The town had always been small enough to fit inside a single breath.
Fields stretched wide and obedient. Smoke rose in thin, patient lines from chimneys. People woke with the sun and slept with it. Nothing in this place demanded greatness. Nothing required strength beyond what a plow and steady hands could provide.
At the edge of that town stood our house — worn wood, stubborn foundation, alive with familiar noise.
And inside it, I woke.
MC POV
Morning pressed against my eyelids like it always did. Another day meant another trip to the fields beside Father. Another day of lifting, hauling, enduring.
But today my body resisted.
My head throbbed — not sharp enough to cripple me, but heavy. Like something had been wedged behind my eyes and left there to pulse.
I sat up slowly.
I rose anyway and went to wash my face. The basin was empty.
Of course it was.
I stepped back into the main room.
"Mom?"
She glanced at the basin, then back at me. "Ah… the water's finished. Your sister used the last of it."
I rubbed my temple. "Where is she?"
"She took the donkey to refill the barrels. She should be back soon."
I hesitated, then said, "I'll wait in the forest. Call me when she gets back."
She studied my face for a second longer than usual. "You're not going to the fields today?"
"My head's not right."
A small pause. Then she nodded. "Alright. Don't wander too far."
"I won't."
The forest always felt different from the town. Not kinder — just honest. It didn't care whether I was strong or weak. It didn't expect me to become anything.
Morning light filtered through branches in shifting patterns. Dew clung to leaves. Worms wriggled through damp soil. Birds argued above me in sharp bursts of sound.
I walked deeper, letting my breathing even out.
From a young age, I had loved this solitude. Not because I hated people — but because silence removed pressure. Alone, I didn't have to measure myself.
I lay on my back in a clearing and stared at the sky through fractured branches.
Sometimes I imagined different lives.
A king seated above thousands.
A monster hunter walking into danger without hesitation.
Worlds of power. Of command. Of glory.
Then the counter-thoughts came, as they always did.
What's the point of becoming a hunter if your family waits in fear every night?
What's the point of becoming king if people bow to your power but never speak to you honestly?
Peace felt small.
But it felt safe.
The sky blurred.
At some point, without meaning to, I slept.
I woke in a hall.
Vast. Towering. Heavy with presence.
People stood everywhere — warriors, leaders, figures shaped by battle and authority. Their posture alone carried weight.
They were strong.
Not like farmers.
Not like passing hunters.
Strong in a way that reshaped the air around them.
Then they turned.
All of them.
Their gazes fell on me.
Measured.
Assessing.
The difference between us pressed against my lungs.
I—
Woke.
The forest returned in fragments.
Branches. Light. Wind.
I sat up sharply, breath uneven.
"What was that…"
For a split second, reflected in dew on a leaf, I saw—
A man.
Bearded. Broader. Green eyes sharper. A faint, controlled smile.
Older.
Stronger.
It looked like me.
Then it was gone.
I blinked hard.
"Just a dream."
I stood too quickly.
Pain flared behind my eyes.
"Ah—"
I steadied myself.
Don't fall asleep out here again.
When I returned home, dinner was already set.
Mother looked up and smiled gently. "There you are. You came just in time."
I exhaled quietly and sat.
Across from me, Layla leaned back in her chair, watching me.
Fifteen. Green eyes. Blonde hair. Beautiful — until she spoke.
She narrowed her eyes. "Why are you staring at me like that?"
"I wasn't."
"Yes, you were." She pointed her spoon at me accusingly. "That's the look you get before you say something stupid."
"I didn't say anything."
"Exactly. That's worse."
I ignored her and began eating.
Her irritation sharpened. "Hey, say something, at least. Or did the forest steal your voice?"
"Layla." Mother's tone carried quiet warning. "Enough."
Layla clicked her tongue but looked away.
I glanced to my right.
Father sat there in silence, eating steadily.
His hands were thick with scars, the skin hardened by years in the fields. His face was calm, unreadable.
Layla muttered under her breath, "He's weird today."
"I can hear you," I said flatly.
"Good."
Mother sighed. "Both of you. Eat."
The room settled again.
I finished first and stood.
Father looked at me briefly. His gaze lingered a second longer than usual.
"You're not going to the fields tomorrow either?" he asked.
"If the headache's gone, I will."
He nodded once. "Rest properly, then."
That was all.
But it wasn't dismissal.
It was expectation.
I went to my room.
The image from the dream lingered.
That hall.
Those people.
That version of me.
If I stood there now… I wouldn't last a second under their gaze.
The thought wasn't self-pity.
It was the truth.
There were levels in this world.
I was at the bottom.
Sleep tugged at me again—
A scream tore through the air.
Close.
Too close.
I was moving before I realized it.
Down the stairs.
Father was already standing.
Layla's earlier smugness was gone. "What was that?"
Mother's hands tightened around the edge of the table.
Father looked at us — calm, but alert.
"Stay inside."
Layla frowned. "Dad—"
"Inside," he repeated, firmer.
I stepped forward slightly. "I can come with—"
"No." His eyes met mine directly. Not angry. Not dismissive.
Measured.
"You stay."
The difference between us felt clearer than ever.
He moved to the door.
"Lock it after me," he told Mother.
The door shut behind him.
Silence filled the house.
Layla crossed her arms. "It's probably nothing."
Her voice didn't sound convinced.
Mother forced steadiness into her tone. "Do you two want something to eat while we wait?"
"I'm not hungry," Layla muttered.
I shook my head. "No. I'm fine."
But I wasn't.
Earlier, I had chosen peace.
Now, standing in the quiet house while Father stepped into whatever waited outside, I felt something shift.
A realization.
Peace wasn't something you simply chose.
It was something someone strong enough had to protect.