Chapter 51 - Childhood [46]

"Thank you, sir... thank you for saving my little girl" I heard the woman say behind me, her voice choked with emotion. She was almost sobbing. She was in shock.

I didn't look back, but I saw her shadow on the ground: on her knees, hunched over, as if a lifetime of fear and misery was finally bursting at the seams.

I approached the stable. The horse was snorting, restless, but unharmed. I ran my hand through its wet mane, feeling the tense muscles beneath the skin. At least it was still standing.

"Sir...?" the woman hesitated, still kneeling.

"I've been chasing that horse for two days" I said in a drawling voice, as if each word weighed heavily. "I'm hungry. Cold. Sleepy. I'm going to stay on your property for a day"

It was an order, not a request.

I tied up the horse and did a quick inspection of its flank. It was tired, like me. The tension in its hind legs indicated that it hadn't eaten for almost a whole day. I gave it a light pat on the neck and left it there.

When I turned around, the three of them—the woman, her daughter, and the boy—were staring at me with wide eyes. They were like deer caught in the headlights. Fear was everywhere, like the smell of wet earth and mold.

The boy took a step forward. He was pale as wax.

"S-sir... I'll take you to my room"

The two women looked at him in despair, as if he were offering himself as a sacrifice.

I nodded.

"All right"

The boy led me inside the house. The floor creaked under my heavy footsteps, and each step was like a reminder that this place was not ready to shelter monsters like me. The room was small. Almost a closet with a sleeping bag in the corner and an old wardrobe with warped doors.

I didn't care.

I began to remove my armor, piece by piece. The metal creaked and released moisture. With each buckle I loosened, I felt the weight of the road leaving me, but not the fatigue. That was deeper.

The boots came last. The skin on my feet burned with cold and dampness.

I locked the door from the inside.

I lay down.

The sleeping bag was hard as a rock. But for the first time in days, there was silence. No shouting. No explosions. No centipedes.

I thought about the girl. She wasn't pretty—not in the way many would say—but there was something about her. Something embedded in her gaze. Courage. The real kind. No posing, no pride. She was like a spark fighting against a world that was too dark.

I smiled, my eyes still closed.

And I slept.

***

I woke up twelve hours later. The room smelled of old sweat, damp wood, and wet leather. I stretched slowly, my muscles protesting with every movement. I sat up in bed, my eyes still heavy. I looked around—it was dark, stuffy, silent.

Putting on the armor was automatic. My fingers knew the way. The breastplate buckle creaked as usual. The boots were still damp, but the heat of my body would dry what was left.

I took a deep breath.

And opened the door.

And there she was: my mother.

Standing in the hallway.

Her eyes wide, her mouth half open. The cloth she was holding was soaked from being wrung out so much. She didn't say anything. She just... looked at me. As if trying to understand why I was still there. As if expecting something terrible to happen.

But I just stared at her, silently.

And took the first step outside.

"Thanks for the stay" I said, turning to the woman, my voice softer than usual. It seemed fair, after all.

"I-I... I thank you for your mercy" replied the woman, trembling, her hands clasped tightly in front of her chest. Each of her words seemed to weigh like a prayer amid fear.

My armor fit my body like a second skin—heavy, familiar, protective. Under the leather, clean, lined clothing muffled the friction of the plates, allowing me to bear the weight with minimal discomfort. It was a design made for commanders: layers upon layers—padded leather, fine chain mail, and, on top, plates reinforced with dark alloy. Mobility was never a problem. It was part of the training.

The breastplate alone weighed about 160 pounds. The gauntlets, boots, and reinforcements on the shoulders and lower back added another 130. All in all, 135 kilograms — and that was still the armor of an archer. I saw warriors of brute strength wearing sets that weighed over 300 kilograms. As for the combat masters... My father's, for example, exceeded 750 kilograms. An ordinary man would collapse just trying to lift it.

Ordinary horses could never handle that. That's why there were war horses: larger, denser creatures, bred with precise crossbreeding and controlled feeding from birth. They could carry up to two tons. Each one cost at least a hundred gold coins — not to mention the training and constant care.

I turned my gaze back to the woman.

"Where is he?" I asked bluntly.

She hesitated. She swallowed hard.

"My son... he's working at the lumberyard. He... he's sorry, sir, please... please spare him"

"I'm not going to punish him" I replied, without changing my tone. "I just want to understand why he was willing to sell the horse. And more importantly, through what channels he would do so. This territory belongs to my father. Selling a war horse here is the same as trafficking resources under our noses"

She blinked, surprised. She seemed to finally understand the gravity of the situation, but not in the way she had feared before. Her body relaxed a little, her shoulders slowly lowering.

"Oh... I understand. I completely understand" she said, almost in a whisper. Now it was a confused relief that dominated her expression.

"He'll be back in the afternoon" she added.

"All right. I'll be back in two days. Tell him to be here" I concluded, before turning away.

I left the house and headed for the stable.

The smell of hay and manure mingled with the cold morning air, and yet there was something comforting about that environment. I approached the enclosure where the war horse awaited me, imposing, its black eyes alert. Next to it, some ordinary horses trembled and moved away, intimidated. The comparison was almost ridiculous—like placing a mountain next to a hill.

The warhorse was twice as tall, three times as muscular. Its hooves were the size of a child's head, and its muscles moved under its skin like thick, living ropes.