Aldric Thistle stepped into the crowded tavern and pushed back his hood. He wanted one thing before his long life ended: to matter to these people, to earn a nod, a handshake, a seat by the fire. A farmer at the bar said his name aloud, testing it. The room went still. Cups paused halfway to mouths. A bench scraped as someone stood and turned their back. Aldric had not yet spoken a word. The innkeeper slid a mossy stone marker onto the bar. Chiseled names. Dates. One was a student Aldric had broken. "We keep this here," the innkeeper said, "so no one forgets." Aldric set down his coin. He turned and walked out into the cold, the door shut firm behind him. The tavern would not be his door in. He would have to find another. Outside, villagers crowded a tall golden post. An eternal flame burned inside its glass. Butterflies drifted near the light. Children laughed. Parents traded news. No one looked his way. Aldric stopped at the edge of the warmth. He watched their faces glow. He understood now. To reach them, he would have to stand in their light, not call from the dark. He stepped forward into the ring of villagers. A mother pulled her child close. The laughter died. Aldric raised his empty hands. "I will not ask for your trust tonight," he said. "I will earn it. Give me a task. Any task. I will do it in plain sight." A blacksmith stared at him a long moment. Then he pointed at the woodpile by the post. "Stack it," he said. "All of it. Before the flame dims at dawn." Aldric bent and lifted the first log. The villagers watched. No one turned away.