The faint scent of smoke drifted through the trees.
Not the acrid, choking kind that clung to burnt flesh or scorched metal—but something softer. Familiar. The smell of hearth fires and baking bread.
Vael slowed his pace.
The forest had been thinning for a while now, and the dirt beneath their feet had slowly transitioned into something more compact, beaten down by years of cautious boots and wagons heavy with forgotten burdens.
Kiera noticed it too. She gave him a small nod, her eyes scanning the ridgeline. Her leg had healed enough for her to keep pace without a limp, though she still favored it when she thought no one was looking.
Ash walked silently behind them, hands tucked into her sleeves, shoulders hunched. She hadn't said much since they left the valley.
None of them had.
Not because there was nothing to say—but because words could sometimes ruin the quiet.
And the quiet, for once, felt safe.
A narrow path opened up ahead, winding between low stone walls and withered hedgerows. They followed it, the air growing less wild with every step, until the trees gave way to a clearing and a village emerged at the base of the mountains.
Trrekouta.
The roofs were slanted and patched with mismatched tiles. The fences leaned in odd directions, and the fields looked tired but alive. Chickens pecked at the dirt near a crumbling well, and a pair of old women sat on a porch weaving baskets, pausing just long enough to watch the newcomers approach.
It looked like the kind of place no one would bother remembering.
That made it perfect.
Vael stopped at the entrance, just beside a crooked signpost that had long since faded. He looked back at the others.
"This is it," he said quietly.
Ash didn't respond, but her eyes were fixed on the smoke trailing from one of the chimneys. There was a flicker of something in her expression—wariness, or maybe longing.
Kiera stepped beside him, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. "Do you think they'll let us stay?"
"If they don't," Vael replied, "we'll know soon enough."
They walked in together.
No one stopped them. A few glances were thrown their way, but no questions. It was a village used to visitors—strange ones.
A man with a crooked nose and straw in his hair pointed them toward a house near the edge of the hill. "You'll want to speak with old Rellen," he grunted, not even asking who they were.
They found the house easily. It was smaller than the others, with moss creeping up the walls and an old wind chime made of spoons rattling in the breeze.
Rellen turned out to be a woman—not particularly old, but with the kind of face that had seen too much sun and not enough rest. Her eyes were shrewd, and she leaned on her cane like it was more habit than necessity.
She looked them up and down without a word, then stepped aside.
"You can stay," she said, like it was the weather. "We've got an empty barn, plenty of hay. Water from the well. No questions. No trouble."
Vael nodded slowly. "Thank you."
Rellen snorted. "Don't thank me. Just keep to yourselves and don't scare the pigs."
With that, the door shut.
The barn was dusty but clean. Dry. The roof didn't leak. There were even a few blankets stored in the loft—probably forgotten or left behind by others like them.
Ash immediately climbed into the hay pile and buried herself like a mole. Kiera stretched out on the floor, groaning softly as she finally let her muscles relax.
Vael remained standing for a while.
He looked out the small window at the quiet village, at the simple lives moving like clockwork outside. No screams. No fighting. Just people. Just survival.
And for now… that was enough.
They had made it.
Not to victory, or peace.
But to a pause.
And sometimes, a pause was all a person needed to breathe again.