Dawnblade (Fan-Translation)

Adventuring through an unknown world wasn't nearly as romantic as the old stories made it seem. Between the ruins, magic, monsters, and heroic tales, there were far more mundane concerns to tackle—like sleeping rough in the wilderness and, more immediately, finding something to eat.

The hurried escape from the castle had left little time to prepare provisions. Who had the luxury of packing a bag of rations when the keep was being overrun? Their final refuge had been the ancestral tomb—hardly a place stocked with food.

So when Amber's stomach let out a plaintive growl, everyone suddenly became sharply aware of a pressing, very human problem.

Around them stretched barren ground, with not a blade of grass in sight. Beyond the hill lay the ruins of Seawright territory, now nothing but a smoldering wasteland. Yet further downslope, nestled at the forest's edge, was a dense woodland. In a world where magic touched everything, forests outside the light of civilization were dangerous—home to beasts, brigands, and worse. But forests also meant food.

Since they'd need to cross it anyway to reach Tanson Town to the north, the decision was made to pause here briefly, rest, and hunt.

"Betty, Hestia, Rebecca—you three stay here," Gwayne ordered, casting a glance at the timid maid clutching her skillet like a talisman. "Ser Byron, you're on guard duty. The rest, with me. And yes, that means you too, Amber."

"Why me?" Amber protested, pulling a face. "I'm exhausted!"

"Half-elf ears," Gwayne pointed. "If you can't hunt in the woods, your ancestors are rolling in their treehouses."

Amber grumbled but followed, muttering about racial stereotyping and unfair labor practices.

With three soldiers and a very reluctant half-elf thief in tow, Gwayne led the hunting party into the woods, leaving the others to tend the makeshift camp. Hestia used what magic reserves she had to set up a few alarm wards, then sat wearily on a stone. Rebecca, with Betty's help, gathered some firewood under Byron's watchful eye.

Rebecca piled the sticks, stepped back, and raised her staff to conjure a flame—only for Hestia to quickly intervene.

"Let me," Hestia said, summoning a much safer, smaller flame to ignite the pile.

As warmth began to chase away the night's lingering chill, Hestia sighed. "When will you finally learn a spell that isn't a fireball, Rebecca?"

"Sorry, Aunt Hestia," Rebecca mumbled, head hung low.

"And don't slouch when you're apologizing," Hestia added sternly. "You're a noble now, the Lady of House Seawright. Appearances matter. The ancestor..." She hesitated, glancing toward the woods. "He must be disappointed, though he hides it well."

Rebecca tensed up immediately. "What should I do?!"

Hestia shook her head, her expression softening. "What can we do? Our house is a shadow of its former self. No descendant could live up to what he once built."

After a heavy silence, Rebecca asked hesitantly, "Do you think... the ancestor truly returned to life?"

"Are you doubting him, or doubting his resurrection?"

"I know I shouldn't doubt... but it seems unbelievable."

"Real truth often defies common sense, Rebecca," Hestia said, quoting the old maxim every magic student learned. "No matter the cause, Gwayne Seawright standing among us is a fact we must accept."

Nearby, Betty clutched her skillet and stared vacantly into the fire, the conversation far over her head.

It wasn't long before Gwayne returned, hauling game over his shoulder. Three rabbits and two large, colorful birds dangled from the soldiers' belts. They even had a basket of assorted wild fruits.

"Not bad," Gwayne commented, eyeing Amber as she expertly gutted one of the birds.

"You said

"I can't hunt," Amber retorted without looking up. "But I can steal chickens."

Gwayne sighed.

"Raised by an old thief," Amber added nonchalantly. "Learned all the wrong skills."

Hestia muttered, "Vulgar little brat."

Amber waggled a finger. "Sure, sure. Vulgar, thieving brat—but nobles steal too, you know. You just call it taxes."

Ser Byron's sword flashed out, resting coldly against Amber's throat. The half-elf instantly broke into a sweat.

Gwayne waved a hand. "Easy. Put it away."

He turned to Amber with genuine curiosity. "Honestly, how have you not been murdered by now, with that mouth of yours?"

Amber grinned. "Top-class escape artist."

Rolling his eyes, Gwayne addressed the group. "Alright, enough bickering. Rest, eat, meditate. We move before noon. We lost a whole night underground already."

"Betty, put that pan down," Rebecca said gently. "You won't need it for now."

Betty hesitated, clutching the skillet tighter.

"Why are you still carrying that thing, anyway?" Gwayne asked, genuinely curious.

"Mrs. Hanson said I'd be making sausages and toast with it..." Betty mumbled.

"Mrs. Hanson," Hestia explained quietly, "managed the castle kitchens. She didn't survive."

Gwayne looked at the nervous young maid and smiled kindly. "Then the skillet is yours now. Keep it. For later."

At last, the tension in the camp eased, the crackling fire offering a fragile moment of peace amidst their flight into the unknown.