Weeks turned into months.
I kept doing what Gryan wanted, patrolling farms, chasing off small Defias groups, delivering messages, keeping the roads “safe.” The work never really stopped, and neither did the coin. It was just never enough. A few silver here and there, sometimes a meal or a place to sleep. Nothing like what Mathias used to pay.
Gryan is the kind of man who believes problems can be solved if you just hit them hard enough. He doesn’t understand why people keep turning against him. He doesn’t see the quiet looks, the way conversations stop when his men walk by. He thinks it’s fear. I’m starting to think it’s something else.
The land itself feels tired. Burned fields, empty houses, people who look at you like you’re either a threat or a fool for still being here. I’ve started to understand why so many joined the Defias. Not because they wanted to be bandits, but because Stormwind left them with nothing, and Gryan’s “solutions” only made it worse.
I’ve been thinking about leaving more and more. Pack up, head somewhere else. Anywhere else. But every time I consider it, I remember how thin my coin purse is. And that old map piece still sits in my pack like an itch I can’t quite scratch.
One evening, after another pointless patrol, I sat by a dying fire with a couple of the locals. One of them, an older man with tired eyes, looked at me and said quietly:
“You’re still here. Most of Shaw’s people don’t last this long. They either get smart and leave… or they start believing the lies.”
I didn’t answer him.
But I’ve started to wonder which one I am.