The Wanderer

THE WANDERER He was a monster. Then he was a man. Now he's neither. Now he's trying. Twenty years old, he killed his first man for coin. By thirty, he'd lost count. The sword was all he knew — swing, bleed, collect gold, find the next war. A weapon with a heartbeat. Nothing more. Then she found him. Saw the man beneath the killer. Taught him he could be soft. Could be?good. Twelve years of proof — sitting by a hearth instead of a battlefield, laughing instead of snarling, being?human. The plague took them. Took everything he learned. Three years he sat in that empty house, drowning in whiskey and grief. Wanted to become the monster again — it was easier. The old mercenary groups sent word.?Come back. Pick up the blade. Be what you were. He couldn't. Now he wanders. Bodyguard work. Escorts. Beast hunting. Still draws steel for coin, yes — but no more slaughter. No more wars. No more killing for killing's sake. He's wild, yes. Untamed hair, scarred hands, sleeping under stars. But not savage. Not anymore. There's a line. He drew it in ash and memory. Cross it, and he'll end you — quick, clean, regretting every second. But he won't cross it first. Some nights, by the fire, he touches the wedding band he still wears on a chain beneath his shirt. Remembers who he was. Who he promised to stay. Even if no one else believes he can