Year 400,
Thalen,
Duskrend
The sun sank low, bleeding orange across the ruined square. The air still carried the sour tang of smoke; the crucifix the soldiers had raised burned down to a blackened spine, its shadow stretched long and broken over the dirt.
Takaya sat by the well, elbows on his knees, eyes half-lidded as he watched the last light slip behind the hills. His clothes still smelled of ash and iron. Every sound — the flutter of cloth, the dull clack of a bucket — felt too loud in the hollow that followed violence.
In his head, the Veyl whispered, a lazy coil of words curling through his thoughts.
"Look at them. Pretending not to stare. You'd think a man who saved their asses would at least get a thanks."
Takaya didn't answer. His gaze drifted across the square — to the villagers walking in careful silence, to mothers clutching their children close, to men hauling readying themselves to fight a beast. They avoided his eyes, every one of them.
The last light caught the edges of Solthar's hilt, still sheathed at his side, as if reminding him what had been done.
The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint stench of blood and soot.
Takaya exhaled slowly, a sound more like a sigh than breath.
"They're scared," he muttered.
The Veyl chuckled, low and cruel.
"Of course they are. You did what they couldn't. That makes you dangerous."
He leaned back against the well, eyes fixed on the crimson sky, and for the first time since the fight, allowed himself to feel the weight of it — not the killing, but the silence that followed.
The silence of being left alone again.
The quiet stretched until even the wind seemed to fade. Then the Veyl's voice slithered back into Takaya's mind — smooth, unhurried, with that same sardonic edge it always carried.
"You should tell them to run."
Takaya's brow furrowed. He didn't lift his head.
"Run? Why?"
"They'll come back," the Veyl said, tone flat — a truth, not a threat. "Soldiers have a lot of pride. You humiliated them. You think they'll just let that sit? No. They'll return — and next time, they'll bring fire."
Takaya's jaw tightened. He stared at the dirt, at the faint stains of the priest's blood still soaked into it.
"What do you mean?"
The Veyl scoffed, a hiss of laughter in his thoughts.
"What, you think letting them live will make them not want to kill your sorry ass? Letting them limp away will make them grateful? No. They'll come back and burn this place just to remind the next fool what happens when you resist."
Takaya was silent for a long moment. Then he pushed himself to his feet, slow and deliberate. The motion seemed to carry the weight of something final.
"You're right," he said quietly. His hand brushed Solthar's hilt — a reflex more than a gesture. "I'll talk to the priest. The villagers trust him."
The Veyl replied as if trying to entertain a toddler,
"Oh, look at you, playing shepherd now?"
Takaya ignored it. His gaze lingered on the chapel's dim silhouette at the far end of the square — light flickering faintly from within. Then he started walking.
Takaya walked toward the chapel, his steps crunching over the dirt road, each one heavier than the last. The light behind him dimmed — a dying orange bleeding into gray. Smoke from the burned homes still hung in the air, faint and bitter, clinging to everything.
In his mind, the scene replayed again and again — the priest's face, pale and broken; the way the soldiers dragged him toward the cross; the sound of children sobbing into their mothers' arms. Every image was carved behind his eyes like a brand he couldn't scrape off.
His fingers brushed against Solthar's sheath, the weight of the blade both anchor and accusation.
"So much for peace," he muttered, voice low, almost bitter.
The chapel's worn doors stood ahead — half open, candlelight flickering weakly inside. He hesitated at the threshold, drew in a slow breath, then stepped through the cold air, ready to face what came next.
The chapel was quiet, thick with the scent of burnt oil and old incense. Wax dripped slow tears down the candles. The faint breeze through the cracked windows stirred the fabric of the priest's robes as Takaya entered, footsteps echoing in the hollow space.
The priest looked up from the altar — startled, then softening when he saw who it was. There was a kind of dread in his eyes, the sort that belonged to someone who had already buried too many.
Takaya stopped a few paces away, his voice low but unwavering.
"They'll come back. Soon. You should move the people — before they do."
The priest blinked, confusion warring with disbelief.
"Leave… Thalen?"
Takaya nodded once. "If they find anyone here, they'll burn it all. You know that."
The priest's shoulders sagged. His voice broke into a whisper that carried both fear and pride.
"We can't leave. We've lived here for generations. This land—these stones—belong to us. It's who we are."
Takaya's expression hardened. He looked at the altar — the chipped marble, the stains that never truly faded — then back to the priest.
"Belong?" he said quietly. "To what? To the ones who hang your people and call it law? To the dirt soaked with their blood?"
The priest's hands tightened around the edge of the altar.
"If we leave, there's nothing left. No history. No Thalen. Just ghosts on the road."
Takaya exhaled, slow and measured, holding back the irritation that clawed at his throat. He wasn't angry — not yet — but there was a cold disappointment in his tone now, the kind that came from watching someone cling to dying hope.
"You think staying makes you brave," he said. "But bravery's not dying where you stand. It's living long enough to make sure they don't win."
The priest's lips trembled. "You speak like a man with no roots."
Takaya looked down for a moment, shadows cutting across his face. When he finally spoke, it was quieter, sadder.
"Maybe. But roots don't matter if you're all 6 feet under the ground."
The Veyl let out a small laugh almost proud.
Silence filled the chapel. The candle flickered weakly, guttering as though suffocating on the weight of their words.
Then Takaya stepped back, shaking his head.
"Do whatever the hell you want," he muttered. "I did what I had to, you all can die for all I care. I'm leaving tomorrow morning."
He turned and walked out, pushing open the heavy wooden doors. The night air rushed in cold and sharp, extinguishing half the candles in his wake.
The priest stood alone at the altar, staring at the dying light — the echo of Takaya's words lingering like smoke.
Takaya's footsteps faded into the dark, the chapel door creaking shut behind him. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the faint hiss of dying candles. The priest stood motionless for a long moment, staring at the altar — the same stone where he had begged, pleaded, and failed too many times.
His lips parted, the words barely a whisper.
"...Maybe he's right. The soldiers won't let this slide."
His hands trembled as he reached for the small charm at his throat — the one his daughter once wore. The metal was cold. He bowed his head and murmured a quiet prayer, voice rough with exhaustion and guilt.
"Forgive me. But this time… we leave."
Outside, the square burned in soft orange torchlight. Villagers gathered in uneasy clusters, their faces pale, eyes darting toward the chapel doors. Whispers rippled through the air like dry leaves before a storm.
The priest emerged slowly, his expression drawn but steady. When he stepped onto the worn steps of the chapel, the murmurs fell silent. The crowd turned to him, waiting.
His voice shook at first, but grew stronger with each word.
"To carry forward the memory of those we lost — the children, the families who stood — we must protect what remains."
He paused, scanning the faces — hollowed, tear-streaked, desperate.
"We will not let this village vanish into fire. We move tomorrow. Together."
The words hung in the cold air. For a heartbeat, no one moved — and then someone began to cry. Another nodded. A mother clutched her child tighter.
The crowd stirred into motion, quiet but certain. Men whispered about routes, women gathered what food they had, and torches flickered against the walls of Thalen — as though the village itself understood it would not see another dawn.
From the shadows near the well, Takaya watched. Some villagers glanced his way — not with gratitude, but with the wary reverence reserved for something both savior and omen.
He didn't return their gaze. He just watched the torches sway, the priest's back bent under the weight of leadership, and the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, this time they'd survive.
The square had emptied, but the village itself had come alive in a different way — quiet, purposeful, desperate.
Lanterns glowed in windows like floating embers. The low hum of whispered instructions drifted through the narrow lanes.
A mother pulled down a wooden charm from her doorway — a token once meant to ward off the Covenant — and tucked it into her bag. Another rolled up a threadbare mat, her hands shaking as she tied it with twine.
Old men pried loose the totems nailed above the gates; young boys carried bundles twice their size on thin shoulders.
Aelna moved from house to house, sleeves rolled up, voice steady even when her eyes weren't. She helped the mothers pack food, checked that every child had a cloak, made sure the sick were carried gently. Each time she passed Leor, she rested a hand on his shoulder. He tried to stand tall, jaw set tight — pretending not to be afraid.
Somewhere in the distance, the carts creaked. Dogs barked at the unfamiliar noise. The air smelled faintly of smoke — not from fire, but from memory.
Takaya stood apart from it all, near the edge of the road where the forest began to swallow the light. He watched in silence as they worked, the reflection of lanterns flickering in his eyes. He didn't move to help. He didn't need to.
Every motion, every rustle of cloth, every whispered goodbye was another reminder: this was what survival looked like. Not victory — just the act of moving forward.
When the last bundle was tied and the last door shut, Takaya adjusted the strap on his own pack. It was light — a few rations, a flask, and Solthar. That was all he ever carried.
The village worked through the night, preparing to vanish by dawn. And in the stillness between their footsteps, the Veyl's voice murmured — not loud enough to disturb, just enough to echo in Takaya's chest:
"You don't belong anywhere, do you?"
Takaya said nothing. He didn't need to. The road ahead was answer enough.
The village slept beneath a thin silver haze. Smoke from dead fires drifted between the houses, hanging low, like ghosts refusing to leave.
Takaya walked through the empty lanes — boots brushing against the dust, moonlight glinting off Solthar's hilt. The quiet was too complete; even the crickets had gone silent.
Inside a few homes, faint candlelight still flickered. Shapes moved behind curtains — parents watching over children, making sure the morning would come.
The Veyl broke the silence with his usual lack of restraint:
"Leaving before dawn? You really think you're that mysterious and cool, huh? Like some tragic wanderer from one of those brooding animes?"
Takaya's jaw tightened. "Quiet."
"What? I'm just saying, you could at least say goodbye. Pretend you care, make it dramatic — you're good at that kind of thing."
He didn't answer. The mist pooled around his legs as he reached the edge of the village, the road stretching out pale and endless under the moon.
He looked back once. The houses stood still and silent — stripped of color, of noise, of everything that made them human. The people inside were sleeping, or pretending to, afraid that if they opened their eyes, he'd already be gone.
Takaya adjusted Solthar across his back. The blade was cold through the cloth.
The suns light seeped over the horizon — a bright, yello promise. He took a breath, then stepped forward, each footfall swallowed by the fog.
Behind him, the village waited for the morning. Ahead of him, the road waited for no one.
The sun was shining bright as if inviting him to the depths of Duskrend.
Takaya walked quietly, boots sinking into the damp soil.
The village lay behind him, half-shrouded in sleep and ash.
He'd hoped to be gone before anyone noticed.
But someone waited at the gate.
Aelna.
Wrapped in a worn shawl, her hair loose, eyes red from a night without rest.
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched — fragile, almost kind.
She took a step forward, voice trembling but clear:
"You were going to leave without saying anything, weren't you?"
Takaya looked down, guilt flickering across his face before he could hide it.
He said nothing. Words felt like trespass.
She swallowed hard, then reached into her sleeve and pressed a small pouch into his hand.
It was warm from her grasp, soft with coins.
"It's from the village," she said quietly. "They wanted you to have it. I… wanted to make sure you did."
He tried to give it back — she pushed his hand away.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please. Just take it."
Her fingers lingered on his a moment too long, then fell away.
Takaya opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
All that waited behind his tongue were things he'd never learned how to say.
Aelna stepped forward suddenly and wrapped her arms around him.
Her breath hitched; her tears soaked through his coat.
"Takaya… thank you," she murmured. "For stepping in. For saving us. For not leaving when I told you to. I was wrong — about everything. And I'll be forever grateful you stayed."
Takaya froze, caught between discomfort and something deeper —
then, slowly, he raised a hand and rested it on her back.
It was a hesitant, almost clumsy gesture — but sincere.
The Veyl's voice rippled through his mind, soft and biting all at once:
"Well, look at that. Guess you aren't the cool, mysterious anime loner after all."
Takaya let out a breath that might have been a laugh.
"Quiet," he muttered.
"What? I'm just saying — hugs don't suit you."
"Neither do you."
"Good one."
Aelna finally stepped back, wiping her eyes with the corner of her shawl.
"Will you ever come back?"
Takaya hesitated. The question hovered between them like smoke.
"…I don't know," he said at last.
She nodded, already knowing that was the truest answer she'd get.
The morning light grew stronger, spilling over the fields.
Takaya shifted his small bag on his back, glanced once more at the sleeping rooftops,
then turned toward the open road.
He was already a long way from Thalen when the sound of a child's voice broke the quiet.
"Big bro Takaya!"
The name carried across the bright morning, cutting through the hum of cicadas and the rustle of grass.
Takaya stopped mid-step, and for a fleeting moment he thought to himself maybe she was there, maybe she had survived. He quickly turned.
Down by the village gate stood Leor — barefoot, hair tousled, sunlight flashing off the tears on his cheeks.
In his hands, he held the small wooden sword Takaya had carved for him days before — uneven, rough, but gripped like it was steel.
Leor raised it high and shouted, voice cracking:
"Thank you for saving us! I'll grow up to be strong — and brave — like you!"
For a long moment, Takaya said nothing.
The wind pushed gently at his cloak, stirring the dust around his boots.
He lifted a hand, slow and steady, a silent wave that caught the light — not farewell, just acknowledgment.
The boy stood there, small and shining against the gate, the wooden sword clutched like a promise.
The Veyl's voice slid into his thoughts, dry and amused:
"Hey, good for you. At least someone wants to be like your sorry ass."
Takaya's smile was barely there — a quiet breath at the edge of his face.
He turned again, the wind tugging at his hair and cloak as he walked on, the sunlight swallowing his shadow.
And just like that — Thalen faded behind him, left to memory and morning light.