Argos walked into the village square with dust on his boots and a coin pouch heavy at his hip. He had counted it again that morning. One third. Enough to dream of a school for orphans, not enough to build it. He had come here hoping to find quiet work and quieter savings. Instead, he found a crowd. A traveling priest stood on a moss-covered stone pavilion, ivy curling around its pillars. The priest's voice carried over the gathered villagers. He warned them about armed orphans. He warned them about a swordsman named Argos. The priest lifted a stained cloth from a small wooden memorial beside him. A child's bloody handprint marked the fabric. "This is what happens," he said, "when you give children blades." Villagers gasped. A woman covered her mouth. A tan, tufted-eared cat slipped under a cart and vanished, sensing the shift in the air. Argos stepped forward. He did not shout. He climbed the pavilion steps and stood beside the priest. He asked, quietly, where the cloth had come from. The priest stammered. He could not name the child. He could not name the village. The crowd grew still, then restless. Argos lifted the cloth and folded it gently. "I'll carry this," he said. "And I'll find who it belonged to." The priest gathered his things and left before nightfall. But Argos saw the faces in the crowd. Some softened. Some did not. His name was known now, and not the way he wanted.