The Wind Whispered: The Stranger

The tension that surrounded me was not the chill of the morning, but the weight of that unpronounceable title: Hero Arven.

I was dressed in the attire of my new role, garments brought by Tessa, the maid: dark trousers, a thick wool tunic that seemed made to withstand mountain winds, and rustic leather boots whose soles promised a far more concrete reality than the polished palace floors.

As we walked through the corridors toward the Preparation Chamber, I noticed a subtle change in Tessa. The rigid formality of the previous night had dissolved, replaced by a strange, almost intimate sense of camaraderie. She no longer maintained that strict distance; her head was held higher and, when she looked at me, there was recognition in her eyes. It was as if the story of my world had neutralized, for her, the “savage” aura Lionel had insisted on attaching to me.

“I... I’m a little nervous,” I confessed, more to calm the vibration inside my chest than to inform her.
I, a factory floor worker, was on my way to the Territory of the Dark Elves, carrying a mission the King called “the most important.” My peak anxiety used to come from tight deadlines on the assembly line. Now, it was the threat of interracial conflict.
Tessa smiled softly, a small and sincere gesture that eased some of my fear.
“You are one of the great heroes of the prophecy, Hero Arven. I know everything will go well. You are capable.”
That simple praise warmed me more than any hollow oath from a noble. Yes, I was the lantern, but at least someone was noticing the light.
She stopped before a heavy wooden door, more utilitarian than the ornate doors of the rest of the palace.
“It is here, Hero Arven. Good luck.”
The bow she gave was not Lionel’s forced formality, but something that seemed to come from the heart. It was my farewell, the last genuine smile I would carry from the castle’s temporary refuge.
“Thank you, Tessa. Truly.”
The Preparation Chamber was a small arsenal and command post. On a central rough wooden table lay a map, marked with red lines and inked notes, the geography of my mission.
Two officers awaited: Sir Provolon in his usual stone-like posture and military attire, and the two figures who, I soon learned, would be my guides and my jailers.
Sir Provolon wasted no time on pleasantries.
“Hero Arven, these are those responsible for your safety and for the success of this diplomatic mission,” announced Sir Provolon, stepping aside for them to approach.
“This is Captain Arthur, an Advanced-level knight.”
Arthur stepped forward, stopping before me like a wall.
“Hero Arven. It is an honor to accompany you on your mission,” he declared in a firm voice.
His presence was a wall of discipline and polished steel. His full armor reflected the morning sun, the robust shoulder and chest plates emphasizing an almost oppressive authority. The open helmet revealed a serious, attentive face, marked by strong brows and intense green eyes that analyzed me with military coldness.
The feeling was clear: to him, I was not a hero. I was a heavy duty he had to carry.
Sir Provolon gestured lightly for the second to present herself.
“And this is Mage Brianna. A prodigy of wind magic. Only eighteen years old and already Advanced level.”
Brianna stepped forward... and nearly tripped over her own foot. She gripped her staff so tightly it looked as if she were trying to crush it.
“H-h-h-Hero Arven... i-it’s a p-p-pleasure t-to work... with y-you,” she stammered, her face flushed to the ears.
She bowed quickly, almost out of nervous reflex.
Her light brown, slightly wavy hair swayed over her shoulders. Her large, expressive eyes met mine for no more than a second before darting to the ground. Her white tunic with red details, almost ceremonial, contrasted with dark stockings and light boots suitable for travel. The elegant blue-green staff trembled slightly between her fingers.
“And outside, in the carriages, are eight infantry guards, all border veterans,” concluded Sir Provolon.
Provolon began detailing the logistics, and the reality of my situation struck like silent thunder.
“The journey will last four days, Hero Arven. Four days to the border of the Forest of Fear. Your safety and, above all, the secrecy of the mission are paramount.”
He picked up a folded cloak, a thick, dark fabric.
“You must never be seen by villagers without this cloak. The carriage curtains must always remain closed when passing any settlement. If it becomes strictly necessary to exit, you will wear the hood.”
He detailed the convoy: two carriages, one for supplies and another, more discreet, for Brianna and me, two guards ahead of each, and five riding horses, one for Arthur and the others for the guards.
“The route: we will cross the capital, follow the main road, pass through a village with a bridge, and so on. The stopping points have been pre-determined and fortified.”
Arthur nodded curtly. Brianna, tense, tried to speak.
“I-I... I will do my best, S-Sir Provolon.”
Provolon handed me the cloak, and I put it on, pulling the hood over my head to get used to the feeling of obscurity and exile.
“And what about a weapon?” I asked, feeling exposed. “Shouldn’t I carry something to feel safer?”
Sir Provolon looked at me as if I had made a tasteless joke.
“It will not be necessary, Hero. Your focus is diplomacy, not combat. If combat is needed, you will have Captain Arthur and highly trained infantry.”
Brianna intervened, her voice slightly firmer as she clung to her role.
“And you have me as well... Do not forget me.”
“I insist. I don’t know how to use combat magic...”
Provolon sighed, the sound of someone forced to tolerate an inconvenience.
“Do you know how to use any weapon?”
I lowered my head. The truth was inevitable.
“No, sir.”
Provolon inhaled deeply, and what he did next was pure condescension. He removed a dagger from his belt, a small, elegant piece that rested beside the pommel of his sword. When I extended my hand, he did not give it immediately. He looked at me first.
“This is how you hold a dagger,” he instructed, his voice full of disdain. “It is for last-resort combat. Use it only if you are within arm’s reach of your enemy. Thrust, do not slash.”
He handed me the dagger. It was cold and heavy, more like an expensive paperweight than a tool of war. I stored it beneath the cloak.
The meeting ended quickly.

“But I can—”