Chadwick Rye

The morning ache in my knee heralded rain long before the dark clouds gathered over Arkadale. Some folk still called it my “arrow-knee,” though thirty years had passed since that Blackmoor bandit’s lucky shot ended my adventuring days. I eased myself onto the worn bench outside my cottage, the wood smooth from years of this same ritual, and watched the town awaken beneath a sky heavy with promise.

My name is Malcom Ironshield, once sworn sword to the Crimson Company, veteran of the Godspire Campaign, and survivor of the Wraith Queen’s Labyrinth. Now I’m simply Old Man Malcom, the fellow who mends pots, sharpens blades, and tells increasingly embellished tales to wide-eyed children.

The young ones can’t imagine that this gray-bearded man with the twisted knee once scaled the Crystal Spires or bested the Chimera of Fallow Reach. Truth be told, those memories grow distant even for me, replaced by simpler pleasures that fill my days like precious stones in an otherwise ordinary pouch.

First among these treasures is my morning tea ritual. As I sit upon my porch, watching Arkadale stir to life, young Lily Tanner brings me a steaming mug of blackroot brew, steeped exactly as I prefer—strong enough to stand a spoon in, with a splash of honey from Widow Harrick’s hives. The girl reminds me of my sister, lost to the fever when we were but children ourselves. Her daily visit marks the true beginning of my day, her chatter about village gossip more refreshing than the tea itself.

“Blacksmith Dorn says his daughter’s going to apprentice with the hedge witch in the western woods,” she announces today, setting down my mug with ceremonial care. “Says she’s got the sight, whatever that means.”

I nod sagely, savoring both the news and the first bittersweet sip. The warmth spreads through my chest, and for a moment, the persistent ache in my knee recedes. “The gift shows itself early,” I tell her, though I’ve no special knowledge of magical aptitudes. “Tell Dorn I’ve got some old protection charms she might find useful—relics from the Amber Tower expedition.”

Lily’s eyes widen as they always do when I reference my former life, and she dashes off with renewed purpose. The truth: those “charms” are merely polished stone amulets I’ve carved myself, but they’ll give the girl confidence on her new path. Sometimes, that’s magic enough.

The second joy comes midmorning, when the village children gather around the great oak in the square for their lessons. From my workbench beneath my cottage’s open window, I can hear Schoolmaster Eldin’s resonant voice mixing with youthful laughter. While my hands busy themselves with whatever repairs are needed that day—a copper pot’s loose handle, a splintered chair leg, the frayed leather of a work harness—my ears feast on snippets of history, mathematics, and natural philosophy.

“And what year did Queen Alessia unite the Seven Kingdoms?” Eldin asks.
A chorus of uncertain answers follows, most incorrect.

“The Year of the Crimson Comet,” I call out without looking up from my work. “Nine hundred and seventy-three years ago this coming Harvest Moon.”

A brief silence, then Eldin’s appreciative chuckle. “Thank you, Master Ironshield. Perhaps you’d care to tell the children about life during the reign of King Thadeus the Bold?”

And so my morning’s work is pleasantly interrupted as little ones crowd around my workbench, hungry for tales of a world that exists now only in memory and dusty tomes. In their faces, I see reflections of my younger self—before the arrow, before the pain, when the horizon stretched endless and adventure beckoned with siren song. In their questions, I find purpose; in their wonder, renewal.

Midday brings my third joy: the shared meal at Goodwife Brenna’s tavern, The Sleeping Dragon. Not for the food, though her stewed rabbit with wild onions rivals any feast I enjoyed in royal halls during my mercenary days. No, the treasure here is the companionship of fellow broken warriors—Tull the One-Eyed, who lost more than his vision to a manticore’s venom; Dayna Swiftblade, her legendary speed now hampered by a withered arm; and silent Bergen, whose tongue was claimed by Frostfang cultists.

We sit at our corner table, communicating through a language of nods, scars, and unspoken understanding. Occasionally, we speak of grand battles past, but more often, we discuss the mundane blessings of our present lives—the quality of this season’s wheat harvest, the marriage prospects of the cooper’s daughter, the persistent leak in the temple roof that the new priest hasn’t yet addressed.

“I’ll have a look at those shingles tomorrow,” I volunteer, sawing through a particularly tough piece of venison. “My knee does better on dry days.”

Dayna snorts, her good hand expertly wielding a spoon. “Your knee predicts rain better than Weatherwitch Moira ever could.”

We share a laugh, these companions who understand that our greatest adventures now involve navigating the treacherous territory of aging bodies and quieter days. There is comfort in this camaraderie, a balm more potent than any healing potion I encountered in forgotten tombs or wizards’ towers.

The fourth joy comes with afternoon rain, when droplets drum gentle rhythms on my cottage roof. I settle into my chair by the hearth—needed even in summer when the damp aggravates old injuries—and lose myself in books borrowed from Father Landon’s modest collection. Today it’s a volume on Dwarven metallurgy, tomorrow perhaps poetry from the Southern Isles or astronomical observations from the High Council of Mages.

These quiet hours transport me farther than my feet ever carried me. Without moving from my hearth, I scale intellectual mountains and ford philosophical rivers, each page turning bringing new vistas to a mind still hungry for horizons while housed in a body that has reached its limits of exploration. The rain provides percussion to my reading, sometimes gentle as a lover’s touch, other times dramatic as a battlefield drum, but always the perfect accompaniment to words that build worlds within me.

As evening approaches, townspeople sometimes stop by with small tokens—a freshly baked honey cake, a pouch of pipeweed, a bottle of berry wine—in exchange for advice that draws upon experience they correctly assume I possess. They ask about routes through treacherous mountain passes, the identifying features of poisonous fungi, how to address a minor noble without giving offense. I answer truthfully when I can, invent plausibly when I must, and always ensure they leave with confidence greater than when they arrived.

Which brings me to my fifth joy, the sweetest of all: twilight on my porch, watching Arkadale transform in the day’s dying light. Lanterns bloom like fireflies along cobbled streets. The blacksmith’s hammer falls silent. Children are called home to supper with names that echo between buildings—”Tomas! Ellie! Rowan!”—their reluctant responses trailing behind as they abandon games for family tables.

This is when the pain in my knee seems most distant, when the weight of all I’ve lost feels balanced by all I’ve found. I never expected to live this long. Adventurers rarely do. Each sunset witnessed is its own miracle, each peaceful evening its own treasure hoard more valuable than any dragon’s cache I once pursued with reckless abandon.

Tonight, as darkness settles over our little valley, I raise my evening mug of spiced cider in silent toast to that Blackmoor bandit whose arrow forever changed my path. Without his perfect shot, I might never have discovered that happiness needn’t arrive on griffon-back or emerge from ancient crypts. It can be found in a well-brewed cup of tea, in children’s eager questions, in the companionship of fellow survivors, in rain-soaked afternoons with good books, and in twilights painted across the sky above a town that has, against all expectations, become home.

Some might call this a small life after one so grand. But I, Malcom Ironshield, have found that genuine joy seldom announces itself with trumpets and banners. It arrives quietly, in moments easily overlooked, in routines easily dismissed—until you realize they’ve become the sturdy foundation beneath your feet, more reliable than any wizard’s bridge or enchanted pathway.

And infinitely more precious.