The morning light filtered weakly through the narrow windows of the Heroes Guild mess hall. Breakfast was simple fare: thick porridge, stale bread, and weak herbal tea. Most recruits ate quickly, eager to return to the training yard.
At a corner table, Gruk stared down at his bowl of porridge with open disgust. The gray, lumpy mass sat untouched. Across from him, Aamon had already finished his own portion and was quietly wiping the edge of his bowl with a piece of bread.
Gruk pushed his bowl away with a dramatic sigh.
"I can't even breathe in the smell of this slop," he grumbled, loud enough for half the hall to hear. "And you've already eaten all of yours? Take mine too. I'd rather starve than choke this down."
Aamon didn't reply. He simply slid Gruk's bowl toward himself without comment and began eating it as well.
Gruk turned his gaze to the window, mood visibly sour. His eyes drifted toward the entrance gate of the guild compound, where early morning traffic moved in and out. Suddenly, his expression shifted. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face the kind that usually meant trouble was brewing.
Aamon noticed immediately. He paused mid-bite, studying Gruk's face. He almost predicted what was coming, but he wasn't entirely sure. Still, the look in Gruk's eyes was unmistakable.
Meanwhile, on the training ground, Raymond, Haldir, and Beatrice were already practicing. Beatrice sent small violet arcs of mana into the air, testing precision. Haldir loosed arrows at distant targets with mechanical rhythm. Raymond moved through sword forms, his movements sharp but distracted.
Vael approached Raymond quietly, stopping a few paces away.
"I wanted to ask you something," Vael said, voice low. "About Miraleth. How did you write her? Because I feel something… off about her. Something fishy."
Raymond didn't reply at first. He finished a slow swing, then lowered his sword. Sweat glistened on his brow. For a long moment he stared at the ground, as though weighing his words.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't know," he admitted. "Everything I wrote has changed completely. Even you… Gruk and Aamon. You three shouldn't even be here, living among humans like this. I've already given up trying to control it. I'm just… living however the story goes now."
He paused, then added, quieter:
"The only thing that hasn't changed is Elara. And I can't lose her."
Raymond looked up, meeting Vael's eyes directly.
"You know what? You should just accept who you are instead of avoiding it. Stop acting like something you're not. And let's not talk about this anymore not now, not in the future."
He took a breath.
"One last request. Stay away from Elara."
Vael paused for a long moment, face unreadable.
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
The training yard continued around them blades clashing, mana crackling, arrows whistling through the air but the space between the two men from Earth felt suddenly wider than the entire field.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the western walls and the capital's lanterns began to flicker to life, Vael decided to leave the guild grounds. He walked without hurry toward a modest inn he had visited once before the same place where he had first overheard the rumors of Shadowmoon Valley, back when the world still felt distant and manageable.
The streets were quieter now, the evening crowd thinning into small groups of merchants closing their stalls and guards beginning their night patrols. Vael moved through them like a shadow, cloak drawn close against the cooling air.
He had not gone far when he sensed footsteps behind him steady, silent, familiar.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Aamon was following a few paces back, cloak blending with the gathering dusk.
Vael slowed but did not stop.
"Where is Gruk?" he asked.
Aamon's reply came evenly, without inflection.
"Since afternoon. He has not returned."
Vael said nothing more. He continued walking, ignoring the shadow at his back.
The two moved through the narrower streets, past closed shops and dimly lit alleys. The air carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and baked bread from homes preparing supper.
Then Vael noticed a figure ahead.
Haldir was walking down the same street, bow slung across his back, steps purposeful. He turned a corner and disappeared from view.
Aamon saw it too. His gaze sharpened.
In the dark corner where Haldir had vanished, the stone wall shimmered faintly like heat rising from sun-baked ground. A doorway formed where none had been before, edges glowing with a faint, unnatural violet light. Haldir stepped through it without hesitation. The doorway sealed behind him, the wall becoming solid stone once more, as if it had never opened at all.
Vael stopped.
Aamon halted beside him, both staring at the now-empty stretch of wall.
The night air felt suddenly heavier, as though the city itself was holding its breath.
Meanwhile, back at the farm, Gruk had returned much earlier that afternoon.
He had arrived at what he thought was the perfect time only to find Vael's mother on her knees in the vegetable patch, pulling stubborn weeds from the soil with determined hands. She spotted him immediately and straightened, brushing dirt from her apron.
"Gruk, dear! Where is my son? And Aamon?"
Gruk froze mid-step, flashing his widest, most innocent grin.
"I took a leave for the day, ma'am. Thought I'd come help around the house. Vael and Aamon are still at the guild training and all that heroic nonsense."
Before he could slip away, she had already handed him a small sickle.
"Then you can start by helping me with these weeds. The grass is getting overgrown too."
And so, the self-proclaimed future Demon Lord spent the rest of the afternoon on his knees beside her, yanking weeds and cutting overgrown grass with theatrical sighs and muttered complaints. By the time evening came and they sat down for dinner, Gruk was covered in dirt, his cloak stained with soil and grass clippings.
He stared at the simple meal on the table warm bread, stew, and a small plate of pickled vegetables with the expression of a man who had been personally betrayed by fate.
Vael's mother placed another generous helping of stew in front of him.
Gruk poked at it with his spoon, sighing theatrically.
"Ma'am, with all due respect to your generous heart… this stew is an insult to my noble tongue. Back at the barracks they serve gray sludge that at least has the decency to taste like defeat and broken dreams. But this? This is warm, comforting, and full of actual vegetables. How am I supposed to maintain my fearsome reputation as a future conqueror when I'm eating something that makes me feel… happy? It's ruining my image! Next thing you know I'll be writing poetry instead of plotting world domination!"
Vael's mother chuckled softly, unfazed.
"Eat properly, Gruk. You worked hard today. And take some for Vael and Aamon when you return tomorrow. They'll be hungry after all that training."
Gruk groaned dramatically, but he was already reaching for another piece of bread.
"Fine, fine. But if I start growing soft and start calling everyone 'dear,' it's your fault. I'll blame the stew."
She smiled warmly and patted his hand.
"You'll survive, dear. Now finish your plate."
Gruk grumbled something about "tyrannical mothers who weaponize kindness" under his breath, but he ate with surprising enthusiasm, the complaints slowly fading into contented chewing.
Later, as they were clearing the table, there was a knock at the door.
Gruk froze mid-step, head tilting slightly. His grin returned sharp, knowing.
He sensed someone he knew.
To be continued.