Imagine A Happy Ending

The sun was low when I stumbled into the village. My legs trembled with every step, the ache of hunger and exhaustion threatening to knock me down. The place looked like a mirage—a collection of houses surrounded by fields that seemed to glow under the orange light. It was nothing like my home. The buildings were sturdier, the fences well-kept, and the people—oh, the people—they looked... alive.

I could feel their eyes on me before I even reached the center. Murmurs rose like the hum of distant bees, and soon, a crowd had gathered. They didn't come close; they kept their distance, staring at me as if I carried a sickness.

"Who's this?" a voice called out—a woman, older, with her hands on her hips.

"A beggar, by the looks of him," another said, his voice sharp.

"I'm not here to beg," I rasped, though my throat was dry, and my voice sounded pitiful even to me. "I just... I just need help. Please."

The murmurs grew louder. Someone threw a piece of dried mud at my feet.

"Get out!"

"Go back where you came from!"

"Please," I tried again, my knees buckling. "I don't have anywhere else to go. My family—"

"Not our problem," a man snapped, stepping forward. His face was hard, his hands calloused. "We've got mouths to feed. No room for strays."

I wanted to scream, to cry, but no sound came out. Just as I thought I would collapse, a voice cut through the crowd.

"Enough!"

The crowd parted, and an older man stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered, his face lined with age and soot. His hands were blackened from years at the forge, and his eyes—steel gray—held a weight that silenced the mob.

"You've all made your point," he said, his voice steady. "But he's just a boy. Let him breathe."

"Torvin," the woman who had spoken first hissed. "We can't afford to take in every lost soul."

"Every lost soul doesn't end up at my doorstep," Torvin replied. His gaze swept over the crowd, daring anyone to challenge him. "I'll take him. Now, go back to your homes."

The crowd grumbled but slowly dispersed. Torvin turned to me, his expression softening.

"Come on, boy," he said, extending a hand. "You look like you could use a meal."

---

Torvin's forge was on the edge of the village, away from the judgmental eyes of the others. The building was sturdy, its walls blackened from years of smoke. Inside, the air was warm, filled with the scent of metal and coal. Weapons and tools lined the walls—axes, swords, plows—all gleaming under the dim light of a single lantern.

"You've got a name?" Torvin asked as he handed me a bowl of stew.

"Kael," I said, barely audible as I wolfed down the food.

"Slow down, Kael," he chuckled. "You'll choke."

The stew was hot, the best thing I'd tasted in what felt like years. I nodded, forcing myself to eat slower.

"Where're you from?"

"A village to the north," I said, my voice faltering. "It's... gone now."

Torvin didn't press further, and for that, I was grateful.

As the days passed, I started helping around the forge. Torvin didn't ask much—fetching tools, stoking the fire—but it gave me purpose, a reason to keep going. He didn't speak often, but when he did, his words carried weight.

"You've seen a lot for someone so young," he said one evening as we sat by the fire. "The world's cruel like that. It takes more than it gives."

I didn't respond. My mind was elsewhere, haunted by dreams—or memories, I couldn't tell which. Faces I didn't recognize, places I'd never been. I saw blood, fire, and shadows that whispered my name.

"Nightmares?" Torvin asked, noticing my distant stare.

"Something like that," I muttered.

He leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. "You're not the only one haunted, Kael. I had a son once. About your age. Lost him during the wars."

I looked up at him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice.

"He was strong, brave. But the world doesn't care about that, does it?" He shook his head, his expression hardening. "No. The world takes. It always takes."

"Is that why you took me in?" I asked hesitantly.

Torvin's eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pain there. "Maybe. Or maybe I just saw someone who needed a chance."

---

Despite the safety of Torvin's forge, the village was no sanctuary. Its prosperity came at a cost. Every villager was required to contribute—food, labor, something of value—or face exile. It was a system that bred resentment, though no one dared challenge it openly.

One night, as I lay on the cot Torvin had set up for me, I overheard voices outside.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Torvin," a man said. "Taking in that boy."

"He's no threat," Torvin replied calmly.

"Maybe not now. But mark my words—trouble follows people like him. You'll regret it."

I didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, as I helped Torvin at the forge, he handed me a small dagger.

"Keep this with you," he said.

I frowned, running my fingers along the blade. "Why?"

"Because the world doesn't give warnings, Kael. It just strikes."

His words lingered in my mind as I stared at the dagger, its edge gleaming like a promise.

But even then, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching me, waiting.