Jules moved through the smoke like a ghost as the sounds of battle behind him thinned into scattered clashes and distant cries.
Without stopping to think, his legs carried him past scorched thatch, shattered doors, and the fallen forms of those who hadn't made it to shelter.
His wooden blade streaked slightly behind him, its tip dragging through the blood-soiled dirt.
Soon enough, he got to the shelter point—the sanctuary hall.
The stone-walled hut stood just past the western grove, smoke curling faintly from the chimney.
He knocked twice, then three times in quick succession.
A slot slid open on the heavy wooden door.
"Jules?" came Nana's voice.
"It's me," he answered.
Without any second of delay, the door swung open.
Inside, at least twenty were gathered. Elders hunched in corners, nursing mothers clutching their babies, and pregnant ones as well.
Little children—boys and girls—shivering despite the comfort of elderly arms. The things they'd seen today would not leave them easily. If ever.
As they saw Jules, several rushed toward him.
"Brother Jules, Nan—they… they killed him," a girl said, tears brimming, barely able to form the words.
"Father was killed," another boy said, his voice breaking from the sheer effort of saying the words.
Jules froze as his hand tightened around the hilt of the sword still at his side. The words hit him like stones to the chest, though they were only echoes of what he already knew.
But seeing the vulnerability in the eyes of the children, he was so taken by the emotions that he didn't even know the right words to say.
Slowly, he knelt to their level. "I know," he said quietly.
He didn't try to lie. He didn't even try to tell them it would all be fine. Doing that would be worse than silence.
"But you're here," he said. "And I'm here. And I won't let anything happen to you."
The girl reached for his hand, which he let her.
Behind him, Nana stepped forward with quiet grace, placing a firm hand on Jules' shoulder.
"We'll hold here," she said.
Jules nodded, slowly rising to his feet. "Has the door been bolted?"
"It will be," Nana replied, already moving to secure it. "Besides, you keep forgetting I am a mage myself."
Jules rolled his eyes a bit as Nana broke a warm smile.
Nodding his head, he reached out to the children whose heads barely reached his knees.
"Don't worry, you'll be safe. I'll now head out to help the injured."
One of the boys clutched his trousers. "Will you come back?"
Jules looked him in the eye. "Yes, I will."
A girl sniffled, wiping her nose with her sleeve. "Promise?"
He crouched down and placed a hand gently on her head. "I promise."
Another child—a small boy with a trembling lip—stepped forward and whispered, "You're strong like your father."
Jules froze for a second. Then he gave a short nod, the kind that said thank you without needing to speak.
As he rose again, the children stepped back, quieter now. Not because their fear was gone, but because they believed him.
And for Jules, that was enough.
Jules turned to the wall where an old longsword leaned, wrapped in cloth.
Too heavy for most, in fact, heavier now due to the responsibility laid on his shoulder.
He pulled the blade free, tested its weight, then turned back to the room.
"Do you know by chance where Old Min might be? I need to make sure Glinta is safe."
This time, one of the women answered, "Northern Wing, the flames of riot should have panned there by much. And besides, Min and Chang are strong enough to keep that part safe."
Jules gave a single nod, not wasting a second.
"Keep this door sealed," he said to Nana. "If anyone comes knocking without the passcode, don't open it."
Nana raised an eyebrow. "You think I'd forget protocol?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Not a chance."
He slung the longsword across his back and moved toward the door. Before his hand reached the latch, he paused.
Turning back, his eyes scanned the room one last time—the tired, the frightened, and the silent ones pretending not to be scared. Then, locking eyes with the girl who had first grabbed his hand, he nodded again.
"I'll be back."
And with that, he stepped outside once again, this time with a simple destination in his mind.
_Father, please hold on_
***
Soon, he arrived at the place he last saw his father, and the scene before him offered him little to no comfort.
But then, one thing brought him comfort:
The Old Blade of Van was still alive, albeit broken.
His father's sorry state, disheveled yet valiant, had several gashes across his body.
He looked towards his left, and behold, the head of his aggressor now lay fresh and cleanly severed, as though it had been brought down in a single strike.
Accompanied by it, various other heads could be seen littered around. Arvi's knee slumped to one knee, struggling to plant a foot against the earth.
Seeing this, Jules shouted, "Father!" as he rushed to help him. But then, as he got closer, another figure appeared in his line of sight—
Another armored figure, who was at death's door, barely clinging to life. Upon seeing the weakened Arvi, he suddenly picked up a fallen sword faster than Jules could alert his father.
Jules' heart almost leaped out. "NOOO!"
Arvi, upon seeing Jules, had a blood-painted smile across his face.
He barely had the time to react to the sudden change in his son's expression before a blade ran through his heart, protruding from the other side. Blood splattered across Jules' face—hot, sudden, and horrifyingly real.
He froze. Everything inside him screamed to move, but his legs struggled to maintain stability.
Arvi's body slumped forward, the blade still lodged in his chest, his hand dropping lifelessly from the hilt it had once gripped with the strength of ten men.
Jules took a trembling step forward, his arm outstretched, but… too late.
"Fath—"
Before the word could leave his lips, a sharp whistle cut through the air.
A single arrow.
It sliced through the space before them and buried itself cleanly in the skull of the dying assailant, snapping his neck back with a sickening jolt. The armored figure fell with a thud beside Arvi's body, couldn't be any deader.
Jules didn't look at him as he dropped to his knees.
Tears streamed down his face, hot and unrelenting, cutting lines through the dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks.
He didn't sob, nor did he scream. He just knelt, one hand on his father's shoulder, the other balled into a fist on the ground.
After several minutes, urgent footsteps approached him.
Crunching softly over scorched dirt and broken roots.
Old Chang.
The elder stopped a few paces away with heavy breaths, his bow still in hand.
He took in the scene—Arvi's body, Jules' silent grief, the trail of blood.
He crouched beside them with stiff knees and placed a weathered hand on Arvi's back.
"Sorry, Arvi…" His voice broke. "I should've been faster."
Jules didn't look up.
Old Chang's other hand trembled as he gripped his chest. "Damn it all! I should've been here first."
With a growl of self-loathing, he struck the ground with his fist.
Once. Then again.
And then he beat his chest, once, sharply, the thud echoing across the quiet.
"I'm sorry, old friend," he said, his voice cracking as he bowed low. "Forgive me… I was too late."
Beside him, Jules finally let out a breath that sounded more like a broken whisper than anything else, his eyes redirected to the blade that had accompanied his father for many years.