CHAPTER 6 — The Path That Begins With a Question.
"…But how?"
The sky didn't answer.
Rowan lay there beneath the thinning patches of snow, the night wind brushing against his cheeks, the cold settling into his bones like the weight of the promise he had made.
'How am I supposed to do that?'
He closed his eyes.
Darkness met him, but it wasn't empty. Memories stirred — soft, distant, warm.
A small Rowan, barely reaching his father's waist, walking beside Harold as they carried freshly cut lumber down the path toward Melvin's shop. The sun had been bright that day, filtering through the trees in long golden beams. Birds had chirped. Villagers waved, calling out:
"Good morning, Harold!"
"Harold, fine wood today!"
And Harold always answered back with a steady, humble smile.
Rowan remembered the moment Melvin — broad-shouldered, always smelling faintly of sawdust — had handed them a few extra coins.
"I'm honoured to work with you, Harold," Melvin had said.
Rowan remembered tugging on his father's sleeve afterward, his voice small, curious.
"Dad… what does honour mean?"
Harold had tried to find the right words while still greeting people along the way.
"Honour…" he repeated thoughtfully. "Honour means respect, my son."
"Respect?"
"Yes. How much someone appreciates your work… or how much you appreciate yourself." Someone had greeted him again — "Hello, Harold!" — and he'd smiled back. "See? Like that. People respect me for the work I do. And I respect the life I have earned."
The memory faded like breath on glass.
Rowan opened his eyes.
"…Respect," he whispered.
The moment the word left his lips, something clicked in him. If he wanted to restore his father's honour… then he had to become someone respected. Someone worthy. Someone great.
He lay back down, staring at the sky again.
'But what can I even do?'
He thought of the most respected professions in the world.
A merchant…
A soldier…
A—
"A mage."
The words slipped out in a breath.
Rowan shot upright, excitement sparking in his chest. His fist closed tight.
"Yes… a mage! Mages are the most respected people in the world. If I become a mage… I can restore Father's honour!"
But only a second later, a harsh wave of reality crashed over him.
"Wait… how do I become a mage?" Rowan muttered."I don't know how someone becomes one.
'I remember that bhaiya went to an academy to become a mage but, where do I find such an academy.'
Rowan sighed,"If I ask a mage, I might find out… but I don't know any mages."
His excitement withered as he ran a hand through his hair, frustration swelling.
"Ahhh… what should I do now?"
Thud.
He turned.
A log had fallen from the pile he'd chopped earlier.
Rowan exhaled. "Right… those too."
His gaze drifted to the carriage — the same one he'd taken during the snowstorm. He remembered how Melvin had ordered him away quickly when he'd arrived with it, whispering that he couldn't be seen with them. Rowan had left silently, taking the carriage along.
Back to now.
He looked at the log pile again.
"…Let's deal with this first," he muttered.
Rowan loaded the logs into the carriage and headed toward Drave City.
---
Inside Harthwood Timber & Supply
Garron Harthwood stood behind the counter, arms crossed as he inspected a log on his table with narrowed eyes. The shop smelled of pine and fresh sawdust — a scent Rowan had grown up with.
Garron picked up another log, running his fingers over the smooth, clean grain.
He finally looked up, expression flat.
"Does Melvin know you came here to sell wood without him?"
Rowan straightened. "I chopped them myself. I came to sell them independently. And Melvin doesn't have any problem."
Garron paused, studying him.
The boy he'd first seen covered in snowstorm dust was gone. This Rowan stood tall, steady, with a quiet stubbornness in his eyes. Something deliberate. Something determined.
"…Hmph."
Garron pulled out a leather pouch of coins and set it on the table.
"I'm only taking these because they're high quality."
Rowan grabbed the pouch with a grateful nod.
"But if Melvin complains," Garron added, "you explain it to him."
Rowan nodded again and turned to leave — but hesitated. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Uh… can I ask you something?"
Garron didn't look up from his ledger. "What is it?"
"Do you know where I can find a mage?"
The quill froze mid-stroke.
Garron finally lifted his eyes, staring directly at Rowan.
"…Why?"
Rowan struggled to form the words. "I just… want to see a mage."
A long silence.
Then Garron pointed toward the window.
"Go to West Street. There's an inn there." His tone remained flat. "I've heard many mages frequent it for drinks."
Rowan's face lit up.
"Thank you!"
He rushed out of the shop so quickly Garron barely had time to blink.
---
West Street.
The closer Rowan got, the more he realized how different West Street felt from the rest of Drave City.
The buildings were older, leaning slightly like tired giants. The air carried the smell of smoke, ale, and spices. Laughter echoed from taverns. Bards played soft tunes. Lanterns hung from beams, swinging gently in the breeze.
Rowan walked down the street, asking directions along the way.
"The inn where mages go?"
"Oh, them? That way."
"You'll see it once you reach the corner."
"Just follow the sound of loud people and expensive robes."
Finally, he reached a stretch where inns lined both sides of the road.
Rowan stared.
"…So many," he whispered.
Now what?
He scratched his cheek, looking back and forth helplessly.
"Uh—excuse me?" he asked a passerby.
"Can you tell me the place mages —"
The man didn't stop walking, just pointed lazily with a thumb.
"That one. The place mages like."
Rowan turned.
A wooden sign hung above an old, stone-fronted building. The sign swayed with the breeze, creaking faintly.
The Aren't Quill Inn
Rowan swallowed.
"So this is the place…"
He stepped forward.
And the story of his life was about to change.
Chapter End.