The Hero Returned Too Late

By the time the Hero returned, the village had already buried most of its joy.

They still called it Mirefold, though there was no mire left, and not much to fold. Once, a river had braided through its hills, turning the soil to velvet. Now, the riverbed was cracked. The hills were half-shaved for trenchwork and timber. The war had taken the rest—roots and harvest, sons and songs.

Still, they hung crimson banners from scorched beams. They sang. They toasted. Someone carved a likeness of Kael of Velshyr—the Hero—in softwood and mounted it where the old well used to be. That night, they feasted.

I was there. Not because I wanted to be. Because everyone was expected to be.

Kael sat at the centre of the long hall, framed by torchlight, gleaming like a forged blade—untouched, polished. He still had that jawline like a statue. Still carried the same easy confidence of a man convinced he was beloved.

He didn’t recognise me. Why would he?

“Blacksmith!” called Elsen, the Chronicler, a narrow man with wide eyes and ink-stained sleeves. “What was your name again?”

“Tarn,” I said. “Of Mirefold.”

He smiled. “Perfect. Sit closer, would you? I want you in the frame.”

Frame?

He gestured to a hovering spellglass—a pane of mirrored light, sketching outlines into memory. Some capital contraption. It shimmered as Kael laughed, tossing his head like a bard’s tale come to life.

“Tarn,” Kael repeated, turning to me. “Good to see you again.”

He said it with the warmth of a man who hadn’t trampled your barley fields, requisitioned your tools, and sent your only son to die in someone else’s war—said it as he remembered me.

I nodded. Didn’t speak. My mouth was full.

The meat was tough. Gamey. Probably stringwolf. Barely edible, but it filled the plate. He wouldn’t know the difference.

Kael stood, raising his goblet. “To Mirefold! To the brave, the steadfast—who gave so much, so we all might live free!”

Free. He said it like it was a gift.

A cheer rose—thin, uncertain. Cups clinked. A woman clapped twice, then folded her hands in her lap as they’d misbehaved.

Kael drank first. Then the rest followed.

I watched his throat as he swallowed.

Not that cup, yet.

The poison was in the one I gave him—his own war-wine, enchanted to “restore and renew.” A gift from the Royal Circle. He’d shared it like a king. I’d refilled his cup when no one was looking.

He’d toasted. I waited.

“Tarn,” Kael said again, smiling. “Your boy—Thom, was it? Good lad. Fought bravely.”

There it was. A name he’d remembered. Thom had died in a dramatic enough way to earn a song: holding the pass at Dunfell, alone, against shadow beasts. Or so the story went.

Kael arrived too late to help. Called it a “tragedy.” Used it in three speeches.

“My boy,” I said flatly, “was fourteen.”

Kael paused. Touched his goblet to mine. “He was a man when it counted.”

I drank.

The fire cracked. Outside, the wind curled around the hall’s broken shutters. The bards played a slow, reverent piece. Not a dance tune.

Elsen scribbled notes furiously. “This is what people need,” he murmured. “Closure. Catharsis. Something to remember.”

He looked up. “Would you speak on the record? A quote from the commoner?”

I didn’t answer. I looked at Kael.

He was listening now. Maybe he saw something new in my face. Maybe not. Perhaps he just liked being the centre of things.

He leaned back in his seat, arms spread, inviting.

“I remember when I left Mirefold,” he said, “we were barely holding out. And now look. You rebuilt. You endured.”

His voice had that practised cadence—lifted for inspiration, dropped for gravity—a voice trained for echoes.

“We didn’t endure,” I said. “We were left.”

Silence.

Kael’s smile faltered but didn’t fall.

“Come now,” he said, easy again. “You’ve got roofs, fields, peace—”

“Not peace,” I said. “Silence.”

A chair scraped. Someone cleared their throat. No one spoke.

Kael’s expression shifted—a hairline crack in the polished surface.

I leaned forward. “You needed soldiers. Took half the village. Promised honour. Gave them blades and spells they didn’t know how to hold. Promised they’d come home.”

“They died for a cause greater than—”

“They died for your cause.”

Kael stood. Not quickly—deliberately. Like he wanted to seem calm. In control. “Careful what you accuse me of, blacksmith.”

“I’m not accusing.”

He waited.

I nodded toward his cup. “I already judged.”

He froze.

The room held its breath. Someone gasped. Elsen looked up, quill still in hand.

Kael glanced at the goblet. Then at me. Then—finally—he looked at the room.

No one moved.

They hadn’t planned this. No one knew. But no one stopped it.

Kael’s hand trembled. “You poisoned a hero.”

“No,” I said. “I ended a story that never belonged to you.”

He staggered back, breath hitching. But he didn’t fall.

Not yet.

A strange hush settled over the hall. Not fear. Not shock. Something more like… waiting.

Kael’s hand gripped the edge of the table. His eyes met mine. He looked pale—but not fading.

The bards sat frozen. Elsen’s quill hovered, unmoving.

Then Kael laughed—hoarse, short.

“You think this will change anything?” he said. “Even if I die—especially if I die—do you know what they’ll call me?”

He turned to the Chronicler, voice thin but rising.

“Make it good,” he said. “Don’t let them forget.”

He raised his cup again. The same poisoned one and toasted the air.

Then drank.

I don’t remember much after that.

I know I stood. No one stopped me. Know the fire burned low, and no one added wood.

Later, someone found Kael’s statue lying facedown in the mud. Whether it fell or was pulled, no one said. They just left it there.

The Chronicler stayed for three days. He never spoke to me again. Just wrote. Then, they left without a word.

Weeks passed.

We planted again.

The wine bottle still glows faintly in the dark corner of my forge. I never threw it out. Some nights, I think I hear it humming.

Some nights, I wonder if Kael died.

No one talks about it. No one sings.

But now and then, I catch the children reenacting the war, yelling Kael’s name, not in anger.

In awe.

Maybe I didn’t kill the Hero. Maybe I just gave him a better ending.