The morning breeze slipped through the dirt paths of Ezzera like the whisper of a spirit refusing to be forgotten. It brought with it the scent of damp, spoiled wheat—and something heavier.
Dried blood.Still staining the front yard of the guards' barracks.Still fresh in the minds of those too afraid to speak.
Reno stood by the old well, his expression calm, almost blank. But his eyes—murky mirrors—reflected what the world refused to say aloud.
Ever since his conversation with Mira the night before, something had shifted. Not just in her—though she now moved like someone sharpened by pain, quieter, more focused.
But also in the way Reno looked at this village.
It was no longer just a place to survive.It was a field.A stage.And this stage was too rotten to leave untouched.
His morning went by as usual—at least to anyone who didn't know how to truly see. He hauled buckets of water from the well to the communal kitchen. Swept the back courtyard where dried leaves gathered like secrets. Ground wheat that had already given up its dignity to mold.
Everything seemed normal.Everything was wrong.
Each step. Each polite smile. Each quick glance from behind a shuttered window—he recorded them all. Not as routine anymore, but as patterns.
And patterns were a language.The language of those who lived behind the curtain.
Out in the barracks yard, Captain Korr was laughing. Loud and coarse, like a dog barking in a moonless night. He played dice with two other guards, greasy fingers clutching coins like they were other people's fates.
Once in a while, he glanced at Reno.
Quick. Suspicious.
Korr wasn't clever—but he wasn't stupid either.He could smell when something didn't fit the script.
And Reno knew.It was time to act.
That night, Reno slipped into the old barn behind Tomas's house. Dusty and silent, it kept broken tools and memories buried in stillness.
But hidden among the rotting sacks of wheat and warped crates was something far more dangerous than a sword.
A worn notebook.Stolen from Captain Korr's private quarters.
Its pages were brittle.But the ink—though faded—was still legible.
Seventeen names.All women.Some children.
The oldest: 29.The youngest... 13.
Some names had been crossed out. Some marked in red.In the bottom corner, one name stood alone:
"Rika – failed."
Reno remembered the girl.Mute. Always sitting near the village edge, clutching a straw doll. The scar on her neck hadn't healed.
Now, it all began to align.
The next morning, Reno offered to help Mira in the infirmary. She moved carefully around him—accepting the help, but with wary eyes.
She was afraid.Not of Reno.But of what she was beginning to realize.
He said little. Just pointed to the shelf beneath the window. Then, quietly, slid the notebook—wrapped in a tattered cloth—underneath a pile of herbal jars.
Mira didn't touch it. Not yet.
But Reno knew.By nightfall, she would read it.She had to.
That afternoon, Reno sat beside Rika near a crumbling fence. She didn't speak. She never did.
He didn't try to start a conversation. Just sat there.Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a small piece of paper—his drawing from the night before. A wildflower. A giant sun.
A symbol of hope.Fake.But necessary.
Rika took it, her fingers trembling.Then, without a word, she tugged on Reno's sleeve—pulling him toward the fence and pointing.
To the barracks.
Right under the window: patches of dead grass. Hardened soil. Two long, parallel grooves.
Like something—or someone—had been dragged.
Reno didn't ask. He just nodded.And his mind began to turn.
Later that night, Reno sat by the kitchen hearth with Yarra. Tomas was already asleep, and the world outside felt distant.
Light conversation.Potato soup.Memories ground down by time.
Then, Reno slipped in a line.
"Sometimes... villages hide things, don't they?"
Yarra stirred the soup for a long time. Searching for an answer in the broth.
Then finally, she spoke.
"When old folks stay silent... it's not because we're scared. It's because we want the young ones to keep believing."
Reno didn't reply.
But Yarra reached over and held his hand.
"Still… if there's one child strong enough—maybe it's time someone knew everything."
At midnight, Reno crept to the back of the village hall.There was a small room—locked. Officially, it was a supply shed.
But it was too small.Too well-hidden.
Peering through the wooden slats, he saw only darkness.But in that darkness—he caught a glint.
A flash of metal.
The next morning, he stole an old key mold from Berond's desk.With wax and clay, he shaped a rough duplicate.And tucked it into the sole of his boot.
Not for tonight.But soon.
By sunset, Mira met him behind the infirmary.
Her face was blank.But her cheeks were wet.
In her hands: the notebook.
"Rika isn't the only one."
Her voice cracked.Like a chain forced to break.
"I thought... I was the only one. I thought silence made me strong. But all they did was swap in another victim."
Reno looked at her.Said nothing.
"Berond covered the reports. Korr... threatened their families. Some of them… were never seen again."
"Why are you talking to me now?" Reno asked softly, his voice like the first frost of winter.
"Because you didn't look at me like a victim," she whispered."You just... listened."
Reno nodded, slowly.
"Mira. I'm going to bring them down. But I can't do it alone. I need someone who knows how they're hiding it."
She looked down. Silent. For a long time.Then she nodded.
"Then let's bring light to this place. Even if that light burns us both."
That night, in the cramped attic Reno used as a bedroom, he lit a single candle.
In front of him:A hand-drawn map of Ezzera.
Five red Xs.Five places.Five rotten roots.
Reno's journal entry that night:
Rika's still alive. But broken.
The small shed is suspicious.
Korr is increasing patrols.
Yarra knows, but she's waiting.
Berond stays silent. Which means: he's watching.
Reno allowed himself a thin smile.
That night, the first ink was spilled.
"Truth doesn't need to be shouted.It only needs to be arranged.Pressed.Until it bleeds out on its own."
The first move was complete.Now came the second.
Draw attention.Redirect suspicion.Not to me—But to those already soaked in sin.