“I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly. “But I’m also not your friend. The patrol from Verveil will reach this ridge by dusk. If you stay, you die.”
“And walk into my village as refugees, not raiders. I’ll vouch for you. But I’ll need Marrow’s word that she can heal our blacksmith’s daughter. She’s had a fever for a week, and our healer is old and blind.” passive pillager
“Don’t,” Marrow said, not even looking up from grinding herbs. “He’s not here to fight. Look at his hands.” “I’m not your enemy,” he said quietly
The young man’s eyes widened. “And die unarmed?” If you stay, you die
The crossbowman—his name was Piers—helped rebuild the south fence. The axe-bearer, Finn, turned out to have a gift for carving wooden toys. Within a month, the village council voted to grant them residency. Within a year, Piers married the baker’s widow. Finn became the town’s first toymaker. And Marrow opened a small infirmary.
Kaelen knelt. He took out his own water flask and a small pouch of dried meat—his own rations—and set them down. “What’s your story?”