By midday, the trail had flattened into rolling foothills. Lumara was long gone behind him, hidden by the mountain's bulk. The world felt bigger out here. Sky wider, horizon stretching south toward lands he'd only heard about in stories.

  The wart on his foot gave an occasional throb, a petty reminder of the mountain and it's mark. But the pain was dull now and almost ignorable.

  Almost.

  The sun climbed higher. Sweat dampened his tunic beneath the cloak. He stopped at a stream to refill his waterskin, splashing cool water on his face. The world felt strangely quiet out here. Just wind through trees, distant bird calls, the burble of water over stones.

  No forge clang or village chatter. He felt the absence of Pa asking him to pump the bellows.

  Just silence and nature.

  He pushed on through the afternoon, eating dried meat and bread as he walked. The trail began to descend more steeply, winding through dense forest where the pines grew so thick they blocked the sun. Shadows pooled between the trunks. The temperature dropped.

  By evening, storm clouds had gathered. Heavy and purple, pressing down on the world like a threat.

  The first drops hit fat and cold.

  Within minutes the drizzle turned to a downpour.

  Rain hammered through the canopy, soaking his cloak, plastering his hair to his skull. The trail became a river of mud that sucked at his boots with every step. He yanked his left foot free from a particularly deep puddle and felt the boot slip off entirely. Swallowed with a wet gulp by the hungry earth.

  "Dammit!" He plunged his hand into the muck, fishing blindly. His fingers found nothing but cold slime and frustration.

  The boot was gone.

  The wart on his bare foot throbbed vicious in the cold mud. Rain stung his face like needles. His sock squelched miserably with every step.

  "I hate the rain!" he screamed, limping forward with one boot on, one foot bare and freezing.

  Night fell fast and black. The downpour showed no mercy. Akilliz shivered hard, teeth chattering, vision blurring. Every breath came out as a cloud of mist.

  He needed a shelter. Anything dry.

  Ahead, through the torrent, a shape loomed off the trail. A cart pulled beneath thicker trees, its patched tarp shedding water in steady streams. A mule huddled miserable beneath the covering. Trinkets glinted dimly in the rain, brass rings catching what little light remained, bent spoons and fishing hooks dangling like bait from the cart's sides.

  A woman perched atop the seat, silver-haired and sharp-eyed despite the gloom. She puffed a pipe that glowed orange against the darkness. When she spotted him limping closer, she waved him over with a crooked grin.

  "Come on in outta that mess, young'un!" Her voice was hill-country rough, thick with drawl. "Ain't no sense drownin' like a fool rat."

  Akilliz hobbled closer, water streaming off his nose and chin. Up close, she looked wiry and tough as an old root, her face lined like weathered leather. Blue eyes twinkled sly under a floppy hat that somehow stayed dry.

  She took a pull on her pipe. Smoke curled lazy despite the rain. "Name's Melinda," she rasped. "You can call me Gail, but Mel's fine too. Trader o' this an' that." She looked him up and down, taking in the soaked cloak, the missing boot, the pathetic sock. "Boy, ye look like ye wrestled a river an' lost bad. What brings a half-shod sprout sloppin' through this mess?"

  He wiped rain from his eyes and managed a wry smile despite the misery. "Name's Akilliz. Headed south to Luminael to learn proper alchemy. Lost my boot to a puddle back a ways." He gestured at his bare foot. "Got coin or herbs to trade if you've got something dry."

  She cackled low, smoke puffing out with the laugh. "Coin's borin', an' herbs I forage plenty from my fishin' spots. But I reckon I'll trade ye for some wits, bub. Solve this riddle, an' them boots hangin' there're yours." She nodded at a pair dangling from the cart's side. Sturdy brown leather stitched with green thread.

  His stomach sank. Riddles tangled his tongue worse than wet rope. But hobbling barefoot to the elves? No chance.

  "Fine," he said, squaring up as best he could with one sock flapping. "Go ahead."

  Mel leaned forward, silver braid swinging under her hat. Eyes glinted with challenge in the pipe's glow. "I speak without a mouth an' hear without ears. I'm caught but never held. What am I?"

  He paced tight circles in the mud, sock squelching. Mind churned while rain drummed the tarp overhead.

  "Wind?" he tried. "Wind whistles, but... no, it doesn't hear."

  Mel cackled soft. "Close enough to feel the breeze, but no cigar, bub."

  He frowned deeper, glancing at her cart. Hooks caught faint light. Pipe smoke drifted and bounced back from the tarp. "Smoke speaks with crackle, hears the fire..." He shook his head. "No, smoke doesn't hear."

  Another cackle. Pipe puff. "Ye're warmin', but smoke ye can hold in lungs a spell. Try again."

  Frustration built. The wart burned colder. "River? It babbles, hears... no, rivers don't hear echoes proper."

  Mel tapped ash from her pipe, grin widening. "Ye're circlin' the pond, sprout. Think on what bounces back what ye give it."

  He stopped pacing. Rain had eased slightly. Pipe smoke had echoed faint off the tarp earlier. Rain itself echoed through the pines.

  "An echo," he said finally, heart thumping relief. "It speaks what you say back, hears nothing on its own, and you catch it but never hold it."

  Silence stretched. Rain drummed steady. Then she slapped her knee hard and laughed deep and raspy. "Sharp as a fish hook! Aye, an echo it is. Ye earned 'em fair and square."

  She unhooked the boots and tossed them over. He caught them. Leather smooth and sturdy, lined with soft wool. He slid them on. Perfect fit. They warmed his feet instantly against the chill.

  "Thanks, Mel. You're a wonder." He flexed his toes gratefully. "By chance, you know the way to Luminael? Not sure the exact trail, and I don't fancy losing more boots getting lost."

  Her smile tightened thoughtfully. Eyes narrowed as she took another pull on her pipe. "Been there once, long ago. Golden spires, prickly folk. Good luck crackin' their secrets, sunshine. They don't cotton to muddy boots, even fine ones like them." She gestured vaguely south. "Keep this trail till ye hit the Mistwood, then south some more. Can't miss it. Fog thick as gravy, trees tall as mountains. Just... don't trust what ye see in there. The mist plays tricks."

  She rummaged in the cart's clutter and pulled out a small vial of yellow liquid that shimmered like caught sunlight. Alongside it, a hook carved like a leaping fish. Silver with faint etchings that looked like ripples on water.

  "Here. Sunroot oil in this vial. Rub it on yer hands, warms ye right up, chases the chill like a good fire. An' this hook?" She pressed it into his palm. "Hang it on that line someday. Brings the big 'uns in, the ones that fight back just enough to make the catch worth it."

  He took the gifts. The oil carried a sharp citrus tang that cut through the rain's damp bite. The hook felt cool and solid, its curve seeming to hold stories of its own. "Appreciate it. Looks like it would snag a monster."

  Melinda puffed her pipe, orange glow flickering across her face. "Oh, aye, love me some fishing now that I'm creakin' along. Used to hunt too. Pa taught me young. Tough old coot from Nintucky way, runnin' secret potions back when folks had to scrape for every drop." She chuckled low. "Grew up with six brothers and seven sisters crammed in a shack, but we made do, laughin' through the lean times. Ain't no sense in quittin' when life's throwin' hooks at you. You just bait up and cast again."

  The mule snorted agreement. Alilliz just smiled and let her continue.

  "Stubborn runs in the blood. And me? Well, life's hooked me with a mean old cuss for a man, the kind that snaps more than he smiles, but I don't believe in cuttin' loose what's tied. You could say simple's what keeps me goin'. Fishin', huntin'. Out there with a rod or bow, the world makes sense."

  She paused, eyes softening on him. "Enough about me, youngin'. You remind me of my own grandkid, all knees and fire, chasin' what burns bright inside. Keep that spark, hear? Don't let the rain douse it."

  Warmth spread through him, beyond the oil he dabbed on his hands. Her words landed like one of Ma's quiet lessons. Simple but sticking.

  "Will do," he said, voice steady despite the knot in his throat. "And I appreciate your kind words. Hope to see you again sometime."

  She flicked the reins. The cart creaked back into motion, wheels churning mud slow. "Ye too, sprout. Catch yerself a big one. And if ye do, think o' this old gal when ye reel it in."

  Her laugh drifted back, fading into the rain's patter, leaving him with the hook's gleam and a sense she'd hooked a bit of him too. A line cast forward into whatever waited.

  The rain eased to a drizzle by dawn.

  Akilliz woke beneath the pine where he'd found shelter, his new boots still snug and dry despite the damp. The Sunroot oil had kept him warm through the night, just a dab on his hands and the heat spread through his whole body like sitting close to a good fire.

  He ate more dried meat and bread, refilled his waterskin at a stream, and pushed south.

  The trail wound through farmland now, the dense forest giving way to rolling fields of wheat and barley that rippled gold in the morning sun. Scattered homesteads dotted the landscape, smoke rising lazily from their chimneys. He passed farmers working their land, received cautious nods, kept moving.

  The road itself improved. No longer the muddy mountain track, it widened to packed dirt worn smooth by cart wheels and countless feet. Other travelers appeared, a tinker with his wagon of pots, a pair of monks in gray robes, a family heading north with all their belongings piled high.

  Each one made the world feel less lonely. Less like he was walking off the edge of the map into nothing.

  By afternoon, clouds had gathered again. Not the violent purple of yesterday's storm, but soft gray that promised gentle rain. The first drops came light and cool, barely more than mist. He pulled his hood up and kept walking.

  The farmland began to cluster tighter as evening approached. Houses appeared more frequently. Fields gave way to pastures, pastures to orchards. The trail became a proper road, and he could see lights far ahead, the warm glow of a village settling in for the night.

  Relief washed through him. A bed. Hot food. Maybe a bath to wash off two days of mud and rain.

  The road crested a hill, and there it was. A village nestled in the valley far below, smoke rising from chimneys, lanterns flickering in windows. He started down the hill as the sun touched the horizon, boots crunching as he dreamed of a warm bed and a bowl of stew.

  That's when he heard it.

  A shout. Cut off short.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Then the unmistakable ring of steel on steel.

  Akilliz froze, hand moving instinctively to Frostbane's hilt. The sounds came from just ahead, around a bend in the road where trees clustered thick beside an old stone bridge.

  Another shout. A cry of pain.

  He should keep going. Walk past. Not his problem. The village was right there. Safety, warmth, a bed waiting.

  But his feet carried him forward anyway, around the bend, toward the sounds of fighting.

  Three men surrounded a fourth. A merchant by the look of him, now sprawled in the dirt clutching a bleeding arm. His cart lay overturned beside the bridge, goods scattered across the road. A horse screamed and bolted into the trees, reins snapping.

  The three attackers were bandits. Rough-looking men with mismatched weapons and cruel grins. One held a bloodied sword. Another twirled a club. The third was rifling through the merchant's belongings, tossing aside anything that wasn't coin.

  "Please," the merchant gasped. Blood soaked his sleeve. "Take it all. Just let me live."

  The one with the sword laughed. A sound like breaking glass. "Oh, we're takin' it all, fat man. Question is whether we leave you breathin' or not." He raised the blade. "And I'm thinkin'... not."

  Akilliz's hand tightened on Frostbane's hilt as his mind raced.

  This isn't your fight. They're grown men with real weapons and real experience. Walk away. Get to the village. Tell someone. Let them handle it.

  He just couldn't look away from the merchant's terrified face. The casual cruelty in the bandit's voice. The blade that caught the fading light as it rose for a killing blow. Ma's words echoed in his head, clear as if she stood beside him.

  He drew Frostbane.

  The blade whispered free of its sheath, the sound cutting through the evening air like a promise.

  All three bandits turned.

  The one with the sword looked Akilliz up and down. Their leader, clearly. He took in the young face, the worn cloak, the hands that shook just slightly on the sword's hilt.

  Then he laughed.

  "Well, well. Look what we got here, boys. A hero." He gestured with his sword, casual and mocking. "You lost, kid? Village is that way. Run along before you get hurt."

  The other two laughed with him, spreading out to flank. The one with the club cracked his knuckles. The looter drew a long knife.

  Akilliz's heart hammered in his ears. His mouth went dry and every instinct screamed at him to run. Instead, he planted his feet the way Pa had taught him. Lowered his center of gravity. Held the blade steady, even though his arms wanted to shake.

  "Let him go," Akilliz said. His voice sounded more confident than he felt. "Take the goods and leave. No one else needs to get hurt."

  The leader's grin widened. "Or what, boy? You gonna stop us?" He took a step forward. "I've killed men twice your size. You think that pretty sword makes you dangerous?"

  He moved faster than Akilliz expected. The blade came in high, a killing stroke aimed at his neck.

  But his father's training kicked in.

  Flow with it. Don't freeze. Move.

  Akilliz stepped aside, brought Frostbane up to parry. Steel rang on steel. The impact jolted up his arms, nearly tore the sword from his grip. His shoulders screamed from the force.

  The leader's eyes widened slightly. "Huh. Got some training, do you?" His grin turned predatory. "This might be fun after all."

  The one with the club rushed in from the left. Akilliz spun, blade coming around in a wild arc that forced the man back a step. But the movement left him open.

  The third bandit kicked him hard in the ribs. The one with the knife.

  Pain exploded through his side. He stumbled, gasping, vision blurring.

  He rolled away from a sword stroke that would've split his skull, and came up swinging. Frostbane bit into the club-wielder's shoulder. Not deep, but enough to draw blood and earn a howl of pain.

  "Little bastard's got teeth!" the leader snarled. His face twisted with rage. "Take him down! Now!"

  They came at him together. Three on one. No mercy. No hesitation.

  Akilliz fought like he had been taught. Short, controlled strokes, always moving, never staying in one place. He managed to parry two strikes, dodge a third. But he was tiring fast. His breath came in shaky gasps. His arms burned and sweat stung his eyes.

  The club caught him in the shoulder. His arm went numb. Frostbane dipped.

  A sword got through his guard and sliced across his forearm. Hot blood soaked his sleeve. The pain was white-hot and sharp.

  The knife-wielder swept his legs. He went down hard, blade flying from his grip to clatter on stone.

  The leader stood over him, sword raised for a final blow, wearing a savage grin in the fading light. "Not so heroic now, are you?"

  The ground exploded.

  Actually exploded.

  Earth erupted beneath the bandits' feet, turning solid ground to churning mud in an instant. All three men sank waist-deep with shouts of alarm, flailing as the earth sucked at them like quicksand.

  "What the devil!"

  "Get it off! Get it off me!"

  "I can't move!"

  A voice cut through their panic, calm and commanding. "I'd stop struggling if I were you. Makes it worse."

  Akilliz looked up, vision swimming.

  A wagon had appeared on the road. How had he not heard it approach? Two horses stood calm in their traces, unbothered by the chaos. A man sat at the reins, middle-aged and weathered, wearing simple brown robes marked with a symbol Akilliz didn't recognize. It was a silver mist wrapped around a crown. The man's hands still glowed faint green from the magic he'd just used.

  Beside him sat a younger companion, maybe twenty, with a crossbow trained casually on the trapped bandits.

  The older man looked down at Akilliz with kind but knowing eyes. Brown eyes that had seen too much, crow's feet at the corners suggesting he smiled more than he frowned. He had the look of someone comfortable with authority but not arrogant about it.

  "Brave child," he said. His voice carried the educated tones of someone from a city. "Foolish, but brave." He gestured with one still-glowing hand. "Come on now. Let's get you patched up before you bleed all over my cart."

  The younger man hopped down and hauled him upright. The world tilted. His arm dripped steady onto the road.

  "Thank you," Akilliz managed. "I thought... they were going to..."

  "Kill you?" The older man climbed down from the wagon with practiced ease. "Oh, they absolutely were. You held your own for about thirty seconds against three experienced fighters. That's actually impressive for someone your age." He looked Akilliz up and down. "Sixteen? Seventeen?"

  "Sixteen."

  "And where did you learn to use that sword?" He nodded at Frostbane, still lying in the road.

  "My father. He's a blacksmith. Taught me basics."

  "Well, those basics just saved your life long enough for me to arrive." The priest moved to the trapped bandits. They'd stopped struggling, realizing the earth held them firm. "You three. I'm going to let you out. You're going to collect your friend here." He gestured to the merchant, who was staring in shock. "Help him to the village, and then you're going to leave this region. Understood?"

  The leader spat. "Or what, priest?"

  The earth around his chest tightened. The man gasped.

  "Or I bury you here and let the crows pick your bones clean." The priest's voice stayed calm and gentle. However his eyes had gone cold. "I serve Arzone, King of the Gods. I can let the earth harden around you, but I'd rather not. So. Are we understood?"

  The bandit nodded frantically.

  The priest's hands glowed green again. The earth released with a wet sucking sound. The three men scrambled out, covered in mud, weapons abandoned.

  "Go," the priest said quietly.

  They went. Fast. Stumbling over each other in their haste.

  The merchant struggled to his feet with their help, clutching his wounded arm. "Thank you, thank you, I thought they would have, they were going to..."

  "Thank the Nine, yet you're welcome all the same." The priest helped him toward the village. "Remember to get that arm seen to before it festers."

  Then he turned back to Akilliz, who was swaying on his feet, vision tunneling.

  "Sit," he said firmly. "Before you fall."

  Akilliz sat. Hard. The road felt solid beneath him. Real.

  The priest knelt beside him and examined the arm wound with practiced efficiency. "Clean slice. Missed the bone. You'll need stitches, but you'll keep the arm." He pulled supplies from a pack on the wagon. Clean cloth, needle and thread, a small vial of something that smelled sharp and medicinal.

  His companion brought water and more bandages, still without a word.

  "This is going to hurt," the priest warned.

  "I know."

  He cleaned the wound first. Akilliz gritted his teeth, vision going white at the edges. Then came the stitches. He counted them to stay conscious. Seven. Each one a bright burst of agony.

  When it was done, the priest wrapped the arm in clean bandages and sat back. "There. You'll live. Though next time, maybe reconsider fighting three armed bandits alone."

  Akilliz managed a weak laugh. "Noted."

  "What's your name, my child?"

  "Akilliz. From Lumara, up north."

  "Lumara?" His eyebrows rose. "That's three days' walk. You're a long way from home."

  "Heading to Luminael. To study with the elves."

  Something shifted in the priest's expression. Surprise, maybe. Or respect. "Luminael. Through the Mistwood." He studied Akilliz more carefully. "That's ambitious. And dangerous. What makes a young man think the elves will teach him anything?"

  Akilliz touched the pack beside him. "My mother was a healer. Trained in Luminael years ago. She... she died and left me her journal, told me to go there.."

  The priest was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded slowly. "I see." He stood, brushing dirt from his robes. "Well, Akilliz from Lumara, you're in no shape to walk. And it's getting dark. We were heading to that village anyway. Got business at the temple there. You're welcome to ride with us."

  Relief flooded through him. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

  "Can you stand?"

  Akilliz tried. His legs shook, but held. The younger companion helped him to the wagon and settled him in the back, his pack and frostbane now beside him.

  The priest climbed back to the driver's seat and took up the reins. "To the village, then. We'll get you a proper bed and a hot meal." He glanced back. "If you still want to go after a night's rest to think it over."

  "I do," Akilliz said firmly.

  The priest smiled, a small knowing expression. "We'll see."

  The wagon creaked into motion. The village lights grew brighter ahead.

  After a few minutes of silence, Akilliz's curiosity got the better of him. "That magic you used back there. The earth turning to mud. That was... incredible."

  The other ma. snorted from the driver's bench. "Here we go."

  The priest chuckled. "Incredible is one way to put it. Effective is another."

  "How did you do it? Either way, I thank you, master wizard!" Akilliz added gratefully.

  The priest barked a laugh and twisted in his seat. "Master wizard?! Do you see me holding a dusty old book, boy?" He gestured at his empty hands, then at his simple robes. "Do I look like I need to carry around a tome the size of a small cow just to make the ground move?"

  His assistant was grinning now. "You've insulted him. Might as well have called him a librarian."

  "I'm a sorcerer," the priest said, warmth in his voice despite the mock offense. "Born with a gift flowing through my veins. No spellbook required. No elaborate rituals. Just will and the earth answering when I ask. My name is Aldric, by the way. And this is Petyr, my apprentice."

  "What's the difference?" Akilliz asked, leaning forward despite the pain in his arm. "Between a sorcerer and a wizard?"

  "The difference," Aldric said, settling back into his seat, "is everything. A wizard learns magic. Studies it like a scholar studies history or mathematics. They carry those massive tomes because if they lose the book, they lose the magic. Take a normal wizard's spellbook away, and he's as useful as a ghoul in a garden."

  Petyr laughed. "That's his favorite comparison."

  "It's accurate," Aldric defended. "Wizards are powerful, don't mistake me. Some of the most dangerous people alive are wizards. But their power is... borrowed. Studied."

  "And sorcerers?" Akilliz prompted.

  "Sorcerers are born with it." Aldric held up his hand, and for a moment his fingers glowed faint green. "Magic flows through us like blood. It's part of who we are. When I was born, Arzone marked my soul with a gift. Moving the earth comes as naturally to me as breathing."

  "How does that work? How does Arzone decide?"

  "Gods bells. Do you even know about the Nine?" Aldric asked.

  "Some. We worship Aurelia in Lumara. The Lady of Light. My ma used to pray to her every morning."

  "Aye, fair enough. She's one of the Nine. Each god has their domain. Aurelia, goddess of light and life. Taimon controls earth and stone. Pyridion, fire. And so on."

  Taimon.

  The name snagged somewhere in his memory, shapeless and cold.

  Aldric guided the horses around a rut. "Arzone is the King, the God of reincarnation. When a soul departs this world, it doesn't just vanish into nothing. Arzone guides it back, plants it in a new womb, gives it another chance at life."

  "Reincarnation," Akilliz said slowly. "So we've all lived before?"

  "According to Arzone's teachings, yes. Many souls come back ordinary. No special gifts. Just... normal folk living normal lives." Aldric paused. "But sometimes, by his grace or the grace of one of the other Nine, a soul comes back touched. Marked. That's a sorcerer."

  "So you could've been anyone? In a past life?"

  "Could've been a beggar. Could've been a king. Could've been a kitchen wench, for all I know." Aldric shrugged. "Arzone doesn't let us remember. Fresh start, we say. But somewhere in my past, something earned me this gift. Or maybe it was just luck. The Nine work in mysterious ways."

  Akilliz frowned, thinking. "Can anyone become a sorcerer?"

  "No. You're either born with it or you're not. No amount of study or practice will give you what they gave me." Aldric glanced back. "But anyone can become a wizard if they're willing to submit to the madness. Study the books. Learn the formulas. Memorize the spells. It's hard, gods, it's brutally hard… but it's possible."

  "Which is more powerful?"

  Petyr snorted. "Careful, lad. That's a dangerous question."

  Aldric grinned. "Depends on the sorcerer. Depends on the wizard. I've met wizards who could level a mountain with the right spell. I've also met sorcerers who could barely light a candle without setting themselves on fire."

  "But you're strong," Akilliz observed. "What you did to those bandits..."

  "I've had forty years to practice. And earth magic suits me. Some sorcerers get fire and can't control it. Burn themselves. Burn others. Magic that doesn't match your temperament can be a curse as much as a blessing." He paused. "Wizards don't have that problem. They choose what to study. Pick magic that suits them. There's wisdom in that."

  The wagon rolled on in silence for a moment.

  "In Lumara," Akilliz said carefully, "we don't really have either. No sorcerers that I know of. No wizards. Just the magic of daily life. Humming to plants. My pa can make his hammer glow blue sometimes when he works the forge. Ma could make herbs grow. Is that different?"

  "That's the small magic," Aldric said kindly. "The kind that seeps into the world naturally. Anyone can learn a little of it if they're patient. Making plants grow, coaxing fire higher — it's not sorcery and it's not wizardry. It's just the world responding to intent, getting stronger the more you do it. Same as any skill."

  "Ma did more than that," Akilliz said quietly. "Her potions could cure things others couldn't. She studied in Luminael. Learned from someone there."

  "Then she likely studied with a wizard or an elven alchemist," Aldric said. "The elves are neither sorcerers nor wizards. They're something else entirely. Ancient. They don't need spellbooks, but they're not born with gifts like we are. Their magic is..." He paused, searching for words. "Woven into their very being. Into their long lives. It's why they're so good at what they do. Centuries of practice."

  "Will they teach me?" Akilliz asked. "A human?"

  "Maybe. If you prove yourself worthy. If you show respect. If you have something to offer them in return aside from charging headfirst into danger." Aldric's voice softened. "The fact that your mother trained there helps. They remember. Elves always remember."

  "Thank you," Akilliz said quietly. "For explaining. And for saving my life."

  "You're welcome, lad." Aldric smiled. "Now let's get you fed and rested. Morning's soon enough to worry about elves and wizards and whatever else the road throws at you."

  He leaned back against the wagon's side, clutching his bandaged arm, and watched the village lights grow brighter.