The road to the capital wound like an old scar across the land—long, familiar, and quiet this time of year.
Canis rode alone, the heavy satchel of energy crystals strapped securely behind him. The horse was steady, a chestnut mare with a stubborn gait, uninterested in small talk and content with silence. Just the way he liked it.
The countryside rolled by in fading greens and early autumn golds. Trees whispered in the wind, their branches shedding the first signs of coming cold. A line of mountains loomed far to the north, jagged and gray like old teeth.
He didn't mind the solitude. In fact, he preferred it.
Every now and then, a caravan passed him in the opposite direction—traders, pilgrims, or minor noble families moving with guards in polished armor. They nodded politely, unaware that the man in the travel-worn cloak, with the dust-crusted boots and tired eyes, had once led a charge that split the sky.
He didn't return their greetings. Not out of arrogance—he just didn't see the point.
As he rode, his eyes scanned the terrain automatically. Every bend in the path, every cluster of rocks, every unnatural sound of wind brushing grass—he noted it all. Old habits, buried but never dead.
A distant howl rose from the forest to the south.
Not close. Not yet.
He kept riding.
---
By midday, he stopped at a lone rest post—just a well and a weathered bench beneath a leaning tree. He tied the mare, sat down, and pulled out a strip of dried meat from his pack.
The quiet settled again.
In the stillness, his fingers moved unconsciously to his right forearm. Under the glove, a scar traced down the bone like a lightning bolt—thin and pale, barely visible anymore. He remembered the strike that caused it. The creature had eyes like smoke and a mouth full of sound. No one else had survived that day.
Canis took a slow breath and bit into the meat.
He didn't remember the pain, just the silence afterward. The way everything felt heavy.
He chewed, and the forest swayed gently in the breeze.
---
By evening, he reached the outskirts of the capital—tall white walls rising like cliffs from the plain, torchlight flickering along the parapets. Banners fluttered in the wind, each bearing the crest of a ruling house or major guild. The gate guards barely glanced at him. A courier's token hung from his neck, granting passage without delay.
Inside, the city pulsed with movement. Horseshoes on stone, the sharp ring of a blacksmith's hammer, laughter spilling from taverns. Children darted between stalls. Bards played near fountains. Wealth, noise, and light—so unlike the quiet towns near the frontlines.
Canis guided his horse through the streets, the satchel behind him glowing faintly through the canvas.
He could feel the mana thrumming inside. Dangerous, if handled poorly. Profitable, if sold correctly.
He arrived at the guild treasury branch just before the doors closed. The receptionist there—a young man with bright eyes and a shaky voice—took one look at the bag and nearly dropped his ledger.
"I'll need the full count in certified coin," Canis said calmly. "Four days' time."
The receptionist nodded, pale. "Yes, sir. We'll prepare the vault transfer."
Canis turned and left before the man could ask any more questions.
---
That night, he stayed in a quiet inn on the city's eastern edge—far from the guild district, where no one asked names. The room was small, the bed firm. He didn't light a candle.
He sat by the window, watching the moon rise behind the spires.
Somewhere in the noise and color of the capital, a younger version of himself might have been sitting in a tavern, grinning with his comrades, boots muddy, hands bloody, retelling the battle of the day.
But that version of him had vanished.
Now he watched from afar, letting the years speak in silence.
And in the morning, he would ride back—not as the beast-slayer, not as the vanguard, not as the name once whispered at fire-lit camps.
Just as a man with a stamped ledger, delivering coin to pay for someone else's legend.
-----
The morning air was crisp when Canis set out again.
His business in the capital had gone as expected—quick, clean, no unnecessary conversation. The vault receipt sat safely tucked in his cloak, and the coins would follow shortly by secure transport. He preferred to ride alone.
As the city gates disappeared behind him and the open plains unfolded once more, Canis felt the weight begin to lift from his shoulders. The world out here was wide, quiet. It didn't ask him to remember, or to explain.
It let him disappear.
He welcomed the silence.
But halfway through the second day of travel, that silence broke.
A voice, clear and unmistakable, echoed behind him:
"Canis."
He froze.
The name wasn't shouted. It was spoken—soft, sure, and laced with something like familiarity. Something he hadn't heard in years.
He didn't turn. His jaw tightened.
Hoofbeats approached from behind, slow and deliberate. He heard the sound of a horse dismounting, the rustle of leather, the soft crunch of boots on gravel. Then, a shadow joined his.
"You always did ride too far ahead," the voice said again—closer now.
Canis turned his head slightly.
She stood beside him, holding the reins of a sleek black horse. Her uniform bore the insignia of the Imperial Military—silver trim over dark red, gleaming with authority. Her short black hair framed sharp features, but it was her eyes that caught him.
Crimson. Unmistakable. Burning with something deeper than memory.
"Mariposa," he said, voice low.
She smiled faintly. "So you do remember."
He didn't respond. He nudged his horse forward, but she walked alongside him without effort.
"You're not even going to ask what I'm doing out here?" she said, eyes scanning his profile.
"I don't need to," Canis replied. "You're still with the Empire. It's probably official."
She laughed once, bitter and quiet. "You haven't changed. Still shutting doors before they open."
The wind rustled through the tall grass as the road stretched ahead, endless and quiet.
"We were a good team, once," she said softly. "On the battlefield."
Canis said nothing.
"You trusted me," she continued. "And I… I made a choice. You disagreed."
Still no answer. His face was unreadable.
Mariposa's voice lowered. "Do you still hate me for it?"
Canis looked ahead. His fingers tightened on the reins.
"I'm not here to start something," she added quickly. "I just… saw you, and I remembered. That's all. I didn't expect you to be so—" she paused, her eyes flicking to his worn clothes, his travel pack, "—ordinary now."
Canis finally spoke. "That's the point."
And then, without another word, he spurred his horse forward.
Mariposa watched him go, her expression unreadable. The dust from his horse's hooves faded into the horizon as she stood alone on the road, the wind catching the edge of her coat.
"Still running," she whispered. "Even now."
But Canis didn't look back.
He didn't want to remember what they had been—nor what they had lost.
Especially not what they might have been, had things gone differently.
-----
By the time Canis returned to the guild outpost, the sky had already turned a dusky orange. The sun was sinking low behind the ridge, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the building. The silhouette of the guildhall stood quiet and familiar—weathered by time, just like the man who stepped through its door.
The interior was still the same.
Dim oil lamps. The faint smell of old parchment and steel polish. Wooden floors worn smooth by years of boots. A few adventurers milled about near the request board, their laughter echoing against the rafters.
Canis stepped behind the front desk with practiced ease, dropping his satchel gently by the counter. One of the junior clerks greeted him with a nod and quickly scurried off to fetch the secure deposit box for the returning funds.
He didn't ask about Aron.
He didn't want to seem like he was expecting anything.
But his eyes glanced, subtly, toward the empty bench by the far window—the same spot where Aron had sat that day, small and hunched and uncertain.
Empty.
He resumed his work, organizing documents, flipping through bounties to process, checking the crystal exchange logs.
An hour passed.
Then two.
He had just begun filing a new series of mission reports when the door creaked open.
Canis didn't look up at first.
But something—instinct, maybe—told him to.
And there he was.
Aron Telsa.
Same oversized coat. Same nervous posture. His boots were muddy, and a bandage peeked from under his left sleeve. But his eyes—those had changed. Not harder. Just… steadier.
Canis raised an eyebrow.
"You came," he said, more observation than greeting.
Aron nodded. "I, uh… I almost didn't."
Canis didn't say anything.
Aron stepped closer. "But I kept thinking about what you said. That the world outside is still mostly untouched. And that maybe… maybe there's a place for someone like me out there."
Still no response.
"So I'm here," Aron finished, almost in a whisper. "If the offer still stands."
Canis leaned back slightly, arms crossed. His expression unreadable.
"I said I'd do something about your doubt," he said. "And I will."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a small, sealed scroll—simple but marked with the guild's personal emblem. He handed it to Aron.
The boy opened it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a temporary assignment. A training mission. Solo, but close to the outpost. Low risk. Observation and documentation only.
"But this isn't—" Aron began.
"You're not ready for a sword yet," Canis said flatly. "But you can learn to see. To survive. To know the terrain before you walk into it."
He paused, then added, more quietly, "No one survives long out there on courage alone."
Aron looked up at him, startled by the sudden weight in his tone.
Canis didn't elaborate.
"I'll do it," Aron said, more firmly this time.
"Come back in one piece," Canis replied. "Then we'll talk about the next step."
Aron gave a short, unsure bow, then turned and left—scroll clutched tightly in his hand.
Canis watched him go.
For a long moment, he remained still, eyes fixed on the door.
Then he exhaled slowly and turned back to the ledger.
Outside, the sun dipped below the hills, and the long night of the frontier returned once more.
-----
The morning mist hadn't yet lifted when Aron Telsa returned.
He entered the guild quietly, but this time, there was something different in the way he moved—less hesitation, less weight in his eyes. His coat was still too big, his boots still a bit too clean, but he stood taller now. Straighter.
Canis looked up from the counter. Their eyes met.
Aron stepped forward and placed the sealed mission scroll on the desk. "Completed. All observations logged. No contact with threats, but I found one den site—empty, but fresh. I marked it on the map."
Canis reached for the scroll but kept his eyes on the boy. "And?"
Aron didn't look away. "I was scared. A few times. But I kept thinking… if I don't take the first step, I'll never take the second."
A faint nod from Canis. Approval without praise.
"You're ready," he said.
Before Aron could ask what that meant, the doors swung open with familiar energy—heavy boots, clinking armor, and a wave of laughter that filled the guild like returning stormclouds full of thunder and good fortune.
The same group of warriors from a few days prior—the ones who had exchanged a fortune in energy crystals—strode inside, battle-worn but grinning.
"Canis!" boomed the leader, a giant of a man named Grell, his axe gleaming at his back. "You owe us a round next time we hit the capital. Those coins weighed down the cart!"
Canis didn't smile, but the corners of his eyes eased. "You survived, then."
"More than that," said the woman with twin short swords—Juna, if Aron remembered right. "Three nests cleared. One Class-C pack routed. It was clean."
"I've got your payment slips ready," Canis said, motioning toward the desk. "Also, something else."
He nodded toward Aron, who straightened instinctively under their gaze.
"This is Aron Telsa. He's just completed his first solo assignment. Observation mission. Clean work, proper report. He's not ready to fight—but he's ready to learn."
Grell raised an eyebrow. "He's the one who looked like a lost puppy the other day."
"Still does," Juna muttered, crossing her arms.
Canis ignored them both. "You're heading back out soon, aren't you?"
"Tomorrow," Grell said. "Two-week route into the southern ridge."
"Take him with you."
The warriors exchanged a look.
"Observation only," Canis added. "He stays behind the line. No front. No heroics."
Grell scratched his beard, then approached Aron, who stood rigid under his shadow.
"You follow orders, don't whine, and don't make me regret this, boy."
Aron met his eyes. "Yes, sir."
Grell nodded once, then clapped him hard on the shoulder. "Then you're coming."
Aron staggered slightly but didn't fall.
Juna gave him a smirk. "Hope you like walking. We don't slow down."
The others were already chatting around him, teasing, trading plans. Aron looked overwhelmed—but this time, he didn't shrink.
Canis returned to his work, but as the group's energy carried through the room, a quiet satisfaction settled in his chest.
The boy was moving forward.
And perhaps, just perhaps, the world wasn't done giving chances after all.
{Chapter 2 end}