"Ale! And don't water it down this time, Berthold! Last cup tasted like ditch water."
The tavern in Shuru was just a big room attached to the village chief's house, but tonight it was full. Men hunched over mugs, voices low, smoke drifting toward the rafters.
Alaric sat on a stool in the corner, legs swinging, his own cup filled with watered cider. Marla usually banned him from from this place but Tomas had given him a wink.
"Sit and listen," he'd said. "Just don't go repeating everything you hear, or your mother'll cut my head off."
So Alaric listened.
A road‑dusty traveler at the center table took a long drink and thumped his mug down.
"I'm telling you," the man said, "Buckland's got three full legions sitting on Horsin's border right now. You can't ride ten miles up north without tripping over supply wagons. They're not stocking up for winter feasts."
"Bah." An old farmer snorted. "Buckland helped beat back the demons from the southern sea. They wouldn't turn on folks right after that."
"They didn't swing their blades for free," the traveler shot back. "No empire does. They'll collect payment. In gold, or in land."
Berthold, the village chief, rubbed his beard. "You came from Calder's Crossing, didn't you? You saw these legions yourself?"
"Columns as far as you could see." The traveler's eyes were serious now. "Armor shining, banners snapping, siege engines in tow. You don't build those just to scare bandits."
The room went quieter.
Alaric's fingers tightened around his cup.
Buckland… that's up past the hills. North.
If all of that comes here…
His tiny finger-flame spell felt like a joke next to three legions.
"What about the demons?" a man near the door muttered. "I heard they're still thick along the southern coasts. If Buckland pulls out their troops…"
"Then the southern kingdoms are on their own," the traveler said with a shrug. "Not my problem. Or yours. Unless you live down there."
"Everything becomes our problem eventually," Tomas murmured beside Alaric.
Alaric glanced up. His father's jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the table.
"Dad," Alaric whispered, "if Buckland's that strong… why don't we have more soldiers?"
"We're farmers," Tomas answered softly. "Horsin's king has land, but not good sense. He fills his halls before he fills his armories."
"Then… if they decide to come here…"
Tomas didn't reply. He just reached over and ruffled Alaric's hair.
On the other side of the room, someone tried to laugh it off. "They won't bother with Shuru. We're hardly a dot on the map. Buckland's got cities to take."
"Hope you're right," the traveler said. "For your sake."
Alaric heard how the men said "Buckland." Not like a place. Like a storm, or a disease.
Demons from the south. Armies from the north. Horsin's just… in the middle.
On the walk home, the night sky stretched wide and clear above them, cold air stinging Alaric's cheeks. His hand found Tomas's sleeve without thinking.
"Dad," he said, "if we had really strong magic… like in stories… could we stop an army?"
"Where'd that come from?" Tomas asked.
"Just… the legions." Alaric stared at the stars. "They sound… big."
"There's always something big," Tomas said. "Bigger sword, bigger spell, bigger army. That's how it goes."
"That's scary."
"It is." Tomas's hand settled on his head for a second. "That's why you get stronger. Not just with your arms. In here—" he tapped his own temple "—and in here." He tapped his chest.
"So I won't be scared?"
"So you can keep moving even if you are," Tomas said. "Fear's not the enemy. Freezing is."
Alaric didn't understand all of it. But "get stronger" made sense.
I don't want to just sit and watch if something bad happens.
He glanced up at his father's face, half-lit by the moon, and silently promised himself:
I'll get strong. Somehow.