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“The bees will survive without me. The gardens will grow wild again.”

He turned away, unable to bear the thought of her sacrificing everything for him. “I won’t ask that of you.”

“You didn’t ask.” She stepped in front of him, forcing him to look at her. “I’m choosing. Just as I chose to take you in when you appeared at my door.”

“This is different.”

“Is it?” Her eyes flashed. “I’ve spent years hiding here, pretending I could build something permanent. But nothing is permanent, Egon. Not for people like us.”

He couldn’t deny the truth of her words. They were both outsiders. They always would be.

“When do we leave?” she asked, already turning back to the cottage.

He followed her, watching in disbelief as she packed a small cloth bag with essentials—herbs, dried meat, a change of clothes. Her movements were swift and efficient, as though she’d been preparing for this departure her entire life.

“You’re certain?” he asked for the third time.

She paused, hands resting on a jar of honey she’d carefully wrapped in cloth. “If you ask me that one more time, I might change my mind out of spite.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “I just want you to be sure.”

“I am.” She tucked the honey into her bag. “Besides, the village needs to protect itself. They can’t do that if Lord Trepan’s men are watching me.”

Outside, the soft murmur of voices grew louder, and he tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the knife at his belt.

“It’s just the Elders,” she said, touching his arm. “I asked them to come.”

The three village Elders entered without knocking. Their faces were solemn but not hostile as they regarded him.

“We’ve discussed matters,” said the oldest, a white-haired female he hadn’t encountered before. “The village agrees your departure is… necessary.”

He nodded stiffly. “I understand.”

“Not just yours,” Elder Harta added. “Lyric’s too. For her safety.”

Elder Tomas stepped forward, holding out a small pouch. “Seeds from our best crops. For wherever you settle next.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she accepted the gift. “Thank you.”

“Samha asked us to give you this.” The white-haired woman handed him a crudely carved wooden figure—an attempt at an orc warrior. “He says it will protect you both.”

His throat tightened as he took the small carving. “Tell him…” He struggled to find words.

“We will tell him you were grateful,” the Elder said gently.

As they left the cottage, villagers lined the path, their expressions a mixture of gratitude and concern. Some nodded respectfully to him. A few reached out to touch Lyric’s arm or press small tokens into her hands.

“They’re thanking you,” she whispered. “For protecting Samha and his sister.”

He kept his eyes forward, uncomfortable with their attention. “I only did what was necessary.”

At the edge of the village, where the path wound upward into the mountains, Samha suddenly jumped out of the bushes and ran towards them.

“You’re really leaving?” The boy’s eyes were wide and red-rimmed.

Lyric bent down and hugged him. “We have to. But we won’t forget you.”

Samha returned her hug, then turned to him, small chin trembling but determined. “Will you come back someday?”