Chapter 9: A Passing Word

The sun rose over Crofton, warm and gentle after days of relentless rain. The village bustled with life again carts creaked along the repaired roads, merchants called to customers, and children played in puddles left behind by the storm.

Among the busy crowd, a weary boy caught Lord Kestrel’s eye.

Taren trudged through the square, shoulders slumped, dark rings beneath his eyes. His clothes were streaked with dried mud, and every yawn seemed to pull the strength from him.

Kestrel, astride his horse, slowed his pace. He rarely spoke to common villagers directly, but something about the boy’s exhaustion made him pause.

“You there, lad,” Kestrel called gently.

Taren froze mid-step, startled. “Y-yes, my lord?”

Kestrel studied him, brow raised slightly. “What’s your name?”

“Taren,” the boy replied nervously, bowing slightly.

Kestrel nodded. “Taren, then. You’ve been working, haven’t you? You look ready to collapse where you stand.”

Taren rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I… I just wanted to help with the roads, my lord.”

Kestrel smiled faintly, a rare warmth touching his otherwise sharp features.

“An admirable spirit,” he said evenly. “But don’t burn yourself out. Crofton needs strong hands, not tired ones.”

The boy blinked, surprised at the unexpected kindness.

Kestrel’s gaze softened as he added, “Rest well when you can, Taren. A man who works too hard often shortens the span of his own usefulness.”

“Yes, my lord,” Taren murmured, lowering his head.

Kestrel gave a small, approving nod before lightly tugging his reins. His horse started forward, and soon he was gone, weaving back toward the manor road.

As Taren stood there, watching the noble depart, he couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of relief and unease.

Meanwhile, back atop his horse, Kestrel’s thoughts lingered on the boy.

A sharp worker… and one I’ve never seen before, he mused. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll keep an eye on this Taren.