The morning sun had barely cleared the eastern hills when Darius and Kufa gathered the trio at the guild stables. The heroes' team was already mounted—Raymond on a sleek black gelding, Haldir with his bow slung across his back, Beatrice adjusting her saddlebags, and Elara checking the straps on a quiet gray mare. Prophetess Miraleth sat sidesaddle on a gentle white palfrey, blind eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon.
Darius reined his horse around.
"We've got an escort duty," he said, voice carrying easily across the yard. "Prophetess Miraleth needs to reach the Temple of Stars in the far south. The roads are quiet, but we're not taking chances with her. You three ride with us. You're strong enough to make the difference if trouble finds us."
Vael froze for half a second, hand on his mount's bridle.
Miraleth.
The name struck a buried chord—something from his second life, a temple vision, a prophecy he had once fulfilled as the summoned hero. He could almost see the black opal pulsing in memory, but the details slipped away like smoke. He shook his head once, small, and mounted without a word.
Gruk, already in the saddle and looking far too pleased with himself, perked up immediately.
"Wait—south?" he asked, grin widening. "That means we cross right past Vael's farm, doesn't it?"
"Why don't we take a rest there?" he continued, voice bright with feigned innocence. "Short stop. Stretch the legs. Let the horses drink. The old lady makes food that could wake the dead. Perfect place to break the journey."
Vael exhaled through his nose. He knew exactly what Gruk was doing—scheming something, probably involving more free meals, more meddling, more chances to annoy him in front of witnesses. But refusing now would look suspicious.
He turned to Darius and Kufa.
"We can stop at my place," he said quietly. "It's on the way. Water for the horses. A quick rest."
Darius raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
"Fine by me. Lead on."
Before anyone could object, Vael swung down from his horse again.
"I'll be right back."
He walked—fast—toward the market stalls still opening along the guild road. Minutes later he returned with a heavy burlap sack slung over one shoulder: a thick chunk of fresh beef wrapped in waxed cloth, a basket of late-season apples and pears, a small sack of root vegetables. Enough to feed a small army for a day.
Elara guided her mare closer as he remounted.
"You didn't have to buy all that," she said gently. "We're only stopping for a few minutes. Water and rest, then we continue."
Vael secured the sack behind his saddle, then looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time since the training yard.
"This isn't for us," he said, voice soft but steady. "It's for my mother."
He swung up into the saddle, then added—almost teasing, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to surprise even himself:
"We can have a glass of water and leave. Promise."
Elara blinked, caught off guard. A faint flush touched her cheeks. She opened her mouth, closed it again, then gave a small, uncertain smile.
Raymond, riding a few paces behind, noticed the exchange. His eyes narrowed slightly. He filed it away without a word.
Kufa laughed, loud and easy.
"Well then, Vael—lead the way."
The group moved out in loose formation—Darius and Kufa at the front, Miraleth in the protected center, the trio scattered among the heroes. The road south wound through rolling farmland, past golden fields and small hamlets still waking up.
Beatrice maneuvered her horse alongside Aamon's almost immediately.
She held out a small cloth-wrapped bundle—apples, a pear, a few strips of dried venison she'd clearly bought earlier.
"Here," she said, pushing the bundle toward him without hesitation. "Take these. You look like you could use something that doesn't taste like barracks stew."
Aamon accepted the bundle with a small nod, expression neutral.
Beatrice didn't stop.
"You actually look good today," she continued, words tumbling out bright and fearless. "The uniform suits you. Very sharp. Mysterious. I like the way the cloak falls—makes you look like you're hiding secrets. Do you always look like you're hiding secrets? Because it's working. Really working." Beatrice kept going, undeterred.
"I mean, you're quiet, but not in a boring way. It's… intense. Like you're always thinking three steps ahead. Or do you just sit there looking dangerous and let people assume you're good at everything?"
Aamon stared straight ahead, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
Inside his head:
This woman is Gruk with spellbooks. Same endless talking. Same lack of filter. A perfect match. If they ever teamed up, the world would never know silence again.
Out loud, he said nothing.
The rest of the heroes' team rode in awkward, amused silence. Haldir coughed to hide a grin. Raymond's lips twitched. Even Darius glanced over his shoulder once, eyebrow raised.
Aamon endured. Patient. Silent. Every word landing like rain on stone—annoying, persistent, but not enough to break him.
Yet.
Vael rode ahead, sack of food bouncing lightly against his horse's flank, the farm drawing closer with every step.
The farm appeared over the last rise just as the sun reached its midday peak—modest, sturdy, the new roof gleaming under fresh thatch. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of baking bread and herbs. Vael's mother was in the vegetable patch, kneeling among the rows with a small trowel in hand, pulling weeds with practiced patience.
She looked up at the sound of hooves.
Her face lit up the instant she saw Vael at the head of the group—then widened further when she recognized Gruk and Aamon riding behind him. She dropped the trowel, brushed soil from her hands on her apron, and hurried toward the gate, smile bright enough to rival the sun.
"Vael!" she called, voice carrying across the yard. "And the boys! And… oh my, so many guests!"
Vael dismounted first, boots hitting the packed earth. He gave a small nod—quiet, steady.
"Mother. We're just passing through. Heading south."
Gruk was already swinging down from his horse with exaggerated enthusiasm, cloak swirling like he was making an entrance on stage.
"Don't listen to him, ma'am!" he called, striding straight toward the house. "We're starving! That bread smell is calling my name. Permission to raid the kitchen?"
Vael's mother laughed—warm, delighted.
"Of course, of course! Go on, go on. There's fresh bread and stew on the stove. Help yourself."
Gruk didn't need to be told twice. He vanished through the doorway with the speed of a man who had been dreaming of real food since dawn.
Vael turned to the heroes, gesturing toward the house.
"Come in," he said simply. "Water for the horses. A quick rest."
Aamon dismounted smoothly beside him. Before Vael could move, Aamon spoke—voice low, calm.
"I'll help your mother with preparations for the guests."
Vael met his eyes for a second, then nodded once.
Aamon headed toward the garden without another word, cloak settling behind him like spilled ink.
The heroes followed Vael inside—Darius and Kufa first, then Raymond, Haldir, Beatrice, and Elara last. Miraleth remained mounted for now, blind gaze turned toward the house as though listening to something only she could hear.
Inside, the air was warm and fragrant—bread, stew, woodsmoke, clean linen. Vael's mother bustled between table and stove, already setting out extra bowls. Gruk was tearing into a thick slice of bread slathered with butter, moaning dramatically between bites.
Raymond lingered near the doorway, watching the scene unfold.
He smiled—small, private, almost disbelieving.
I never wrote Vael having a mother.
In his original manuscript, Vael had been an orphan villain—driven, solitary, fueled by rage and nothing else. No family. No farm. No quiet domestic moments like this. Yet here the character stood, pouring water for guests, speaking softly to his mother, existing in a life Raymond had never scripted.
The story had rewritten itself.
After the meal—simple but hearty—Vael stepped outside to check the horses. Raymond followed a minute later, casual, unhurried. The yard was empty except for the two of them. The others were still inside, laughing over seconds of stew.
Vael leaned against the fence, arms crossed, gaze on the southern road. Raymond stopped a few paces away.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Vael turned his head slightly.
"Are you from Earth?" he asked, voice calm, almost gentle. "Do you have a system that gives you quests?"
Raymond froze.
His heart slammed once against his ribs. The quill in his pocket suddenly felt heavy.
"How…" he started, then stopped. Swallowed. "How do you know that?"
Vael looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time without pretense.
"I'm from Earth too," he said quietly. "Reincarnated here. With a system of my own."
He paused, choosing his words with care.
"But mine… tells me to do the opposite of what I want. Every time."
He didn't say more. Didn't mention the three lives. Didn't mention being summoned as the hero once, or killing the original Vael. That was too much. Too raw.
Raymond stared at him.
The author who had once thought he controlled the story now felt the pages slipping from his fingers.
"You're not… what I wrote," he said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Vael after hearing that, confused and silence....
Silence stretched. Wind moved through the yard again, rustling the leaves of the old oak near the fence.
Finally Vael spoke, voice low, careful.
"I don't get it."
Raymond exhaled once—slow, unsteady. He looked down at the dirt between his boots, then back up.
"I'm the author," he said. "Of the book called Burnt Pages of Fate. It tells the story of this world. The summoning circles. The heroes. The demon lords. The prophecies. All of it… I wrote it. On Earth.
Vael went still.
The name of the book struck him like a cold blade sliding between ribs—not painful yet, but sharp enough to promise pain later.
Burnt Pages of Fate.
The title half-burned on asphalt flashed in his mind. Rain-slick roads. The truck that didn't stop. Flames licking the wreckage. Blood in his mouth. The stack of novels scattered across the road, one open and curling black in the fire. He had clutched them like they could anchor him to life. The last thing he saw before darkness took him.
He said nothing.
His jaw tightened. His hands—still resting on the fence rail—curled slowly into fists, knuckles whitening.
Raymond watched him, waiting for anger, for denial, for anything.
Vael gave him nothing.
Only silence.
The same silence he had carried since the riverbank. Since the valley. Since every time the system had reminded him that his choices were never truly his.
Raymond swallowed, voice dropping lower.
"The story is no longer under my control," he said. "It's writing itself now. The system doesn't work. Quests glitch. Timelines shift. Characters… change. I don't know what's happening."
Vael finally looked away—toward the southern road, toward the temple they were meant to reach, toward whatever waited beyond.
When he spoke again, his voice was quiet. Almost gentle.
"So you wrote me."
Not a question.
A statement.
Raymond's answer came soft, almost apologetic.
"I thought I did."
Vael nodded once—small, smiled and tired, final.
Then he turned and walked back toward the house.
Raymond stayed where he was a moment longer, staring at the empty space where Vael had stood.
The wind carried the scent of baking bread and distant rain.
Inside the house, laughter drifted out again—Gruk's voice, loud and exaggerated, Beatrice chiming in, Vael's mother responding with warm amusement.
Outside, two men from Earth stood in the dirt of another world, one the author, one the story that had escaped the page.
To be continued.