt to calm himself, trying to put the matter behind him.

Sister Willah had promised him that she would take full responsibility for the trio’s disciplines and rehabilitation. The cold smile she’d had had left him feeling assured, if only because it sent a chill down his spine whenever he remembered it.

The teachings of Rontor were very thorough when it came to matters of honor, justice, and punishment.

He was most disappointed when it was his daughter of all people that told him what had been happening as she dragged one of the boys, still unconscious, into their home. The village guards were supposed to be responsible for the security of the village and he had been furious at their. . . at his negligence.

The guards didn’t exactly patrol the streets, the real threats were outside the fence as the thinking was. A line of thought that was far from wrong as the fence had stopped more than few groups of beasts and bandits. It was expected that if something were wrong in the village, then the villagers would be the ones to take care of it, one way or another.

Stolen story; please report.

He felt this was his failing as well, though. He was the chief! He was supposed to lead and watch over these people, his people, and yet he was lucky he hadn’t had to attend the poor boy’s funeral.

Elder Huga had told him about the boy’s, Caleb’s injuries from the day he’d come out from the forest. She hadn’t told his family, but Caleb’s wounds had signs of healing before he’d been brought to her and had obviously been much worse considering the amount of blood and bruising. The elders had had quite the debate about that, with one even suggesting it might’ve been some kind of miracle from the gods.

Most had simply rolled their eyes at that statement, but none threw out the idea entirely. The miracles of the gods were rare, but so are people who are struck by lightning. It still happens.

He was spiraling again.

He rubbed his face and leaned back in his chair, the letter he had been trying to write to an old friend in the city of Lostone lying unfinished in front of him. He let the silence of the room fill him as he worked to clear his mind. What has happened, has happened, and he needed to lay it all to rest so he could get back to being a functional human being.

He sat there with his eyes closed for a good several minutes, enjoying the silence. . . before the sound of wood smacking together and war cries broke it.

Even as he sighed in exasperation, a warm smile worked its way onto his face. With a grunt, he stood and made his way out of the house.

The house was larger and more well-appointed than any other house in the village, closer to a very small manor. It was only so nice because he had to cater to important figures every so often as they passed through the countryside, often on their way to somewhere actually important.

It was far from being a “nice” house by big city standards, but it was still comfortable to live in and it had come free of charge with the position when he’d retired all those years ago. Plus, it came with a yard.

He stepped out into the sun, squinting as his eyes adjusted, to see his daughter swinging her practice sword at Steve the Fourth, the makeshift dummy. What started as self-defense lessons had become a strong passion for martial arts, combat, and self-improvement. He couldn’t be prouder of how far his daughter had come in her training. Now, if only he could get her to stop.

Cynthia had been inspired by the tales he’d told her about his youth and had become determined to one day join the Questing Guild as he had. Completely ignoring his warnings of the dangers and very real possibility of death. In a few more years she would be recognized as a full adult by the kingdom’s laws and nothing short of locking her in the cellar would stop her from leaving the village to pursue her goal.

It had taken many near death experiences for Garen to see how stupid he was being and retire. Many had lamented his early retirement from the guild, saying things like “you had so much potential” and “you can go far in this business, kid!”

But life is more than just glory and fame, he thought as he watched his daughter spar with her deathly still opponent.

Cynthia didn’t see things the way he did. The quiet life of the village grates on her as much as it soothes him.

Her martial prowess and battle lust had made it very hard for her when it came to making friends with the village children. Even harder for looking for potential suitors. He’d almost managed to trick. . . convince a visiting merchant to marry his son off before his daughter had beaten the snot out of the boy. The merchant hadn’t come back to the village after that.

He sighed. And now he’d have another one to look after.

Caleb had seemed fairly adamant about learning how to fight after his experience with the older boys. He didn’t think the boy would last very long, if he was being honest. Fear is a strong motivator, but not an enduring one, and he believed that the boy would likely give up on his training after a few weeks, if that.

Then again, if Caleb did stick with the training and managed to find some kinship with Cynthia. . .

In the worst case, the village could always use another guard.