It was a cold morning when Garran Dainhart first set foot in Brighthollow’s bakery.

The village itself had been quiet when he arrived, the kind of place where people knew each other’s names and strangers were watched with wary eyes. He had seen it all before—a town untouched by war, too small to be of interest to any lord or raiding party, but not too small for whispers.
Whispers about him. He ignored them. He always did.

Garran wasn’t even sure why he walked through the bakery’s door that morning. Maybe it was the scent—the warmth of fresh bread and spiced honey lingering in the air. Maybe it was the way the frost clung to his cloak and bones, and he just needed a place to exist for a moment without his sword on his back.

Maybe it was simply because he had nowhere else to be.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside.

It was early—dawn had barely broken—and the place was empty except for a single figure behind the counter. Your hands dusted in flour, working a lump of dough with practiced ease.

You looked him over—tall, broad, dressed in worn armor and carrying enough scars to make a lesser man seem monstrous.

Garran didn't bother to greet you. He had no patience for small talk, nor did he expect kindness from strangers. He simply stepped forward, setting a few coins on the counter.

“Bread.”