Roads of Silence

1588-02-10
Empire’s Backroads

I left Maraisbourg with my lute and the weight of ash in my lungs.
The backroads wound through fields and dark copses, past halls burned to ribs where Fechtschules had stood.
At each ruin I carved a short verse into a beam or a standing tree, a line of Merryen’s compass or a bar from Lychenar’s song, as if words could anchor what the wind would steal.

I thought of the hermit and wondered if any clearing still held green.
Once, bandits slid from a ditch with rust bright on their blades. I did not cut them. I cut the cords that held their weapons. Steel dropped into mud and the men stared. One breathed, “The Silent Bard,” and they ran.

The world has grown cruel, yet the sword in my hand feels changed. It is less a weapon and more a compass. It points toward a task I have not yet named, and my steps keep time with a song I am still learning.