The sound of dry leaves being crushed came again, closer than before.
Adrian did not rise immediately; instead, he tilted his head and listened.
The footsteps were light, unlike the heavy tread of boots.
They sounded more like someone barefoot or wearing thin-soled shoes, each step hesitant and uncertain—stop, take one step, then stop again.
It was not how a Viking moved through the forest; Vikings walked heavily and without caution.
Even so, Adrian picked up the sword beside him and slowly pushed himself to his feet with his right hand.
The movement disturbed the wound in his left shoulder, sending a dull ache through the joint, but he gritted his teeth and pressed his back against the tree until the pain subsided.
He left the round shield behind.
His left arm could barely move, and trying to carry it would only slow him down.
Holding the sword in his right hand, Adrian kept the blade close to his leg so that its edge would not catch the light.
He stepped around the tree roots and moved toward the source of the sound.
The sky had not yet fully brightened, and the forest remained shrouded in gray haze.
Thin mist drifted between the trunks, blurring everything farther away.
Adrian stepped only on wet mud and moss, carefully avoiding dry leaves and fallen twigs.
Every few paces, he stopped and listened again.
The footsteps continued in fits and starts, their direction uncertain.
Sometimes they veered left, only to turn back moments later.
Whoever it was did not seem to be tracking anything; they appeared to be searching for something—or perhaps trying to find a path.
Adrian leaned halfway out from behind an oak tree and looked toward the sound.
A figure moved through the mist.
It was a middle-aged man, short and narrow-shouldered, with a slightly hunched back.
He wore a dusty tunic of coarse linen, its cuffs frayed enough to expose two thin, bony wrists.
A rope of twisted straw was tied around his waist, and a rusty sickle hung from it.
His straw sandals were nearly worn through, with several toes protruding through gaps in the weaving.
His hair was sparse and gray, clinging to his scalp.
Deep wrinkles ran across his face like cuts carved by a knife, stretching from the corners of his eyes to the corners of his mouth.
He carried a small bundle of dry branches against his chest, gripping them tightly as though afraid someone might take them from him.
He was a serf gathering firewood.
The man looked up and saw Adrian.
He froze instantly.
The branches slipped from his arms and scattered across the ground with a dry clatter.
The color drained from his face, leaving even his lips pale.
His heel caught on a tree root, and he fell backward into the leaves.
Rather than stopping, he scrambled away on his hands and feet until his back struck the trunk of an oak.
Then he rolled over and dropped to his knees.
His forehead pressed into the dry leaves, while both hands spread flat beside his head.
His fingers dug into the mud, knuckles sinking into the earth.
“I’m sorry, my lord knight,” he said, his voice muffled and trembling.
“I should not have entered your forest.
I should not have entered your forest.
Please spare me.” He repeated the words again and again, each time more quietly.
He did not dare raise his head, and his back heaved beneath the coarse linen as he breathed in short, rapid gasps.
“Get up,” Adrian said.
“Where are you from?” The man only became more frightened.
His lips shook as he tried to speak.
“My lord, I beg you.” His voice cracked and rose sharply.
“Punish me however you wish.
Cut off my hand, whip my back—anything.
But please spare my family.
They know nothing.
They had nothing to do with this.” The wound in Adrian’s shoulder continued to throb, the pain spreading toward his neck, while the back of his head still ached from the fall.
Irritation rose within him, but he forced himself to explain slowly and clearly.
“I am not here to collect rent or conscript labor.
I am not here to punish you, and I have no intention of harming your family.” “I am keeping watch for Vikings nearby.
I heard a noise and came to investigate.
That is all.” He paused before adding, “Can you stand now?” The serf remained on the ground for a long while before slowly lifting his forehead from the leaves.
He stole a glance at Adrian’s face, then quickly lowered his eyes again.
“You…
you truly won’t punish us?” “I won’t.” The man released a long breath.
“Blackthorn Village,” he said, his voice still unsteady but calmer than before.
“My lord, I come from Blackthorn Village.” Adrian leaned against the oak and shifted his weight from his left foot to his right.
The movement pulled at his injured shoulder, and he drew a quiet breath to suppress the pain.
“How far is Blackthorn Village?” “Not far.” The man pointed through the forest, his fingers still trembling.
“Follow the stream downstream, and you’ll reach it in half a day.
My lord, are you going to the village?” Adrian ignored the question.
“Is there a blacksmith or healer there?” The man looked surprised, then shook his head.
“No, my lord.
The village is small—only seven or eight households.
We have no blacksmith.
When a sickle or hoe breaks, we must take it to Baron Bolton’s castle for repairs.
The journey takes two or three days on foot.” He hesitated before asking cautiously, “My lord, is your armor…
damaged?” Adrian looked down at his shoulder.
The chain mail had burst apart around the wound, leaving snapped links and torn rings hanging loose, while the linen beneath was soaked with dark blood and stuck to his skin.
He gathered the broken rings together with his right hand.
They clinked softly against one another.
The man remained kneeling, his gaze moving from the broken links to the brown-black bloodstain beneath them.
His lips parted as though he wanted to speak, but he swallowed the words and nervously twisted his fingers together.
“My lord,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper, “we have needles and linen thread in the village.
They’re only meant for sewing clothes, not repairing armor, but if you don’t mind…
I could stitch the wound for you.” “My wife is better at sewing than I am.
She has stitched wounds for several people in the village.” After speaking, he lowered his head and hunched his shoulders, as though expecting to be rejected.
Adrian watched him from where he leaned against the oak.
His gaze settled on the man’s hands, still pressed into the mud.
They were rough as old bark, with swollen knuckles and dirt packed beneath the nails.
Those were the hands offering to sew his wound closed.
“Let’s go,” Adrian said.