The Village Hall of Riverwood was never built to impress anyone.
It stood at the center of the village like an old tree stump, worn by time but dependable. The roof sloped unevenly, patched with mismatched shingles over the years.
The wooden beams creaked softly as the wind slipped through the cracks in the walls.
The floor, worn smooth by years of footsteps and arguments, carried the weight of memories—gatherings during long winters, heated disputes over harvest shares, and quiet moments shared over warm broth and cold nights.
But tonight, the Village Hall was filled in a way it hadn't been in many years.
Outside, near the flickering fire pits and under the dim lanterns strung along the eaves, a small group of villagers stood waiting.
Some leaned against the wooden railing, arms crossed. Others sat on low stools, whispering in hushed voices.
"What's the meeting about?" one of them asked, glancing toward the packed hall.
"No idea," someone replied with a shrug. "But it must be something serious."
"I think it's about the beast," another said. "The one that attacked earlier this morning."
"That might be part of it," someone else murmured. "But I doubt that's the only reason."
"What do you mean?"
"Old Hann. He's badly hurt. The village might need someone to lead while he recovers."
A moment of silence passed.
"I heard Rolo was calling the warriors earlier. Said Kent summoned them here."
That name brought a quiet tension into the group.
"So... you think Kent's trying to take over?" one finally asked, voice low.
No one answered right away.
Old Hann was still alive, after all. He might be resting, but he still held the title. Speaking too openly about replacing him—especially so soon—felt wrong. Maybe even dangerous.
Someone shifted on their feet and muttered, "Doesn't matter what we think. If Kent's the one calling the meeting, everyone will listen anyway."
And that, no one dared to argue.
Meanwhile, inside the hall, lanterns hung from the rafters, casting a warm orange glow across the aged wooden walls. At the center stood a large rectangular table, once used for planning seasonal work and village feasts.
Now, it was surrounded by the warriors of Riverwood.
Some leaned silently against the walls. Others sat cross-legged on the creaky floor. A few stood near the open windows, letting the cool night air wash over their thoughts.
There were twenty-three of them altogether.
Eleven had returned from the battle against the beast. The rest had only just come back to the village, like Kent himself, having been away during the attack.
Some were scouts. Others were traders, guards posted on distant paths, or foragers who had wandered far from home.
All of the warriors were waiting for Kent.
Outside the hall, more villagers had gathered. No one spoke loudly. Most didn't speak at all. They simply watched, listening for answers.
Then Kent stepped inside.
He said nothing at first. He walked slowly across the hall, the sound of his boots echoing on the wooden planks. The room seemed to shift with every step he took. Backs straightened. Conversations faded into silence.
Without asking, and without a moment of hesitation, Kent walked to the head of the table and sat down.
He sat in the Village Chief's seat.
That chair, worn smooth at the arms and faded by time, had always belonged to Old Hann. Even when Hann was too sick or tired to attend meetings, no one else ever sat there. It was a silent rule, one held by tradition and respect.
Now Kent had broken it.
The unease in the room was immediate. No one moved, but the tension settled into the air like a held breath.
Tessa looked across the table at Rata, who frowned slightly but said nothing. Xabi, quiet as always, watched Kent with a narrowed gaze, his fingers playing absentmindedly with the string of his bow.
No one voiced their thoughts. No one made a challenge.
But something in the room had changed.
Tora, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, scoffed under his breath and turned his head away.
Even then, no one protested.
They all knew the truth.
Kent was the strongest among them.
It wasn't just his age or reputation. It was the way he carried himself, the weight in his voice, and the history written across his body. He had hunted alone and come back with an entire deer on his back.
He had battled wild beasts alone and survived where others would have died. His arms were as thick as most men's legs, and his stare could silence a room.
He was a man shaped by battle. In a village like Riverwood, that kind of strength often spoke louder than other things.
Kent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The scar on his neck caught the lanternlight as he looked around the room.
"I know some of you aren't happy about this," he said, his voice low but firm. "I can see it in your faces. Maybe you think this seat still belongs to Hann."
A few warriors shifted in place, glancing at one another. No one spoke.
"But Hann is lying in a hut with half his ribs broken," Kent continued. "And we were nearly wiped out by a single beast."
His voice grew heavier.
"If that thing had reached the village, instead of stopping at the clearing... how many of our children would still be alive right now?"
No one answered.
Outside, the firewood crackled. A few villagers by the doorway lowered their heads.
Kent let his words sink in before speaking again.
"I'm not trying to replace Hann," he said. "I'm not calling myself Chief. But if no one else is going to lead the warriors, then I will. Because someone has to."
He turned his head slowly, letting his gaze meet as many of them as he could.
"And if any of you think I'm not the right person for it, say so now."
The room held its breath.
Rata opened his mouth slightly, but before he could speak, Tessa reached out and placed a hand on his forearm.
Another older warrior scratched the side of his neck and muttered, "If someone's willing to keep us alive, I don't care where they sit."
A few of the others gave small nods. Some looked away. Not all were convinced, but none were willing to argue.
Xabi remained silent.
Kent nodded slowly.
"Good."
He stood up briefly and walked toward Rolo, who stood quietly at the side of the room, watching the discussion unfold. Without a word, Kent took a folded cloth from under Rolo's arm and returned to the table.
"I've got bad news and we need to be prepared," said Kent as he spread the folded cloth out with care, flattening the worn creases.
It was a rough, hand-drawn map of the surrounding region—aged, yellowed, and marked with fading ink.
Years of travel and sweat had left their stains on the surface, but the layout was still clear. Roads, rivers, forest paths, and village names were all sketched out in patient strokes.
Everyone present knew what kind of bad news they were going to hear but nobody believed they were prepared for that.