Chapter sixteen: A new home

William didn't think. He just moved.

One second, he was walking through the town square, the hum of voices and distant scent of fresh bread wrapping around him like a dream. The next, he saw the cart. The wheel hit a loose stone, tilting just enough to send the whole thing careening forward. And right in its path—a kid.

Time stretched. The kid turned, eyes wide, frozen in place. Too slow. Too late.

William lunged.

A sickening crack rang through the square.

The force nearly lifted him off his feet. Splintered wood exploded outward as the cart shattered against his body, its momentum folding around him like brittle paper against a stone wall. He felt the impact deep in his bones—an iron weight crushing against his ribs, shoving him back a step, then another. The wooden frame collapsed in on itself, the contents—bundles of wheat, sacks of dried goods—spilling across the cobblestone.

The town square went silent.

Shouts rang out. People rushed forward, but William didn't move, still braced over the kid. His heartbeat hammered in his ears.

The kid coughed, squirming beneath him. "H-Hey—you're squishing me."

William blinked. The kid was okay. No blood, no broken bones. Just shaken.

Slowly, William sat up, pulling the kid with him. "You good?"

The boy—blond, maybe seven or eight—nodded rapidly, still wide-eyed. Then, before William could say anything else, small arms wrapped around his waist in a tight hug.

"Thank you," the boy mumbled into his coat.

William stiffened. He didn't know what to do with that.

"Levi!" A woman's voice cut through the noise.

A woman and a man rushed forward, the resemblance making it obvious they were the boy's parents. The mother dropped to her knees, pulling Levi into a frantic hug while the father inspected him, brushing his hair back, checking him over. Only after confirming he was unhurt did they look up at William.

The woman's eyes were still wet, relief pouring off her in waves. "You saved him," she said, like she couldn't quite believe it. "I—thank you. Thank you so much."

William shifted uncomfortably. "It wasn't—"

"Please," the father cut in, stepping closer. He was a broad-shouldered man, tired lines carved into his face, but right now, all William could see was gratitude. "Let us do something for you. Anything."

"That's not necessary."

"Nonsense." The mother wiped her eyes, determination replacing her shock. "You don't have a place here yet, do you?"

William hesitated.

She smiled. "Then stay with us."

—

It took a while for it to sink in.

One second, he was just another outsider passing through. The next, he had a home.

The family—Levi, his mother Mara, and his father Elias—lived in a small house near the town's edge. It was nothing special, just sturdy stone walls, a thatched roof, and a fireplace that filled the space with warmth. But to William, it felt… different. Not just shelter. Not just another stop along the way.

Mara was the type who never let a guest go hungry, constantly shoving food into his hands—warm bread, roasted meat, bowls of stew that made his stomach twist with unfamiliar fullness. Elias didn't talk much, but when he did, it was with quiet wisdom, like he'd seen too much and learned to keep his words measured.

And Levi? Levi was everywhere.

"You ever play cards before?" Levi asked one night, sprawled out on the floor with a deck in hand.

William arched a brow. "Depends."

Levi grinned. "On what?"

"On whether or not you cheat."

The kid gasped, offended. "I never cheat!"

Mara snorted from where she sat by the fire. "He absolutely cheats."

"I do not—!"

Elias ruffled the boy's hair as he passed, dropping a cup of tea in front of William. "Watch your pockets," he murmured, amused.

William shook his head, hiding a small, reluctant smile.

The days passed like that. Slowly. Softly.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, William felt like someone. Not a survivor. Not a fighter. Not a monster. Just a person, sitting at a table, sharing a meal.

And it scared him.

Because he knew—deep down, in the part of him that never let go of the past—this wouldn't last. It never did.

But for now, he let himself have it.