(Old Man Claus POV)
Grace and elegance.
Words I grew up hearing all my life… and, gods, did they become tiring.
High castles. Fake smiles. Endless banter—only the kind those long-nosed aristocrats with no real might could enjoy. Talking and laughing as if that alone made them important.
Not me.
I preferred something real.
Adventure. Struggle. The feeling of testing my own strength against the world itself—just like my ancestors did. Not like my father… who grew soft and simple, drowned in comforts built from other people's work.
Claus let out a quiet breath through his nose.
Ahh… those memories still annoy me.
And yet—Why am I even dwelling on that at this age?
The early morning air brushed against his skin as he stirred awake, the last fragments of a dream still clinging faintly to his thoughts. His body felt heavy for only a moment before settling back into its usual calm.
Drowsy… but aware.
Always aware.
He blinked once, then lifted his gaze.
The boys were still there.
Curled near the ashes of last night's fire, looking smaller in the daylight. For a brief moment, something about them felt… familiar.
Claus narrowed his eyes slightly.
Hah…
They looked like him.
Or rather, like who he used to be.
A boy who ran from home at sixteen, abandoning status, wealth, and the claim to lead his family—all for the sake of a life that actually meant something.
A life of movement.
Of purpose.
Now here he was—years later—a wandering knight, nearing the end of his pilgrimage. Just a few more steps, and he would stand before the Flame Temple… and finally claim the title of Paladin.
His gaze lingered on the brothers.
"Ahh… being kids," he muttered quietly."I don't miss it one bit."
Weak. Poor. Unpolished.
Yet…He tilted his head slightly, watching the slow rise and fall of their breathing."
"…intriguing."
There was something there.
They had made it this far—through wild terrain, with barely anything to their name, no guidance, no protection. Most would have turned back long ago.
But not them.
Their determination… their grit…
It was rough. Unrefined.
But real."…admirable," he admitted under his breath.
Traveling at that age… with that kind of resolve.
Claus shifted slightly against the tree, his eyes drifting toward the path ahead—the one that would take him to Ashenvale.
He could leave.
Continue his journey like nothing had happened.
....His gaze returned to the brothers.
Still asleep.
Their small frames lay curled near the cold remains of the fire, blankets pulled tight, the last traces of warmth long gone. In the quiet of the morning, they looked younger than they did on the road—less hardened, less guarded.
The old man watched them for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
Do I head out…
…or stay?
The thought lingered longer than it should have.
He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing just slightly as his mind began to wander.
I've seen countless kids like this, he thought. On their own. Stubborn. Chasing something bigger than they understand, strength.
What would change if he stayed?
He already knew how it would go.
He could picture it clearly.
The boys would wake, glance at him, then at his armour, his sword—already knowing what he was. Not curious about who he was, but what he could offer.
Guidance.
They'd ask how to survive out here. How to fight. How to grow stronger—faster than they should.
Not questions of wonder.
Questions of need.
"Show us something."
"How do we get stronger?"
"What should we do next?"
He had seen that kids like them before.
That quiet desperation behind steady eyes.
Claus let out a faint breath through his nose."…Same story," he muttered.
Not dismissive.
Just… filled with knowing.
He closed his eyes briefly, letting the imagined scene pass.
He knew himself well enough.
If he stayed, he might answer.
Offer a word. A correction. Maybe even a demonstration.
And then what?
They'd depend on it, follow him, and keep asking for help.
Strength and realization are not something you gain by passing remarks and brief guidance.
It was earned in silence, in failure, in time.
His eyes opened again.
The decision is settled.
He pushed himself up from the tree, joints shifting with ease despite his age. Without rushing, he began gathering his belongings—armour fitted back into place, sword secured at his side, bag slung over his shoulder.
Every movement was deliberate.
Controlled.
He spared them one last glance.
Still asleep.
Still chasing something they hadn't yet reached.
"…If fate permits, I'll see them again," he murmured softly.
Then he turned.
Without waking them, without leaving a trace, the old man stepped back onto the path and began his journey toward Ashenvale.
And just like that—
He was gone.