Secrets （Part 2）
The next day, the trio awoke early.
Gareth moved with quiet purpose. He gathered what food and gear he could find: dried venison, a battered compass, worn blankets, and a pouch of flint.
As he prepared, his eyes lingered on the treeline. Always wary, he scanned for the dangers that prowled the mountain wilds.
He reached for his battleaxe,
a weapon scarred by years in the gladiator pits, its handle worn from countless battles. Aside from his scars, it was the one token he kept from his previous life.
The weapon had never let him down.
Strapping the axe across his back, Gareth felt a familiar steadiness settle over him. He'd traveled to the lumber town before to trade furs for supplies. He was confident he could get them there unharmed.
He doused the fire and secured his den, hoping the local bears wouldn't tear into his belongings while he was away. Then he led the way, guiding the group along their arduous journey to Goldhaven.
The road across the mountains was long and tough. They moved at a steady pace, resting when needed, foraging and hunting for food along the way.
Gareth's steady presence gave Rowena and The Dissolver a sense of safety. His confidence and patient guidance made the dangers of the mountains feel less daunting.
Rowena and The Dissolver learned a lot from Gareth during their journey.
He taught them to fight, sparring with them each evening. He passed on skills honed in the arenas—how to read an opponent's movement, the importance of balance, how to turn limitations into advantages.
The Dissolver absorbed these lessons with endless enthusiasm, quickly picking up techniques and eagerly seeking Gareth's approval. They grew closer with every joke and shared victory.
Rowena, however, struggled to adapt. Gareth's methods, built for his own size and strength, didn't fit her smaller frame. Frustration grew as she failed to match his power, even with Gareth's extra help.
Yet, beneath the surface, a mutual respect began to take root.
Rowena admired Gareth's determination and patience, while Gareth saw in her a fierce resilience he could not help but admire.
During long hours of travel and quiet evenings around the fire, the trio got to know one another.
The Dissolver and Gareth became fast companions. Wherever Gareth went—hunting or gathering firewood—the boy tagged along. They shared tales of battles fought and monsters slain, their bond growing with each story.
Gareth's brutally honest recollections from the gladiator pits were matched by The Dissolver's wild accounts of impossible heroics in a ruined Etheria.
Rowena discreetly warned Gareth that the boy's stories were all made up. Gareth didn't mind. He found joy in the boy's wild imagination.
As Goldhaven drew near, Gareth felt a dull ache. He would miss the boy.
His company was a bittersweet reminder of friendships long lost.
The warmth between Gareth and The Dissolver left Rowena on the outside. Her relationship with Gareth stayed complicated.
She respected him for saving her life, and, to her own surprise, sometimes enjoyed his company.
But old wounds and new suspicions lingered.
She couldn't quite forgive Gareth for slipping away with her scabbard that night. The inconsistencies in his stories gnawed at her. He was always elusive about his escape from the city, claiming he couldn't remember. Yet he recalled every detail of blood and battle.
So why blur his own escape?
Rowena kept her distance; friendly, but wary. Her trust came in small increments; she never fully let her guard down.
Gareth, however, found himself increasingly drawn to Rowena.
He didn't share her distrust. Instead, he relished her sharp mind and admired her determination, even when she was wary or distant. He tried to bridge the gap with lighthearted jokes and quiet gestures, watching for those rare moments when her guard slipped, and a smile appeared.
Each time she laughed or teased him back, hope flickered,
only to fade as she retreated again behind her walls.
He was surprised by how much her approval mattered, and how sharply he felt the sting of her distrust. Knowing their time together was limited only made Gareth want to know her more, to win her trust, to see those elusive, genuine smiles.
A barrier hung between them:
Suspicion on one side, yearning on the other. Neither knew how to cross it.
On the night of the seventh day, they finally came to the peak of the last foothill of the North Mountains.
Warmth crept in as they descended, spring life blooming in the dim evening light. Delicate wildflowers, blues and yellows, peeked through the grass, and the breeze whispered through budding shrubs.
They made camp at the top of the foothill, where the world seemed to open up before them, revealing the valley bathed in the soft glow of dusk.
In the distance lay Goldhaven, the quaint lumber town, and beyond it, the Great Forest: an emerald sea of trees stretching to the horizon.
That night, the three settled into their camp.
The Dissolver, exhausted from the journey and the evening's sparring, was already fast asleep.
Gareth and Rowena remained awake, sitting near each other in the warm firelight.
Rowena meticulously cleaned her silvery short sword, turning it gently in her hands.
Gareth watched her, noting the distant look in her eyes as she worked.
Gareth's voice was gentle as he broke the silence. "That sword must be quite special to you."
Rowena blinked, pulled from her thoughts. "What?" she asked softly, her gaze dropping to the blade.
He smiled, a touch of warmth in his eyes. "I've noticed you clean it every night. Not even I am that devoted to my axe."
Rowena's hands stilled. Pain flickered across her face as she hugged the sword closer. "It was my father's," she whispered. "He gave it to me the night he sent my mother and me away."
Gareth felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut.
Rowena's voice wavered. "He said I'd need it to protect myself. But he didn't know..." She tried to smile. "He didn't know I'd be so hopeless with a sword."
Gareth hesitated, then asked softly, "And your mother?"
"She died." Rowena's voice was flat, her eyes fixed on the flames. The grief was old, worn down to a quiet ache. "She got sick, just weeks after we reached the North Mountains. There was nothing I could do."
Gareth's eyes softened. "I'm sorry, Rowena." He watched her, heart aching, uncertain how to help.
She shook her head, her voice gentle. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
Gareth looked away, staring into the flames as guilt gnawed at him.
Seeking to steer away from her own pain, Rowena nodded toward the battered axe at Gareth's side. "What about your axe? Is there a story there?"
A wistful smile flickered on Gareth's lips. "The colosseum blacksmith—old Gideon—made weapons meant to last. This axe has saved my life more times than I can count."
Rowena studied him. "I must admit, I'm curious—what made you want to become a gladiator?"
Gareth hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his face. "That is... quite a question."
Rowena's eyebrows rose. He was usually eager to recount his arena victories. His reluctance now made her even more curious.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry," she said quietly, "It's just...since the war, I've been grateful for every quiet day. Lately, I feel like I'm barely surviving. I can't imagine choosing a life that puts you in danger, day after day."
Gareth understood her curiosity. He'd been asked the question many times.
Normally, Gareth would have shrugged it off, telling another half-truth about loving the thrill of the ring.
The reality was depressing.
Like most who bled in the pits, he hadn't chosen glory—he'd chosen survival. Gladiators were the forgotten: orphans, runaways, sons of mothers lost to drink. Gareth was no different.
Gareth's earliest memories were of hunger and the sharp reek of spirits, of nights spent listening for his mother's stumbling steps, and wondering if she would make it home.
Fighting was the only thing that ever made sense.
He started in back-alley brawls and underground fighting rings. He fought nightly, fists bruised and bloodied, for the amusement of wealthy men, gamblers who never remembered his name.
But he was strong, and soon word of his talent spread.
The colosseum found him, and in its shadowed halls, he learned the art of violence. His axe, forged by Gideon's scarred hands, became his only constant. Money followed, and for a while, so did fame.
But beneath the roar of the crowd, Gareth always heard the echo of that hungry, frightened boy, swinging for his life.
He became one of the most famous gladiators of his time, surviving fight after fight for over nine years. It was an impressive feat, considering that most gladiators would not survive longer than five.
But looking at the beautiful, highborn lady before him, he felt only shame.
He was just a battered gladiator, nothing left but scars and regrets.
He couldn't make himself meet Rowena's eyes.
How could he explain it to someone so sheltered, someone who'd only recently known real struggle? He doubted she'd understand.
He sat in silence for a minute, wrestling with an unfamiliar emotion that swirled in his chest.
He grew frustrated.
It wasn't like him to care what others thought of him, especially the haughty nobles.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to tell her the truth.
Instead, he offered a practiced lie. "I don't know," Gareth said, forcing a smile. "Maybe I just liked the thrill."
Rowena let out a small, uncertain laugh. "I wish I felt a thrill fighting for my life," she said, her voice trembling. "All I ever feel is fear."
"It comes with time," Gareth murmured, his tone soft. For a moment, only the two of them existed in the glow of the fire.
"I wish..." Rowena's words faded, her smile faltering. She looked away, pain flickering across her face. "Never mind."
Gareth leaned in, voice gentle. "Please, Rowena. You can tell me."
She hesitated. When she spoke, her words were quiet but earnest. "I wish you would come with us to find Prince Ladomir."
Gareth's chest tightened. He shrank back, having avoided this topic all week.
"Rowena..." he began, voice barely above a whisper. He didn't want to breach the subject again.
But Rowena pressed on, slipping the scabbard off her shoulder and offering it to him, desperation in her voice. "If you would just look at it again. Hold it in your hands—"
"Rowena, no." Gareth pushed the scabbard away, the ache in his chest growing sharper.
"Then just look at it." Her voice trembled.
Her brown eyes, sad and pleading, pierced him.
He felt an unexpected tug in his heart. For a moment, Gareth wished he could give her anything she asked for.
"Stop." Gareth's voice cracked, harsher than he intended. "Enough, Rowena."
She recoiled. Her expression hardened, voice sharp with hurt. "Just days ago, you were willing to sneak it from my bed while I slept. Now you won't even look at it?"
There it was again,
the jab of her distrust, the shift in her demeanor.
He drew a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair. "I thought we were past this."
Her eyes burned with determination. "I know you felt something that night. I saw your face when you held it. Don't pretend you didn't sense its power."
His answer was low, almost a growl. "No."
With a frustrated huff, Rowena unclasped the sheath and peeled back the cover, exposing the sword's handle to the firelight.
"Then draw the sword," she challenged, her jaw tight with emotion. "Prove it isn't what I say it is."
She held it out to him, her hand steady despite the tremor in her voice. For a moment, Gareth just stared, uncertainty knotting in his chest.
"You're not thinking clearly," he managed, his voice softer now, worry breaking through. "Rowena, this isn't just a test—"
"Maybe not. But if you truly don't believe, prove me wrong."
Gareth straightened, unwilling to back down under her gaze. He reached for the handle.
But before his hand could close around the hilt, a cold wave of fear rooted him in place.
His fingers trembled above the grip. Memories and nightmares flashed through his mind.
He wanted to let go—to abandon these strangers in Goldhaven and walk away.
Yet Rowena's eyes, fierce and pleading, held him fast. If she was right—if the sword was what she believed—it could cost him his life.
He exhaled shakily, dropped his hand, and turned away,
defeated by his own terror.
Rowena let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Quietly, she sealed the weapon away and set it across her lap, meeting his eyes.
"You feel it too. I have no proof—only faith, and hope that maybe this relic can save us. Gareth, I know it sounds impossible, but our people need us. We are honor-bound to see this through. It's our duty."
She stood, swinging the sheath over her shoulder.
Her voice softened. "Please, just consider it."
With that, she crossed the camp and made her bed near the Dissolver, leaving Gareth alone in the hush of the firelight.