The Wind Whispered: Small Heroisms

The gentle swaying of the carriage cradled the silence when Brianna finally woke up, after having fainted a few hours earlier. It was around mid-afternoon, the sun gilding the road and painting long shadows of the trees that slowly passed through the small gap in the curtain.

A soft sound escaped her. Her eyelashes trembled, she blinked a few times, confused, wrinkling her nose as if trying to remember her own name.

— Ugh… where…? — she murmured, trying to sit up. Soon she brought a hand to her forehead, feeling her head heavy. — Ah… Hero Arven…?

I leaned closer, concerned.

— You fainted, — I explained. — You used too much mana. You crossed the river, put on a whole show… and then just collapsed.

Her eyes widened for a moment, and then a blush instantly rose all the way to her ears.

— A-ah… y-yes… now I remember… it really was too much mana… I… I overdid it… — she admitted, twisting the fabric of her tunic between her fingers.

I crossed my arms, trying to embody the responsible figure, but I probably just looked like a tired teacher.

— You should have done it little by little, Brianna. It was supposed to be one carriage at a time. You could have gotten seriously hurt.

She sank a little into the seat, shoulders shrinking.

— I-I know! I just… I just wanted… — she pressed the staff against her chest, eyes avoiding mine — to show that I was strong. For you. That… that you would be impressed…

She finished almost in a whisper.

I blinked… and then started laughing, unable to hold it in.

— So that’s what it was? You wanted to make a scene? Well, you did it. I was impressed, yes, — I admitted, laughing. — Even more now that I know your secret motivation.

— Y-you didn’t have to say it out loud! — she protested, hiding half her face behind the staff. — I just… didn’t want to seem useless.

My laughter faded into a smile.

— I understand. Really. But you don’t need to prove anything to me. You’re already incredible.

She froze for a second. Her entire face turned red, but for the first time, Brianna smiled without stuttering.

A few hours later, the road began approaching a small village. I noticed first by the smell of firewood smoke and the sound of voices mixed with the clucking of chickens.

And then I heard shouting.

— They’re back! — a desperate male voice.

— Run! Grab the pots! — another, sharper voice.

Curiosity poked at my tired soul.

I opened the curtain a little. On the left side of the road, a field of crops, apparently some kind of grain, was being attacked by a living cloud of dark birds, mostly crows. Several villagers ran around, banging pots, pieces of wood, and stones, trying to drive away the invaders.

The carriage kept moving. I bit my lip.

I’m one of the summoned heroes, right? Hero of the Torch, but still a hero. I couldn’t just… pass by.

— Just a minute, — I said, already opening the door.

Brianna raised her hand, alarmed.

— H-Hero Arven, w-wait! You shouldn’t leave the carriage!

I raised my hood, covering my hair and part of my face well.

— Hood, Brianna. Hood. I’m following protocol.

She sighed, defeated.

— Just don’t take long… please…

I jumped from the carriage while it was still moving, hearing one of the guards shout behind me:

— Hero Arven, return inside!

— I will! — I replied, blatantly lying. — Just going to take a look!

I felt Captain Arthur’s heavy gaze burning into the back of my neck, but this time, he said nothing. Maybe he had already understood that I was too stubborn to be controlled one hundred percent of the time.

I approached the field. One of the villagers, a middle-aged woman holding a clay pot, was hitting it frantically with a wooden spoon.

— Ma’am! — I called, approaching with my hands raised in peace. — What’s happening?

She looked me up and down quickly, trying to place me into some category, traveler, noble, lunatic, all at once.

— Who are you? — she asked, out of breath.

— Just a traveler passing through. But maybe I can help.

She hesitated. Glanced briefly at the convoy of soldiers, then back at me.

— These damned crows keep destroying our crops, — she grumbled. — Every year it’s the same. We take turns standing guard, banging pots, throwing stones, shouting… and they still come back.

I observed the field. The scene was far too familiar.

— Have you tried making scarecrows?

Silence.

She frowned.

— Sca… what?

— Scarecrow. A figure made to look like a human in the middle of the field. You put old clothes on it, a hat, arms open… the birds think someone is there and avoid the place.

She blinked.

— Never heard of it. Does… does that work?

— Of course it works, — I replied. — Let’s try.

Within minutes, using scraps of wood, straw, and old clothes, we built a crude but functional figure. We stuck a torn hat on its “head” and placed it right in the middle of the field.

The crows circled above the crops in chaotic motion… and then, when they noticed the still figure at the center, they began drifting away, suspicious. Gradually, the flock dispersed, until it vanished completely into the sky.

The villagers stood there, silent, as if they had witnessed a miracle.

— Is that sorcery? — murmured a young man.

— No, — the woman replied, a spark appearing in her pupils. — That’s… that’s… that’s genius!

I smiled awkwardly.

— You’ll need more. One scarecrow may work for a few days, but if you spread four or five across the field, they practically won’t come back.

People started talking all at once, thanking me, blessing me, asking my name, my origin, if I was a sage sent by the gods. I just wanted to return alive to the carriage.

When I finally managed to slip away, the convoy resumed its movement, and the villagers waved as if I had returned a piece of harvest they hadn’t even lost yet.

Further ahead, with the sun beginning to descend, we found a merchant kneeling in the middle of the road, desperate, gathering scattered boxes.

His wagon leaned dangerously, one side completely loosened.

— My goods! My goods! — he lamented. — If everything breaks, I’m ruined!

I got down again, ignoring Arthur’s exhausted gaze. I examined the wagon. The rope securing the boxes had been tied carelessly, loose and messy.

— The problem is this knot here, — I explained, pointing. — With the vibration of the road, it slips easily. There’s a better way to secure it.

The merchant looked at me as if I had entered his mind and repaired his family’s finances.

— There is?

I showed him a type of binding I saw every day on factory trucks. A firm cross pattern, with locking points.

He tested it, shaking one of the boxes. Nothing moved.

— Young man… — he breathed, nearly emotional. — You saved my cargo.

And, like any grateful NPC, he gifted me bottles of strong red wine and others filled with transparent liquid that smelled suspiciously like “this will burn your throat down to your soul.”

The guards looked at the bottles like children seeing candy.

— I think someone just became our favorite hero, — one of them murmured, elbowing another.

The following days continued like that.

A stuck wheel I freed using a large stone as a lever.

A farmer who didn’t know how to build a roof with enough slope, and I explained the basics, if water doesn’t run off, it gathers weight, and then it collapses.

A fence that kept opening in the wind, fixed with a simple diagonal brace.

Simple things. Small things. Things that, in my world, any five-minute video would explain, but there, in that place, were actually quite complicated. This world, even with magic, was still very backward.

Every stop earned a thank you. Every suspicious face turned into surprise. And little by little, that surprise became admiration.

That night, we camped near a small grove, under a sky turning lilac.

This time, they didn’t set up camp pretending I didn’t exist.

This time… they called me.

— Hey, Hero Arven! — one of the soldiers waved, smiling sincerely. — Come drink with us!

I looked at Brianna. She looked at me with a satisfied sparkle.

I went.

The fire crackled, sending sparks upward. The soldiers sat in a circle, improvised cups in hand. The mead and wine were opened like treasures of a lost guild.

— First drink is yours, — said the soldier holding the bottle. — You’re the one who got this.

I took a sip. It was strong, sweet, and warm at the same time.

Stories began to flow. Battles on the frontier. Patrols on snowy nights. Tales of loves left behind, tavern misfortune, card game luck.

At some point, one of the soldiers pulled me aside, dagger in hand.

— Since you’re one of the heroes, you should know how to use this dagger better than us, — he said, half drunk. — Hold it like this.

I spent the next half hour learning how to strike. They taught me to thrust, not slash. To use body weight. To aim for vital points.

— You learn fast, — commented a robust soldier. — Keep it up, and you could become a great rogue with that dagger.

— Or die trying, — another added, laughing loudly.

And I laughed with them.

Even Brianna approached the fire. With a cup in hand, she became… different. Each sip made her more talkative, braver, more cheerful.

— Hero Arven! — she said, cheeks flushed. — I… I think you’re incredible.

I blushed and couldn’t respond.

The guards laughed loudly at the scene.

That moment smelled like a peaceful RPG tavern night, and my isekai soul was grateful.

But not everything was warm.

A little farther away, in the shadow of a tree, was Arthur.

Sitting. Not drinking. Motionless. Just watching.

Always watching.

When the laughter grew louder and the alcohol warmed the spirit, I stood up with a bottle in hand and walked to him.

— Captain, — I raised the bottle. — Want to drink with us?

He turned his head just enough to look at me.

— I don’t drink on duty, — he replied coldly. — And I am always on duty.

— But… just a little…

— I said no.

The blade in his voice cut the air. It wasn’t a shout. It was worse, absolute refusal.

I nodded without arguing and returned to the fire.

While I laughed with the others, he remained behind, a rigid shadow against the night.

The following days passed like folded pages.

Other villages. Other simple problems.

Other merchants. Other badly tied knots corrected.

More laughter at night. More shared drinks. More attempts to teach me dagger strikes.

Brianna, increasingly comfortable, argued with her own staff when she tripped over it.

The guards began treating me like one of us, not just the King’s burden.

But Arthur remained Arthur.

Distant.

Serious.

Eyes always watching, especially when it came to me.

At the end of the eighth day, the air changed.

The wind felt colder, even with the sun still above the horizon. The birds, which usually sang along the road, had disappeared. The road was… too quiet.

I was inside the carriage, spinning the dagger in my hand, when the silence pressed against my ears.

Then Arthur’s voice cut through the air, sharp and strong:

— Formation! Bandits!

The carriage stopped abruptly. My body lurched forward.

I pulled the curtain instinctively, and before I saw anything, an arrow pierced the space between the curtains, passing inches from my cheek and exiting the other side.

Hot air grazed my face.

I jumped back, heart racing.

— Arven! — Brianna turned to me, frightened. — Are you okay?!

I touched my face, feeling only a faint sting.

— I-I’m fine. Barely… — I said.

She gripped her staff tightly.

— Stay inside the carriage! — she ordered firmly. — Don’t leave! I’ll return when it’s over!

Before I could answer, she jumped outside.

The sounds of battle filled the carriage.

Metal clashing. Shouting. Horses. Magic.

I stayed there, breathing fast.

Until the door burst open.

A man stumbled inside. Leather armor. Beard. Scar. Cruel smile.

— So this is where they keep the treasure, huh? — he growled.

He grabbed my throat.

— We’ll kill every armored idiot out there… and take everything.

He laughed.

— And that pretty little mage… she’ll be a fun toy after.

Something inside me broke.

I cast Lux Minima.

Light exploded in his eyes.

He screamed.

I grabbed the dagger.

He came again.

I thrust.

Blood.

He grabbed my hood.

It fell.

He saw my face.

His expression changed.

Fear.

— One of the demons of the Forest of Fear…

He begged.

He ran.

Outside.

Arthur stood there.

Sword raised.

— Please! I surrender!

Arthur spoke coldly.

— He won’t harm you.

Pause.

— Because I will kill you first.

The sword fell.

The head rolled.

I froze.

Bodies everywhere.

Soldiers breathing heavily.

— Fifteen, one said.

Arthur asked calmly.

— Any losses?

— None.

I called Brianna.

She was alive.

I hugged her.

She apologized.

I told her it wasn’t her fault.

The guards began their silent work.

Collecting weapons.

Dragging bodies.

Digging a shallow grave.

— We can’t leave so many corpses near the road, — a soldier said when he noticed me watching. — It attracts beasts… and trouble.

Two men dragged a body by the arms. A third carried the bandits’ bags, rummaging through them for coins and documents.

Arthur gave orders with the same coldness as always, as if organizing death were just another function of his rank.

— Throw them all in the same pit, — he ordered. — Collect anything that identifies a guild or a group. If they’re just common thieves, the earth will take care of them.

I forced myself to sheath the dagger. My hand still trembled slightly.

One of the guards approached me, patting my shoulder lightly.

— Good strike, hero. — He pointed to my neck. — And good light. If it weren’t for that, he would’ve strangled you.

— I just… did what I could, — I replied. My voice didn’t sound heroic. Just tired.

When the hole was ready, they began pushing the bodies inside. A line of anonymous human forms, all going to the same final place. Fifteen bandits, one collective grave, a mound of earth returned to the world as if nothing had happened.

At the end, they placed a few larger stones over the freshly closed mound. It wasn’t exactly respect. It was more… practicality.

Night began to fall slowly, staining the dried blood dark brown. The campfire we built afterward seemed smaller than on other days, even though it was the same size.

The soldiers still laughed, still drank some of the remaining alcohol, but there was a layer of silence beneath everything, a deeper exhaustion.

Arthur, as always, stayed apart. Still suspicious.

Later, when I lay down inside the carriage, the familiar swaying didn’t calm me like before.

I closed my eyes, but the image of the rolling head, the wide-open eyes, returned every time darkness settled in.

The small heroics of the day, the scarecrow, the rope knots, the laughter by the fire, felt very distant, as if they had happened to someone else.

I was on my way to the Forest of Fear.

And, for the first time, I began to wonder if what others saw when they looked at me… was truly a hero, or if it was the same vision the bandit had.

I remember what he said.

“One of those demons of the Forest of Fear.”