Chapter 5: The Village of Stonehill

The midday sun burned bright as Dikun Silver crested the final hill. Beyond the swaying fields of golden wheat, a village came into view. Smoke curled lazily from thatched rooftops, and the distant clatter of a blacksmith's hammer rang through the air. The village was small, but the sight of it stirred a sense of relief within him.

Stonehill.

He hadn't seen the name displayed above the village entrance like in Bannerlord, but the familiar landscape and the river winding nearby confirmed his suspicion. In the game, it had been a humble settlement — a place where farmers traded grains and shepherds herded livestock. Yet now, standing at its threshold, the village seemed far more real.

The weathered wooden palisade encircled the town, providing minimal defense. Guards in mismatched leather armor patrolled the entrance, their spears resting lazily against their shoulders. They were no trained soldiers, only local men tasked with protecting their home.

Dikun adjusted the weight of the axe strapped to his back, feeling the dried sweat clinging to his skin. His makeshift leather armor marked him as someone familiar with violence. If he walked in without caution, the villagers might mistake him for a brigand.

"Think like a commander," he reminded himself. "Approach carefully. Show no threat."

Drawing a deep breath, he loosened his grip on the saber's hilt and approached the gate. The guards stiffened at his arrival, their hands twitching toward their weapons. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a thick brown beard, stepped forward.

"State your business, stranger."

The man's voice was gruff, though not hostile. Dikun could see the suspicion in his eyes — the wariness of a man who had likely dealt with his share of misfortune.

"I'm a traveler," Dikun answered, keeping his tone steady. "Looking for food, water, and a place to rest."

The guard's gaze swept over him, lingering on the bloodstained leather armor. "You look like you've seen trouble."

"I have." Dikun didn't flinch. "Bandits. They attacked me on the road. I defended myself."

A flicker of understanding passed through the guard's face. Bandits were a plague in these lands. Few would be surprised to hear of another skirmish. But the fact that Dikun stood alone, alive, was what gave the man pause.

"And the bandits?" the guard pressed.

"Dead."

The guard's brows furrowed. For a moment, Dikun expected further questions — accusations, perhaps. But the man only nodded.

"Well, I won't shed tears for a few dead scoundrels," he said. "But keep your hands off that weapon while you're within our walls. Any trouble, and you'll answer for it."

Dikun inclined his head. "Understood."

With a grunt, the guard signaled to his companion, and the wooden gate creaked open. The air within was thick with the mingled scents of smoke, livestock, and freshly baked bread.

"Welcome to Stonehill."

---

A New Reality

The village square bustled with life. Merchants called out their wares from wooden stalls, displaying baskets of grain, bundles of herbs, and fresh loaves of bread. Children darted between the villagers, their laughter mingling with the hum of conversation. Farmers in dirt-streaked tunics carried sacks of wheat, while a blacksmith hammered away at a glowing piece of iron.

It was the same Stonehill Dikun had known in the game, yet infinitely more vivid. The breeze carried the earthy scent of wet hay and distant smoke. Every creak of the wooden carts and murmur of gossip was a reminder — this world was real.

But the stares weren't lost on him. The villagers cast wary glances his way, their eyes lingering on the dried blood that stained his armor. Some whispered, while others quickly averted their gaze. A stranger walking into town, visibly marked by battle, was cause for concern.

"Can't blame them," Dikun thought grimly.

Still, the knowledge he possessed gave him a distinct advantage. He knew the game's layout, its factions, its people. And more importantly, he knew how to navigate conversations.

"Establish trust. Learn. Adapt."

The first step was simple — food.

---

The Tavern

The Stonehill tavern stood at the far end of the square, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze. Faint laughter and the murmur of drunken conversation spilled from within. The smell of roasted meat and cheap ale beckoned Dikun forward.

Pushing the heavy door open, he stepped inside.

The dimly lit room was just as he remembered — wooden beams lined with hanging herbs, barrels stacked against the walls, and a soot-blackened hearth crackling in the corner. The tavern's patrons barely spared him a glance, too immersed in their mugs of ale and half-hearted games of dice.

Behind the counter, a stout woman with graying hair wiped down a wooden tankard. Her sharp eyes flicked toward Dikun, sizing him up with the practiced ease of someone who had dealt with travelers before.

"Welcome, stranger," she greeted, her voice carrying a slight rasp. "Coin or no coin?"

"Coin," Dikun answered, tapping the pouch at his waist.

She nodded in approval. "Then you're welcome at my tables."

He approached the counter, the creak of the floorboards following his steps. "Food and water. And if you've got a spare room, I'll take it for the night."

The woman eyed the dried blood on his armor but said nothing. "Three silvers for the meal. Two more for the room. No trouble, and we'll get along just fine."

Dikun counted the coins, their cool weight familiar in his hands. The pouch had been light to begin with, and after this, it would be lighter still.

"I'll need to earn more soon," he noted.

The woman pocketed the silver, then turned toward the kitchen. "Take a seat. Food's on its way."

Dikun chose a table near the corner, his back to the wall. Years of strategy had ingrained the habit — always keep a clear view of the room. He leaned the saber against the chair, though the weight of the axe on his back was a silent reassurance.

A mug of water arrived first, followed by a plate of salted pork, boiled potatoes, and a crusty piece of bread. It wasn't lavish, but the first bite filled him with a warmth that soothed the ache in his bones. He ate in silence, his ears keenly tuned to the murmurs around him.

Villagers gossiped about the latest tax increase from the local lord. Others spoke of missing livestock — a likely sign of roaming raiders. Dikun absorbed every word, piecing together a clearer picture of the world he now inhabited.

"Information is power."

But one conversation stood out.

Two men at a nearby table, both clad in patched leather, spoke in hushed tones. Dikun caught the words "bandits" and "revenge" more than once. The name they whispered — Jorvik — sent a chill down his spine.

"The bandit leader I killed mentioned him," Dikun realized.

The words returned, sharper than ever.

"You think this ends here?"

Whoever Jorvik was, he wouldn't let the death of his men go unanswered.

Dikun's hand rested on the hilt of his saber. He had won the first battle, but the war had only just begun.

And in Calradia, no battle was ever truly over.