Sorrowroot

The wind on Maitreya knew things. Varick had understood that since he was a child. He’d learned to trust it the way some men trusted maps.

It thrashed when he cut down weaker soldiers, the hot air gritty with arena dust. It whipped on the rare occasion he fought someone who could survive a few moments against him—though never longer than seven swings. Sometimes, it seemed to move with intention—guiding his weapon in battle.

Tonight, it whispered.

Just like his soldiers outside.

He filed it away and continued unpacking. He could hear everything they said—a gift he never telegraphed but used accordingly. He’d learned that from an early age, too.

“Something happened out there,” a woman said, her voice carrying the certainty of someone who had already done the math and didn’t like the answer. Cigarette smoke drifted past the window from a soldier who said nothing. Which meant he agreed.

Varick kept his eyes forward and squeezed the handle of his blade.

“Ah, now.” Bertram’s voice moved between them, calm as ever. “He’s back. That’s what matters.”

“The question is whether coming back is better than the alternative,” the woman said.

The group went quiet, like something true had been said that no one intended to answer.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Bertram offered. “That’s enough.” Then, softer, the words the old man always left them with: “Through the valley.”

The voices outside repeated it—a secret affirmation between those who lived it.

Varick said nothing. But any challenger who drew his number tomorrow would be dead by midday. They always were.

He weighed everything the day had given him: follow-up reports, briefings, endless orders and objectives.

Nothing that mattered.

The wind knocked against the glass along with two child-sized fists. Trevor and Enzo rounded the corner and charged past the soldiers. The vendor boys arrived as they always did: barreling into spaces before anyone could redirect them.

They peeked at his face before speaking—an easy read of the evening’s mood.

“You’re back.” Enzo said the obvious like it was a confirmation he’d needed.

Varick nodded without turning around.

“Ready for tomorrow?” Trevor’s question hung in the air as he calculated variables of his own.

Varick set his blade down and turned to face them, handing each boy a piece of shagbark. Enzo’s eyes sparkled. Trevor glanced at the hickory stick in his hand before studying Varick’s face for something more convincing. Something that would hold.

Varick held his gaze but gave him nothing.

“We don’t like it when you’re gone.” Enzo chewed the resin anxiously.

“I’m never gone for long,” Varick said finally. “Just look out for each other. And don’t do anything stupid.” They took his ribbing without comment. It was the only comfort he knew how to give. “Those who stand together…”

“Cannot be broken,” they finished.

Varick studied their faces. Trevor was the older of the two but still very much a kid. Enzo looked at the world with a glimmer of hope in his eyes—a spark Varick had watched fade from Trevor’s almost entirely.

The wind howled slow and deep, enough that Harou answered.

“Easy, boy.” Varick stroked the wolf’s head. “Let’s go.”

He made his way past the soldiers’ smoke rings and the smell of burnt skewers. Bertram leaned against an old acacia trunk nearby, steady as the tree itself.

Varick wished he could do the same.

Before he disappeared into the dark, he glimpsed Trevor’s face still watching from the doorway. He held it for a moment—the boy’s jaw set tight, one hand gripped white against the doorframe.

He turned away and let the night take him.

Something low left his mouth—words the wind caught before anyone else could. Whether prayer or habit or something older than either, it dissolved into the shadows as he walked ahead.

“Forgive me.”

The wind swallowed it whole and carried it somewhere he couldn’t follow.

Like it heard his thoughts.

Like it understood his message.

Like it knew the way.