Reflection on the Road

The jingle of the coins in the small leather pouch was a mocking counterpoint to the silence of the road. Kael walked until the small, fearful village was just another smudge of smoke on the horizon, but he could still feel the weight of their terror burning into his back like a brand. He had bled for them, and they had paid him to leave. He was a fugitive, a hero, a monster. He was nothing. The weight of it all was a physical thing, pressing down on him, making his legs feel like lead and his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest.

That night, he made a small, pathetic fire in the hollowed-out shell of a lightning-scarred tree. He gnawed on a piece of stale bread, the taste of ash in his mouth having nothing to do with the char from the fire. The loneliness was a physical presence, a crushing weight that threatened to extinguish the small flame of his will. He was at the absolute bottom, the same precipice of despair he had known in his old life, the only difference being the world he was now rejecting.

As he stared into the dancing flames, the ghost of the Hollow Sage walked with him, its voice a calm, logical whisper in the deepest parts of his mind.

See? Selthar’s voice murmured, cool and rational as a winter morning. I told you this would be the outcome. You saved them, and they cast you out with a handful of pathetic coins. You fight for a world that despises the very power you use to protect it. Every act of strength is just another stone in the prison they build for you. Every victory is another nail in your coffin. What is the point, Kael? Where is the logic in continuing this farce?

He saw the ghosts of the others then, swirling in the smoke of the fire, each offering their own twisted salvation. He saw Varic, his eyes burning with the memory of betrayal, offering a path of righteous rage. They are weak! A commander crushes weakness! Your pity for them is a disease. Burn it out. Take what is yours by right of strength! Make them fear you, and they will never betray you again.

He saw Isolde, her face a mask of placid sorrow, her voice a whisper of gentle poison. Why feel their pain? They are not worth it. Their little lives are fleeting and full of suffering. There is a quiet place, a perfect stillness, where their judgment and their sickness cannot reach you. Let the world freeze. Let it be silent. Find your peace in the quiet cold.

He saw Draem, a proud and terrible king, a monument to a broken dream, offering a path of domination. They call you a monster? A coming king? Then be one! Forge a new kingdom from their ashes, a kingdom where your strength is the only law. Your will can be their reality. Why serve a world of cowards when you can rule it?

They were all right. They were all logical conclusions drawn from a premise of pain. The rage, the sorrow, the hunger for control—he felt the echo of it all within himself. The temptation was not a fiery passion, but a cold, seductive weariness. It was the voice that had spoken to him on the rooftop, the quiet, logical whisper that said the only way to win a rigged game is to stop playing.

The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow. He was there again, on that cold, rain-slicked rooftop. He could feel the gritty texture of the gravel under his worn shoes, the sting of the cold drizzle on his face. He could smell the wet concrete and the ozone, the perfume of a city that was utterly indifferent to his existence. He remembered the feeling of the low, cold railing under his hands, and the mesmerizing, terrifying beauty of the city lights far below. He remembered the silent scream in his own head that had finally, mercifully, gone quiet when he made the choice to step into the void. He had chosen an ending simply to make the emptiness stop.

He was back at that edge now. It would be so easy to give in.

His hand, moving on its own accord, went to the leather satchel Leora had given him. His fingers, trembling slightly, found the worn, fragile piece of parchment tucked inside. It felt impossibly warm against his cold skin, a small, defiant heat against the encroaching chill of despair. He pulled it out, the elegant script a stark contrast to the grime on his hands, and read the words for the hundredth time in the flickering firelight.

“The world needs a savior, not a martyr. The walls of a cage, no matter how gilded, are no place for you. You have to go, for now. Go save yourself. I will find you again. I promise.”

The words were a single, steady point of light in his internal darkness. Selthar had preached a philosophy of absolute disconnection. But Selthar had been wrong. The equation wasn't absolute. Leora was the variable he hadn’t accounted for.

In his old world, he had been truly alone. His despair was born from a silence that was never answered. Here, his despair was being met with a promise. A single, unwavering voice.

A new, quiet resolve settled in his soul, dousing the cold fire of his cynicism. He looked into the fire, at the fading ghosts of the Demon Lords.

No, Varic. My strength will not become a weapon of rage. No, Isolde. My peace will not be found in silence and withdrawal. No, Draem. I will not be the king of a broken world. And no, Selthar. You were wrong. There is one variable you could never calculate: the faith of another person.

He wasn't fighting for a thankless kingdom anymore. He wasn't trying to be a hero for a world that feared him. He was fighting to be the man that one person believed him to be. He was fighting to honor the faith of the one ally who had not abandoned him.

He carefully folded the note and placed it back in the satchel, close to his heart. The night was still cold, the road ahead was still long and dangerous, and the world still saw him as a monster. But he was no longer truly alone. He had an anchor in the storm. And that was enough to keep him from being swept away.