The barracks in E-Libera were quiet the morning after the goblin skirmish. The usual grumbling and foot-dragging had been replaced by sideways glances and hushed whispers. Rowan noticed it the moment he stepped into the mess hall.
The others were watching him.
Not with scorn, not exactly. But with distance. A few nodded in greeting. One or two recruits even gave him space to sit—something that hadn't happened before. He sat down with his tray of stale bread and watery broth, ignoring the shift in atmosphere. He didn't need their approval. But he did notice it.
"That's the kid who dropped two goblins solo," someone muttered behind him.
"He didn't flinch either," another whispered. "Didn't even blink."
Rowan ate in silence. Fame, even small and localized, made him uncomfortable.
By midday, their squad was recalled for the return to Re-Estize. The nobles had what they needed—a patrol completed, goblins repelled, blood spilled in the kingdom's name. The foot soldiers were now expected to march back, five days of sore feet and quiet reflection ahead.
The terrain was easier going south. Wide dirt roads and smaller merchant paths cut through rolling fields. The autumn wind had returned, sharp and dry. Rowan kept to the middle of the formation, sword at his hip, eyes scanning the trees for movement even when the others grew complacent.
On the third day, they passed a supply caravan surrounded by a column of mounted guards. A noble's party.
Rowan paid it little mind—until a voice called out.
"You there. Soldier. With the short sword."
Sergeant Duran turned first, stiffening as he recognized the speaker. Rowan followed his gaze.
A tall, lean man in a navy and silver coat sat atop a black mare. His face was clean-shaven, sharp, and confident. Two retainers flanked him, one holding the reins of a second horse. The noble's sigil—a silver falcon over a pine tree—was embroidered over his chest.
"You led the western patrol to Tob's edge, yes?" the man asked.
Duran stepped forward. "Yes, Lord Rosen. We returned yesterday."
Blaus Rosen nodded, eyes sliding to Rowan. "And is it true that this child killed two goblins on that patrol?"
Rowan stood straighter. "Yes, my lord."
Rosen's gaze lingered on him. Not in disbelief, but in analysis. "You are far too young to be in the royal army."
"Joined of my own will."
"Hm." Rosen turned his horse. "Walk with me."
Rowan blinked. Duran gave him a sharp look that said go. He did.
They walked in silence for a few moments. The other soldiers faded behind them. Only the guards and Rosen's retainers remained close.
"You don't look like much," Rosen said finally. "But I've seen more than one orphan become something dangerous. When I gave the order to investigate the goblin sightings I didn't expect a child to carry it out."
Rowan didn't reply.
"How did you kill them?"
"Fast. I caught one off guard and finished it before it screamed. The other tried to run. I didn't let it."
Rosen gave a dry chuckle. "Simple and clean. You didn't hesitate?"
"I wanted to live."
"Good." He gestured to the second horse. "You're wasting your time as a foot soldier. Come back to Re-Estize under my retinue. I can offer you a proper martial instructor, live steel training, and real missions—not just drills and walking."
Rowan looked up at him. "Why me?"
"Because talent is rare, and guts rarer. I don't need good bloodlines. And while you may be young I can see the potential within you.
There it was. A path forward. A way out of the monotony of the royal army.
"Do I have to decide now?"
"No. But the offer doesn't stay open forever. When we reach the capital, find my steward, Harlan Vos. Say the word 'tinderbox.' He'll know what it means."
Rowan stepped back into formation as the noble's party moved on. Duran gave him a questioning look, but said nothing.
That night, Rowan couldn't sleep. It was here. A fork in the road, a way forward.
The excitement bubbled within him until the night eventually claimed his mind as he drifted to sleep.