A week of sterile silence passed inside the chapel walls. Ronan spent the days staring up at the timber rafters, his body aching with every breath while a heavier, colder pain gripped his chest. When he was finally strong enough to stand, he walked out into the pale autumn sun.
The village square was a scar of blackened earth and ash. In the center, where the funeral pyres had burned to glowing embers, a freshly turned mound of dark earth marked the mass grave. Beneath that heavy soil rested the mingled ashes of his parents, the final remains of Bran Mac Cernach and Eileen mac Lir. At the head of the mound stood a single rough-hewn wooden marker, carved in old Gothic script:
HERE LIES BRAN MAC CERNACH & EILEEN MAC LIR. FORGOTTEN BY THE CROWN.
Ronan stared at the letters, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. A dry, choking lump formed in his throat, but no tears came. The grief was too vast, too hollowed out by shock to find release.
"Ronan."
He turned to see cleric Padraig stepping out from the chapel porch, but before the cleric could speak, a familiar figure caught Ronan's eye near the edge of the ruined lane.
It was Fergus, Ranger of the Eastern March.
Ronan recognized old Fergus instantly. The weathered man had passed through the village many times over the years, carrying fresh venison from the deep woods to trade at Bran’s forge in exchange for iron arrowheads and sharpened blades. The Ranger wore his standard boiled leather armor, his warbow encased in hide across his back, carrying the quiet, deadly aura of someone who lived entirely outside the walls of civilization.
Old Fergus walked slowly toward him, his pale eyes softening just a fraction as he took in the boy's gaunt, bandaged frame.
"I am sorry," the Ranger said, his voice deep and raspy. "I was tracking a warband deep in the eastern passes. I only heard what happened when I came back down the ridge."
Ronan did not say anything. He stared at the dirt, the silence stretching heavily between them.
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The old man shifted his weight, looking around at the ruined cabins, the empty hearths, and the smoking remnants of the village. Then, he looked back down at Ronan.
"Do you want to come with me?" old Fergus asked quietly. "You have nothing else here."
Ronan looked down at the mass grave, then out toward the vast, dark expanse of the pine forest whispering against the mountain slopes. He knew the truth in his bones. Without his parents, without the forge, he was just a ghost in a dead village. He would starve, or freeze, or be left behind when the noble’s tax collectors finally returned. He knew this Ranger. He had seen his steady hands and his quiet competence. It might not be safety, but it was a way forward.
"Can I go?" Ronan asked, his voice cracking as he looked toward the chapel door.
Cleric Padraig stepped forward, nodding slowly. He reached into the folds of his grey robe and pulled out a small, tarnished metal disk, an old coin bearing the worn inscription of a forgotten frontier god, threaded securely onto a thin, braided leather string. The cleric looped it carefully around Ronan's neck, letting the cool metal rest against his bandages.
"Take this," cleric Padraig said softly. "An old god's coin for luck. You'll need it out there."
Clutching the coin against his chest, Ronan walked away from the grave and back toward the skeleton of his home. The smithy was half-collapsed, its roof beams charred and broken from the battle. Stepping inside the familiar, soot-stained room, he gathered a heavy wool tunic and sturdy traveling trousers from the corner chest.
As he packed, his boot caught on a loose floorboard near the anvil base. He knelt, prying the warped wood upward with trembling fingers. Hidden in the dark recess below was a small leather satchel. Inside lay a few heavy silver coins, a handful of bronze bits, and a dog-eared, leather-bound booklet filled with his father's rough sketches of ironwork and charcoal markings. Ronan scooped them up and shoved them into his sling bag.
His eyes drifted back to the worktable. Resting half-hidden beneath a pile of scrap leather was an old, battered side-arm. It was longer than a standard court sword, yet shorter and heavier than a full bastard sword, a rugged and well-balanced blade Bran had forged years ago for a wandering mercenary who never returned to claim it. Ronan strapped the heavy leather scabbard around his waist, the weight pulling familiarly against his hip.
When Ronan emerged back into the pale sunlight, buckling his belt, old Fergus was waiting by the edge of the treeline. The Ranger cast a sharp glance down at the heavy blade strapped to the boy's side.
"Going to war?" the old man asked dryly.
Ronan gave a single, silent shrug.
Without another word, the boy turned his back on the ashes of his home and followed old Fergus into the dark, waiting embrace of the forest.