The group passed through the gate, the wooden walls creaking slightly as they closed behind them. The village inside wasn't large — no stone keeps or sweeping towers — but it was alive. Smoke curled from chimneys. Lanterns swung gently from hooks. Clotheslines fluttered in the fading light.
Guards posted near the entrance watched them quietly. A few of them narrowed their eyes at Aiden but said nothing. He expected more — suspicion, judgment. But the silence from the elves was worse. They looked, then looked away.
At least give me a clear signal.
Wooden buildings lined the paths, simple and worn. Further down, a larger structure stood out — a tavern, from the creaking sign hanging above its door. Rough letters and faded paint marked it as "The Split Branch." Even at a distance, the sound of clinking glass and muted laughter filtered out.
Aiden didn't get the chance to examine it further.
People began to fill the walkways, not soldiers but civilians. Elves, yes, but also humans. Some wore plain tunics, others old traveling cloaks. There were no uniforms, no banners. Just tired faces and half-healed scars.
Elves and humans, side by side? Didn't expect that.
Voices trickled through the murmuring crowd as it split to let them through.
"What happened?" "Why so few?" "Is that—?" "Where's Torla?" "Who's that man?"
Aiden caught a few wide eyes, a girl whispering to her mother while pointing at him. One boy stood still as stone, clutching a stuffed animal with missing buttons for eyes. Somewhere nearby, a baby cried. From a high window, laughter rang out, jarring in its normalcy. The village breathed, but unevenly. Life here hadn't stopped. It had just learned to flinch.
Then, the crowd shifted again, parting with urgency.
A group approached from the center path, their steps too precise to be casual. At the front walked a tall elven man, short black hair cut like a soldier's. A heavy red cloak draped from his shoulders, catching the light with every step. He looked like command made flesh, not a warrior but something Noble.
Lyanna's expression softened when she saw him. Her exhaustion didn't vanish, but it bent under something else, closer to relief.
The man's gaze locked on hers, and his pace broke. He ran the last few steps, ignoring the disapproving stares of the older elves behind him — advisors, maybe. Veterans. Their expressions tightened at the display.
He wrapped Lyanna in a brief, fierce embrace, then pulled back to issue sharp orders. "Take the wounded, now."
Several guards moved instantly, stepping past Aiden without a glance to gather the injured. Stretcher-like frames appeared from behind carts. Even the medic was offered support, though he refused it with a curt shake of his head.
Aiden turned toward Selina, keeping his voice low. "That's the leader?"
"Yeah," she replied, watching the exchange. "And Lya's brother."
Brother?
Before he could say more, a guard stepped up, gaze sharp.
"Lady Selina," he said with a small bow. "Are you injured?"
Aiden blinked. Lady?
"No," Selina answered, her voice quiet. "But he is. Make sure it's treated properly."
The guard turned to Aiden without the same deference. "You. Come on." He grabbed Aiden's arm with more force than necessary.
"Be careful!" Selina called out behind him as Aiden was dragged away.
The guard led Aiden through a narrow, uneven path branching away from the main square. His grip never loosened. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't polite either — the kind of hold reserved for strangers who hadn't earned full trust.
Aiden didn't resist. He was too tired to.
They passed more buildings — homes, maybe, though none looked luxurious. Stone chimneys leaned sideways. Doors sagged on their hinges. A group of children sat in a circle playing with carved sticks, their game falling silent as Aiden limped by.
Eventually, the guard stopped in front of a squat building built partly into the side of a hill. Moss grew thick across its roof. A carved symbol, something like a tree split in two, was painted above the door in faded ochre.
The infirmary?
The guard pushed the door open and motioned with his chin. "In."
Aiden stepped inside.
It was cooler in here, darker too. The only light came from a lantern hanging from a central beam. The room smelled faintly of herbs and old blood — sharp, metallic, and earthy all at once.
"Sit," the guard said, pointing at a bench made of uneven planks.
Aiden obeyed, his breath hitching as he lowered himself. His ribs ached with every movement — sharp, stubborn pain that hadn't dulled with time.
Moments later, a different elf stepped into view — older, with short gray hair and sleeves rolled to the elbows. His hands were stained with something green, and he didn't even glance at Aiden before rummaging through a basket on a nearby table.
"Remove your upper layer," the man said simply, his voice gravelly with age. "If it's stuck, cut it."
Aiden glanced down at what remained of his shirt and leather armor. It was mostly rips and dried blood anyway. He peeled it off slowly, careful not to tug at the worst of the wound.
The man approached without ceremony. His eyes flicked to the injury — a deep, half-healed gouge across Aiden's ribs.
"You're lucky it didn't go deeper," he muttered, already pressing a cloth soaked in pungent liquid against the wound.
Aiden hissed, biting back a groan.
"Try not to pass out. I'm not starting over."
"Comforting bedside manner," Aiden muttered.
The healer didn't respond. Just continued cleaning, then applied a thick salve that stung worse than the cleaning had.
"You fought for them," the man said after a moment. Not a question. Not praise.
"I helped," Aiden replied.
"You killed."
Aiden didn't answer.
The elf wrapped his ribs tightly in clean cloth, binding the wound with swift, practiced movements. When he was done, he stood, wiped his hands on a stained rag, and finally met Aiden's gaze.
"I don't know who you are," he said. "But if you stay, earn your place. Don't expect a warm welcome. This village has buried too many strangers."
He turned and walked toward a back room without another word.
Aiden sat there in the dim light, hand resting just above the bandages.
So… that's how it is.
He was tolerated. Not trusted.
Kinda rude considering my actions, Aiden thought bitterly. But I guess desperate times mean being a piece of—
His thoughts broke off at the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps approaching from behind.
A young elf stood in the doorway, maybe just a little older than Selina. Short-cropped brown hair, sharp features, and a leather vest that looked like it had been patched together more times than it had been worn clean. He didn't look like a soldier, not fully, but he stood like one.
"You Aiden?" he asked, his tone neutral.
Aiden gave a curt nod, not in the mood for pleasantries. "Yeah."
"I'm supposed to show you to the barracks," the elf said, motioning with a slight jerk of his head. "You're bunking with Second Division. They've still got room."
Second Division?
Aiden stood with effort, biting back a wince as his ribs protested under the fresh bandage. He grabbed what was left of his gear — not much more than a ripped satchel and the barely usable sword he'd scavenged.
The elf didn't wait. He turned and walked, expecting Aiden to follow.
They moved through the village in silence, past buildings that leaned inward like they were conspiring. The crowd had dispersed, but the weight of earlier whispers still lingered in the air. A few villagers eyed Aiden as they passed, not with fear but wariness.
Outsider.
Weapon.
The barracks turned out to be little more than a long wooden hall nestled against the village's edge. One wall was cracked, the roof sagged in places, and there were barely enough beds for the men and women already there.
The elf led Aiden inside. No one looked up.
"Find a spot. If you snore, they'll hit you with a boot. And don't touch the one with the crossbow scars. He's twitchy."
Aiden looked at the rows of bedrolls. Two were empty. One was in a corner.
"I'll take the corner."
The elf nodded once, already walking away.
"Hey," Aiden called after him.
The elf stopped.
"Thanks."
There was no smile, but something in his shoulders loosened a little. "Get some rest, stranger."
And then he was gone.
At least I try to be polite.
Aiden sat down on the rough mattress. It smelled like old hay and sweat. Still, it was a bed.
He laid back, eyes tracing the cracked ceiling above.
Still breathing. Still not dead.
Now part of a rebellion he didn't understand, surrounded by people who barely knew his name.
No home. No purpose.
Just a strange window, a strange soul, and a body that didn't quite belong to him.
But for now…
Sleep.
Just for a few hours.
…
..
.
Darkness.
Then light — pale, cold, flickering like candle flames in a breeze.
Aiden stood in a corridor made of mirrors. Endless, shifting reflections stared back at him — all bone-white, hollow-eyed skeletons shaped like him. Each one moved slightly out of sync, like they were remembering how to be alive.
He reached out to one. It copied the motion, but slower. Its eye sockets weren't empty. They held something — a flicker of fire. Or was it something watching him?
Then the mirrors changed.
Reflections blurred and reformed into moments from earlier.
The man he executed.The boy he stabbed.A smile, just a memory from a body not his.Selina's hand reaching for her ankle.Lyanna's voice: "You just joined the losing camp."
And finally, his own face — his real one — but distorted, fragmented. Pieces of it missing like shattered glass.
In the silence, a voice echoed behind him.Not loud. Not soft. But true.
"You chose this long before you arrived."
He turned, but there was no one.
Just one final mirror, cracked down the middle.
And in it, something moved independently.
Not a reflection.
But a version of him.
Colorless.Drained of detail — no shading, no warmth, like someone sketched him and forgot to fill in the rest.
He didn't mirror Aiden's stance.He just stared. Unblinking. Still.
His lips moved, slow and soundless at first — then the voice came.
"Are you happy now?"
Aiden didn't answer. Couldn't.The words echoed off the glass like stones dropped into water.
"Do you know now?"
The colorless Aiden tilted his head slightly — too far — like his neck didn't quite understand the limit of bones.
Behind him, the mirrors warped. The camp appeared again — the blood, the fire, the blade lodged in that young soldier's chest.
"Did you learn?"
The reflection leaned closer, one hand pressed against the glass — but Aiden hadn't moved.
It was like watching a version of himself walk out of sync with time.
"Did you understand?"
The last question hung in the air.
Then the glass cracked — not shattering, not yet — just a fracture running right between the reflection's eyes.
From that line, blackness seeped in like ink spilled in water, devouring the image, swallowing the corridor piece by piece.
The other mirrors faded, their lights snuffed. All that remained was the echo.
"Do you still envy?"
Aiden blinked—
—and woke up.