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T here were days when he could almost forget there had ever been a war. Days when the sky was quiet, when the road stretched out empty beneath his boots, and the only thing ahead was another town that didn’t know his name.

But peace never sat right in his bones.

It itched. It ached. It made him aware of the places where scars had settled—his shoulder, his ribs, the twist at his left knee where a blade had gone too deep too fast. He had survived worse than most. He hadn’t figured out yet if that made him lucky or just cursed to linger.

He’d tried the healer’s caravan for a while. Guarded their supplies, sat with dying men, pulled steel from flesh. They were kind people. Gentle in that way that made his skin crawl after too long. Always offering food he didn’t ask for. Always smiling like they didn’t see the weight he carried.

He didn’t belong there. Or anywhere, really.

The war had taken many things and given him solitude in return. At first, that felt like freedom. But solitude turned sour when it lasted too long. Became hunger. Not for blood. Not anymore. Just for something solid. Something real.

He came to Everwood because the caravan stopped here and he didn’t feel like leaving. That was the whole of it. No plan. No fresh start. Just a tired man with a pack on his back and a name no one called unless they needed him to bleed for them.

Uldrek leaned against the wooden post outside the old market square, arms crossed, eyes scanning the quiet street. The scent of yeast and morning fog curled in the air. Behind him, the world moved on—bright banners, cobbled stones, laughter that didn’t belong to him.

Maybe he’d leave tomorrow.

Maybe not.