Chapter 42 The Men Who Remembered Him Weak
The small border settlement looked exactly as Darius remembered it.
Low wooden buildings, muddy streets, the same faded trading post sign creaking in the wind. This was one of the places he had lived during his early exile years, carrying crates, repairing ledgers, being the quiet, forgettable man everyone pitied or ignored.
As the four of them walked down the main street, recognition came slowly.
An old merchant loading a cart paused, squinting. "Valeborn? Little Darius? Gods below… it is you."
Another man stepped out of a tavern, wiping his hands on a rag. "The weak prince. Thought you died years ago."
Darius nodded politely, the same calm expression he had always worn here. "Jorah. Willem. Good to see you both still breathing."
The locals stared. Not at the rising catastrophe the continent whispered about. They saw the same failed third son they had known, the one who failed every magic test, the one who carried boxes without complaint, the one whose blood curse had made him harmless.
A woman with graying hair crossed her arms. "Heard stories. Said you bonded with monsters. That true?"
Veth grinned dangerously. "Monsters? Careful with your words, old woman."
Mara stayed silent, golden eyes scanning the crowd. Solis walked with quiet sorrow, her presence already making a few people look uneasy.
Darius answered evenly. "It is true. These are my companions now."
The contrast felt uncomfortable, even painful. The world outside saw a man who had ended a sixty-year war and carried three Calamities. Here, they remembered the quiet exile who fixed broken carts and never raised his voice.
One of the older men shook his head with something close to pity. "Poor bastard. Got caught up with monsters. Should’ve stayed weak and forgotten like the rest of us."
Veth’s hand tightened on her axe. She took one heavy step forward. "Say that again."
The man paled. Several locals stepped back in fear.
Darius raised a hand. One look from him was enough. Veth stopped, though her jaw remained clenched.
"Enough," Darius said calmly. "They are old acquaintances. No need for violence."
The wives exchanged glances. Veth looked irritated. Mara’s expression was unreadable. Solis watched Darius with quiet intensity. The fact that he treated these people, people who had once dismissed him, with the exact same quiet respect he had always shown unsettled them deeply.
A younger trader muttered, "He’s traveling with the Plague Goddess and War herself… and he’s still acting like the same weak scribe who used to count our barrels."
Another voice, laced with fear, added, "Those monsters will kill him. Or worse…turn him into something terrible."
Darius simply continued walking, nodding politely to those who greeted him. No arrogance. No revenge for old slights. No boasting about his new power. He was exactly the same man they remembered.
That fact affected the wives more than any display of strength could have.
Veth muttered under her breath, "These fools have no idea what he has become. I should show them."
Darius gave her a single look. She backed down, though she was clearly unhappy about it.
They stopped at the old trading post where Darius had once worked. The owner, an elderly man named Garrick, recognized him immediately.
"Little prince," Garrick said, voice thick with disbelief. "You really survived all that?"
"I did," Darius replied. "We need supplies. Nothing more."
As they gathered what they needed, an old exile companion stepped out from behind a stack of crates. Pell, one of the few people who had been kind to Darius during his early exile years. His eyes widened as he saw the black veins briefly pulse under the skin of Darius’s throat before vanishing.
Pell’s face went white with horror.
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a terrified whisper only Darius could hear.
“That curse wasn’t supposed to wake up.”
Darius met his old friend’s eyes steadily. The black veins had already disappeared, but the damage was done. Pell looked like he had just seen something far worse than death.
The weight of the past and the terror of the present collided in that single quiet moment.