The fire behind them still lit the sky in dull reds. Smoke moved low between ruined roofs. Ash drifted down, clinging to hair and lashes. The child walked beside him, barefoot on broken stone. Her hand stayed in his. She was limping now, but said nothing.
"Are you sure you're not a hero?" she asked.
He did not answer. But his grip briefly tightened, barely noticeable to the child.
Up ahead, the Hero moved through the wreckage. Where he passed, people parted. The child's voice dropped to a whisper.
"He's... beautiful."
The gave the faintest nod.
They reached the edge of the field where a small group of soldiers and survivors had gathered around a makeshift triage. The Hero crouched beside a wounded man, lifted him without effort, and laid him onto a stretcher. A murmur passed through the crowd.
"He carried three men out by himself. One of them still had a blade in his chest."
"Did you see how the Drayth burned when he touched it?"
"The light listens to him. I swear!"
The Hero gave no reply to the praise, only offering a soft smile before moving on to the next wounded body. A young boy reached out, dirt across his cheeks. Shaking.
"Are you tired, sir?"
The Hero knelt, allowing his smile to reach his eyes this time.
"Never while someone still needs saving."
The boy beamed. He would remember that line for the rest of his life.
Behind them, the man stood in silence.
***
People gathered in the dark. Grief had stripped them of ceremony, but not instinct. They brought what they could: cracked jars of grain, half-burnt roots, a flask of wine passed between trembling hands. A woman laid a scorched apple in the Hero's hands like an heirloom.
The Hero did not stand above them. He knelt. It made it easier for the children to reach him. They came slowly at first, then all at once. Barefoot. Thin. They pressed around him without speaking. One child held his wrist and did not let go.
"Tell us a story," said a boy. "One where the people win."
The Hero nodded. He told them about a village where no one left. Not when the monsters came. Not when the sky turned red. He spoke of a wall that held because someone stood before it.
The children leaned in. Someone passed a crust of bread toward the fire. Another offered a broken comb. Small things, still warm from the hands that carried them.
A scream broke through.
A woman had fallen to her knees near the rubble. She was clawing at the stone, calling names that did not answer.
The Hero stopped speaking and rose to his feet. He crossed the distance without haste and knelt beside her. She did not look up.
"I do not have the right words."
He paused. No one moved.
"I have seen too many towns fall. I have stood in front of too many people who wanted me to tell them what this meant. I never knew what to say. I still don't."
He picked through the debris, from which he lifted a dented cup, rim curled inward. A child's name was carved faintly beneath the soot.
"They built something here. They lived and they loved. They should have had more time."
He placed the cup into the woman's hands. She still did not look at him, but her fingers closed around it.
"This will not be enough. I know that."
He rose again. His voice did not lift. He spoke like someone used to being listened to — but not always understood.
"I cannot bring back what you lost tonight. I cannot give you peace. But I can say this."
He looked to the crowd.
"They were here. Their presence does not vanish."
He stepped back.
"You do not have to believe me now. But when you are ready — if you are ever ready — know that not everything was taken."
Then he turned and began walking toward the next ruin. And this time, they followed.
The man stayed where the firelight thinned.
A broken bench leaned near one of the carts. He sat against it, facing the makeshift survivors' camp and what remained of the town. From here, faces stayed visible. Gestures tracked clean. The crowd's weight spread like tidewater, always moving toward the Hero.
No one turned to speak with him. No one asked if he was coming. So he remained still, positioned where nothing went unseen.
***
The Hero and his party moved out at dawn. Ashes, like toxic snowflakes, still clung to the treetops behind them. Millhaven smoldered in the distance, reduced to blackened beams and fractured stone.
Somewhere behind them, a bell tolled once.
The child had stayed behind with a kind elderly couple. The Hero had spoken with them and made sure they would care for the child as if she were their own.
The man, however, did not stay.
"You don't have to come," the Hero said, adjusting the straps on his pack. His voice was gentle, but not indulgent. "You're injured. There'll be others to protect you now."
"I'm not trying to prove anything," the man replied. His voice was steady. "You saved me. That's reason enough."
There was no hesitation. No pleading. The Hero studied him for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"All right. But stay close."
So the man walked — limping, dragging one leg through damp ash and loose gravel. The others moved ahead without looking back.
The Hero moved ahead, upright and fast. His armor caught the low morning gold and scattered it around him with every step. The man followed — slower, quieter, smaller.
When the group climbed the ridge overlooking the valley path, the Hero crested it in a few clean strides. The man was still at the base when the others paused to scout. Cloth clung to his side, stained through. He adjusted the wrappings as he moved. One hand stayed pressed to his ribs.
No one looked back.
He did not complain or ask for help as he dropped farther behind.
***
The Hero's party was five in total.
Sera, the mage, looked up once when he limped into view. Her gaze passed over him, then dropped back to her map. Thorne, older and broad-shouldered, stepped forward.
"Need help with that?"
He gestured to the bandage around the man's ribs, already darkening. He knelt without waiting for an answer. Rewrapped the cloth with the kind of focus that made talking unnecessary.
Then there was Ryn. Younger, sharp-eyed, already annoyed.
"Seriously?" they muttered. "We're dragging dead weight now?"
The Hero gave Ryn a pointed look.
The man tried to be helpful. He picked up gear that was not his. Offered to carry potion vials. Tried to tend to one of the horses but nearly dropped the saddle. When they stopped to rest, he fetched water but spilled half of it on the way back.
"Easy there, cripple," Ryn said, loud enough for all to hear. "You might sprain your other leg."
The word hung. No one corrected it.
The man stilled. Just for a moment. Then picked up a fallen length of rope and kept walking.
***
That night, the fire would not catch. It hissed and smoked, fed by the damp wood the man had brought back after nearly an hour scouring the tree line. The branches looked solid but burned unevenly, coughing more than crackling.
He crouched by the pot. "I can stir."
No one objected, so he did — too cautiously at first, then too fast. The stew sloshed up the sides. Something caught on the bottom, turning the air bitter.
"Sorry."
He adjusted his grip and tried again.
The pot wobbled. The broth boiled over.
"Why don't you sit down before you light yourself on fire?" Ryn said, eyes still on the flames.
He stepped back. He wiped his hands on his tunic and sat off to the side, shoulders drawn in. The fire snapped behind him like it was laughing. Sera stayed silent. Thorne handed him a piece of flatbread without a word. The man took it and ate it in small bites.
When he was done, he stood again. A tent flap had come loose in the wind. He reached for it. The stake came out too easily, and the canvas buckled, kicking ash into the pot. He froze.
The Hero walked over and crouched by the fire. He adjusted the logs, nudged a blackened stick deeper into the coals.
"You don't have to be good at something to want to help."
No one answered, but the air changed. The silence held without turning sharp. So the man sat again, closer this time, legs tucked in and hands in his lap.
He did not look at anyone. But he stayed.
***
Later, after the others had turned in, the Hero found the man still awake, tending the flames.
"You never answered me," the Hero said. "Back in the village. Your name."
The man was quiet for a long moment. Then:
"You can call me the Cripple."
A pause.
"That's what I am, isn't it?"
He smiled, small and tired. The Hero shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.
"Then I'll make sure this name only belongs to you."
The Cripple's smile shifted — just a little. Not wider. Not brighter. But different.The kind you see in people who've stopped bracing for pain. Firelight touched the edge of his cheek and, for a moment, he almost looked serene.
Above them, the stars blinked into place.
[Entity Assigned: Cripple]
[New Parameter: Party Member – Observational Priority: LOW]
[Subroutine Flagged: Non-Registered Entity – Unknown Protocol]
Logging… deferred.
Somewhere beyond the treeline, a twig snapped. And then, the night was still again.