The morning after the fight was crisp and quiet, a pale mist clinging to the farm like a fragile veil. The group moved through their routines with practiced ease, though the events of the previous night still lingered in the air. The traps had been reset, and tools returned to their places, but the atmosphere carried an unspoken tension.

Alexander worked alongside Jordan, the two repairing a section of the fence that had taken damage. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but Alexander’s thoughts were far from settled. He couldn’t shake the memory of the fight—Gabriel’s precision, Sorin’s sharp maneuvers, and even Jordan’s quiet but undeniable strength. These weren’t moves he expected from farmers. They didn’t add up.

Alexander paused, his hands tightening around the hammer as a question burned in his mind. But he said nothing, letting the silence stretch as they worked.

Nearby, Gabriel leaned against the barn door, his sharp green eyes scanning the treeline. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to his movements, a readiness that Alexander noticed more now. Sorin, perched on a hay bale with his notebook in hand, seemed to be his usual smug self, jotting down notes and occasionally offering commentary.

“You know,” Sorin said lazily, “watching you pretend to be useful is the highlight of my morning.”

Gabriel glanced at him with a smirk. “You’re lucky you’re good at pretending to think. Keeps you around.”

Sorin grinned, unbothered, and went back to scribbling in his notebook.

Alexander finished tying off a section of the fence and straightened. “You all seem... calm, considering what happened last night.”

Jordan glanced at him briefly. “Should we not be?”

Alexander frowned. “Most people would be more shaken after a fight like that.”

Gabriel’s smirk widened. “Welcome to Kyros. If a scuffle like that rattled us, we wouldn’t last a week.”

Alexander wanted to press further, but Jordan’s silence and Sorin’s casual dismissal made him hesitate. For now, he let the subject drop, though the questions lingered.

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As the day wore on, Alexander found himself near the barn, where Gabriel sat sharpening his dagger. The rhythmic scrape of the whetstone against the blade filled the silence, and Alexander hesitated before speaking.

“You were... different last night,” Alexander began carefully, unsure of how to phrase his thoughts. “The way you fought. It wasn’t what I’d expect from a farmer.”

Gabriel didn’t look up, his focus remaining on the dagger. “It’s nothing.”

Alexander frowned. “It didn’t look like nothing.”

Gabriel finally glanced at him, his green eyes sharp but unreadable. “In Kyros, you either learn to handle yourself, or you don’t last. That’s all there is to it.”

The answer felt too simple, too dismissive, but Alexander sensed the finality in Gabriel’s tone. He wanted to ask more, to push, but something about Gabriel’s expression stopped him. There was a weight there, a history that Alexander instinctively knew was off-limits.

“Right,” Alexander said after a pause. “Makes sense.”

Gabriel nodded, his attention already returning to his blade. “Good talk, Valcrest.”

Alexander sighed quietly and walked away, the unanswered questions buzzing in his mind. For all his curiosity, he couldn’t bring himself to pry further.

Later that evening, the group gathered for dinner in the small farmhouse. The atmosphere was lighter than it had been, with Sorin teasing Alexander relentlessly about his role in the fight.

“You make great bait,” Sorin said, grinning. “It’s an underrated skill, really.”

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Glad I could contribute.”

“Don’t let him get to you,” Jordan said quietly. “He talks too much.”

Sorin smirked. “It’s called strategy, Vale. Not my fault you’re allergic to it.”

Gabriel, for his part, watched the exchange with a faint smile, his comments cutting in only occasionally to steer the banter. It was a rare moment of levity, the farmhouse feeling warmer than it had in weeks.

As the conversation wound down, Alexander found himself watching the group. Sorin’s sharp wit, Jordan’s quiet strength, and Gabriel’s effortless command of the room—it all painted a picture of something more than simple farmers. But, like before, he kept his thoughts to himself.

The farmhouse grew quiet as the others retired for the night. Gabriel remained outside, sitting on the porch steps with his dagger resting on his knee. The moonlight cast faint shadows across the fields, the stillness a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous night.

Alexander’s question from earlier returned to him. The way you fought. It wasn’t what I’d expect from a farmer.

Gabriel sighed, his thoughts drifting briefly to a time when life had been different. He could almost hear the clang of swords, the sharp commands of instructors, and the steady rhythms of sparring sessions. His training had never been for himself—it had been for her. To help her become the person she wanted to be. And somewhere along the way, the movements, the skills, had become his own.

But that was a lifetime ago. Whatever he had been, it didn’t matter now.

Gabriel stood, slipping his dagger into its sheath as he cast one last glance at the treeline. The night was quiet, but he knew better than to trust the stillness. Turning back to the house, he stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind him.

For now, the questions could wait.