The Last Oasis of Hope

The sun was low when I stumbled into the village. My legs trembled with every step, the ache of hunger and exhaustion threatening to knock me down. It was a mirage-a collection of houses surrounded by fields that seemed to glow under the orange light. It was nothing like my home: buildings sturdier, fences well-kept, and people-oh, the people-they looked alive.

I felt them watching me well before I was halfway to the center. A murmur arose like the hum of bees in the distance, and before long, people were gathering. They didn't approach but kept their distance from me, as though I carried some disease.

"Who's this?" a voice-a woman, older, with her hands on her hips-called out.

"A beggar, by the looks of him," another said, his voice cutting.

"I'm not here to beg," I rasped, though my throat was parched, and the words came out weak and miserable even to me. "I just. I just need help. Please."

The murmurs grew louder. Someone hurled a chunk of dry mud onto the dirt before my feet.

"Get out!"

"Go back where you came from!"

"Please," I tried again, falling to my knees. "I don't have anywhere else to go. My family—"

"Not our problem," a man snapped, stepping forward. His face was hard, his hands calloused. "We've got mouths to feed. No room for strays."

I wanted to scream, to cry, but no sound came out. Just as I thought I would collapse, a voice cut through the crowd.

"Enough!"

The crowd separated, and a tall, older man surfaced from it. Broad-shouldered, his face was lined both with age and with soot; his hands, from years at the forge, blackened; his eyes, an almost steel gray, held that weight in their solemnity that made the mob falter.

"You all have made your point," he said, and his voice remained firm. "He's just a boy. Let him breathe."

"Torvin," the first woman spat, "we can't take in every lost soul that wanders in."

"Every lost soul doesn't show up on my doorstep," Torvin returned. His eyes flashed around the crowd, challenging anyone to dispute the fact. "I'll take him in. Now, return to your homes."

The crowd murmured but dispersed slowly. Torvin turned to me then, his face relaxing.

"Come on, boy," he said, extending a hand. "You look like you could use a meal.

Torvin's forge was on the edge of the village, apart from prying, judgmental eyes. The building was sturdy with blackened walls, testament to many years of smoke. It was warm inside, thick with the smell of hot metal and coal. Along the walls, weapons and tools stood in wait-axes, swords, plows-all bright in the dim light of one lantern.

"You've got a name?" Torvin asked as he handed me a bowl of stew.

"Kael," I said, hardly above a whisper as I devoured the food.

"Slow down, Kael," he chuckled. "You'll choke."

The stew was hot, the best thing I'd tasted in what seemed like years. I nodded, forcing myself to eat slower.

"Where're you from?"

"A village to the north," I said, my voice breaking. "It's. gone now."

Torvin didn't press further, and for that I was grateful.

As days passed, I started helping around in the forge. Torvin didn't ask for much-fetching tools, stoking the fire-but it gave me purpose, a reason to carry on. He didn't speak often, but when he did, his words had weight.

"You've seen a lot for someone so young," he said one evening as we sat by the fire. "The world's cruel like that. It takes more than it gives."

I didn't answer. My mind was somewhere else, filled with dreams—or memories, I couldn't be certain. I saw faces that were unfamiliar, places I'd never been. I saw blood, fire, and shadows whispering my name.

"Nightmares?" Torvin asked.

"Something like that," I muttered.

He settled back in his chair, eyes fixed in the fire. "You are not the only one haunted, Kael. I had a son once. About your age. Lost him during the wars."

I looked up at him then, surprised by the break in his voice.

"He was strong, brave. But the world doesn't care about that, does it?" He shook his head, his face hardening. "No. The world takes. It always takes."

"Is that why you took me in?" I ventured to ask.

Torvin's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pain there. "Maybe. Or maybe I just saw someone who needed a chance.

But even Torvin's forge was not sanctuary, and this village was no haven. Its prosperity had come at a price: every villager owed something in tithe-food, labor, something of value-or they were cast out. It was a system that bred resentment, though no one dared challenge it openly.

One night, as I lay on the cot Torvin set up for me, I heard voices outside.

"You're playing with fire, Torvin," said a man. "Taking in that boy."

"He's no threat," Torvin said calmly.

"Perhaps not now. But mark my words-trouble follows people like him. You'll regret it."

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, when I was working with Torvin at the forge, he handed me a small dagger.

"Keep this with you," he said.

I frowned, running my fingers along the blade. "Why?"

"Because the world doesn't give warnings, Kael. It just strikes."

I could still hear his words as I stared into the dagger, the edge shining bright like a promise.

And yet, even then, a part of me felt watched, waited.