The Map Only I Can Read

The next morning after the long road they took, after the fight with the bandit, the adrenaline was gone. Only bruises and questions remained.

The bandits sat tied beneath the guard shed, their eyes hollow but alert. No one spoke to them. No one offered food. Not yet.

The villagers gave them wide berths, but whispers carried. Some were afraid. Some angry. Others confused.

"This is the bandit who takes our livestock."

"Yes, I remember his face."

"He's the one who took that family last spring. Sold them. As slaves."

"Doesn't the law say you can't buy and sell slaves anymore?"

Ren's body went still. He had heard many things on this land—but not that.

Stealing food or livestock, desperate crimes, he could understand. Maybe even forgive.

But human trafficking—that was different.

Even in his world before, when Ren wathing the news on televions, and heard about human trafficking, his blood was boiling.

He stepped forward. "Who said that?" he asked, loud enough for all to hear. "Who saw the family taken?"

An older man stepped out from the edge of the crowd. Thin, bent, but with a fire in his eyes.

"I did," the man said. "Last spring. Saw them dragged off in the middle of the night. I was too afraid to stop it. I still am."

Ren looked at the tied bandits. One of them—a wiry man with hollow cheeks and a nervous twitch—had stopped looking bored. His jaw clenched.

That was all Ren needed.

He turned to Mirana and Caden. "Bring them out. All six. Upright. No blindfolds."

They obeyed without question. The bandits were lined up in the center of the square, wrists bound but feet free. Villagers circled at a distance, watching.

Ren stepped forward. Calm. Controlled. His tone was quiet, but it carried.

"One of you," he said, "was involved in taking a family from this village. Not for food. Not for survival. For profit."

The wiry one shifted again. Sweat on his brow despite the cold.

Ren noticed—but didn't speak to him. Not yet.

Instead, he knelt in front of the scarred man—Garel—the one who had spoken during the ambush.

"You seem like the kind who still values his life," Ren said calmly. "I want to know who gave the order. Who arranged the sale. You can keep your silence. Or you can walk away with your legs still yours."

Garel didn't flinch. He looked past Ren to the villagers—watching, judging.

Then he spoke.

"That one." He nodded at the wiry man. "His name's Tellan. He was the handler. Took payment in coin and salt."

Tellan exploded. "Liar! You're trying to pin it on me—!"

But no one was listening. Mirana was already moving. A boot in his back sent Tellan to his knees.

Ren stepped forward and crouched beside him. His voice was almost gentle.

"Tellan, was it?"

The man spat. "You think you're better than me? You think this little village means anything?"

Ren's smile was cold. "Not yet. But it will."

Then he stood.

"Tie him to the post. Right where everyone can see him. He doesn't eat tonight."

Mira dragged Tellan to the pole and bound him again, tighter this time.

Caden turned to the remaining five, who were watching in silent dread.

Ren's voice cut through the morning air.

"The rest of you. You get one chance. I don't forget faces. You come back, you steal, you threaten—next time, there won't be rope."

He motioned to Caden. "Take their weapons. All of them. They leave here with nothing but bruises and warning."

Solen stepped forward, silent as ever, and began removing makeshift armor and rusted blades from the group.

One of the bandits—young, barely more than a boy—lowered his head and murmured, "Thank you."

Ren didn't respond. He just watched as the five were marched past the gate, barefoot and disarmed. The villagers stood silent as they passed.

They all limped as they left—still wounded, still clutching at ribs and shoulders—but their legs worked. Ren had made sure of that. Enough pain to remember. Enough freedom to crawl back into the world with a choice: change or return as enemies.

But none of them looked back.

They vanished down the path, dragging their shame behind them.

And Tellan—Tellan stayed.

***

As the sky burned gold and red, the village fire was crackling.

People ate stew and bread in the open, passing bowls and trading quiet laughter. Children played in the dirt nearby.

And Tellan sat at the edge of it all, arms bound, stomach growling, forced to watch it happen.

He cursed. He stared.

But when the steam from the pot drifted toward him, his resolve cracked like dry wood.

The night is about to come, the sky changing is color, from the red gold turned violet. The village fire glowed steady. Children dozed against their mothers. Bowls clinked. Bread was broken. Laughter, cautious but real, drifted like smoke.

Tellan still sat tied to a post just outside the firelight.

His mouth was dry. His gut twisted. No one even looked at him.

He saw the stew pot passed around again. He heard the clatter of spoons and the hush of full bellies.

Finally, he cracked. "I'll talk!" he shouted, "Alright? I'll tell you what you want!"

The fire quieted.

Ren stood, wiping his hands. He walked over, slow and patient. The whole square fell silent.

"Go on," Ren said. "Speak."

Tellan's voice was ragged. Bitter. But clear.

"It wasn't me who took them. I just arranged the contact."

"Who?" Mirana asked, stepping closer.

"A broker. They call him 'Ashen Lark.' Works out west—far west. That's where the family went. That's where they all go."

Ren's face didn't change. But inside, something sank.

West. Opposite side of the map. Too far to reach.

"Are they still alive?" he asked.

"I don't know," Tellan muttered. "Could be. Ashen Lark's smart. He sells 'em healthy."

Mirana looked like she might strike him. Kaela looked like she might cry.

Ren simply said, "Tie him tighter."

He returned to the fire and sat quietly, watching the flames.

Cunning wasn't about knowing everything. It was about knowing when to let silence speak. And when to starve a man just long enough to make him useful.

Ren didn't speak for a while after Tellan's confession.

He simply watched the people return to their meals, watched the light dance across worn faces and hopeful eyes.

Slavery, out west, in a kingdom that outlawed it.

The laws were clear—slavery had been banned years ago, that's what the villagers had said. Even the guild had provisions against it.

And yet… here it was. Still happening. Quietly. Systematically.

Far enough from the center to be ignored. Or protected.

No one can trafficked families across borders without help.

Someone higher up was looking away. Or worse—they taking a cut.

Ren filed the name Ashen Lark deep in his memory. Not with rage—but with calculation.

He would need more than anger to deal with something like that. He would need leverage. Power. Reach. And right now, he had none of those.

Not yet.

He looked back at the village—still rough, still unfinished. But more alive.

This was the real fight. The one closest to him. Not some distant war across the map. But still… the thought haunting him.

The family might still be alive. That sliver of hope burned like poison. But this village, these people, they needed saving too.

He couldn't do both. Not yet.

So he chose the one within reach.

For now. Right here. Build first. Grow first.

Make something so undeniable, even the powerful would have to look his way one day.

Then, he would deal with Ashen Lark.

And whoever was protecting him.

One stone at a time.