The morning air was sharp and still, the snowfall from the night before laying a quiet white blanket over Luminaar.
Kael walked toward the north side of the village, his boots crunching softly on snow-covered earth. The usual sounds of labor—hammers striking wood, axes biting into timber—were absent, replaced by a heavy, expectant silence.
Everyone was moving in the same direction, a slow, somber procession, heads bowed beneath the weight of grief. Only the guards remained in their posts, eyes scanning the perimeter, alert and motionless, standing as silent sentinels over a village that had already lost too much.
The wind whispered through the empty streets, carrying faint hints of smoke from the chimneys, the warm scent of hearth fires at odds with the cold, bitter air. Kael's gaze drifted downward, noticing the open graves, dug days earlier in preparation, now starkly real against the white snow.
He could feel the tension in the air, the unspoken sorrow pressing on the villagers' shoulders. Even without words, the weight of loss was palpable, wrapping itself around him like the frost biting through his cloak.
The preparations for the funerals were ongoing, and they would start them soon. Villagers moved quietly, carrying bundles of cloth, placing simple wooden markers by the freshly dug graves, their breath rising in pale clouds against the cold morning air. Even the youngest volunteers moved with reverent care, their usual chatter replaced by a hushed, almost fearful stillness.
Kael noticed Lucas standing near one of the graves, hands trembling slightly as he adjusted the markers. The young knight rarely showed weakness, but now the weight of loss was written plainly on his face. Beside him, Captain Rhys paced slowly, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ground as though each step carried the memory of those lost.
The Majordomo moved with deliberate precision, ensuring that every ritual item, every folded cloth, and every small token was in its proper place. His calmness was almost unnerving, a sharp contrast to the quiet grief etched into every villager's expression.
Kael notices small, telling gestures: a mother clutches a child's hand too tightly, a young volunteer hesitates near a grave, an old miner wipes snow from his brow only to find his hands shaking.
They all wore their grief differently, but the same truth rang through every movement: life was fragile. Kael clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking softly, and felt the cold bite through his fingers. I can't protect them all. Not yet. Not if I falter now. He drew a slow breath, letting it fog in the morning air, and forced himself to straighten his shoulders. But I can try.
Kael's eyes drifted to the Whispered Scrolls resting beside the graves. Most were barely inscribed, the worn tablets showing only faint traces of vows. Paper was rare, he knew, and even these wooden and stone tablets were considered precious. Yet the villagers had done their best, carving what they could to honor the fallen.
He looked beyond the three graves meant for today. The freshly dug earth revealed dozens more, waiting silently beneath the thin layer of snow.
Hope we don't need them, he chuckled dryly to himself. If things don't improve, we might even need more…
Snow fell gently, settling on shoulders, hats, and the wooden markers, a quiet, impartial witness to the grief that filled the air.
Soon, the soft crunch of boots was joined by heavier steps. Villagers emerged from the temple, carrying the caskets on their shoulders. Each box was plain, worn, and heavy, the weight of both wood and loss pressing down on those who bore it. Their faces were pale, eyes downcast, lips pressed into thin lines, but their movements were steady, careful, as though any slip might shatter the fragile moment.
Kael's chest tightened as he watched. He could feel the sorrow radiating from each person, from the way hands shook as they gripped the rough wood, from the silent nods exchanged between those who had lost neighbors, friends, or children. This is what I must protect. Every single one of them.
The first casket was lowered into the grave, the earth thudding softly against wood as it settled. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the still morning air. Villagers stepped back, brushing snow from their shoulders, hands lingering as though reluctant to leave the coffin alone. Others followed, lowering their burdens with gentle care, one after another, until all three graves were filled.
Kael could feel the collective weight of grief pressing against him, the quiet despair of a village forced to confront death so directly. He clenched his fists again, nails biting into leather. I can't undo what's happened. I can't bring them back. But I can make sure most of them survive.
Snow continued to fall, soft and steady, dusting the graves with white. It was silent, except for the muffled sounds of labor and the occasional choked sob. Kael looked at the villagers, their faces solemn, hands calloused from work and grief alike. They endure. They survive. I have to be like them. I have to.
Kael's gaze drifted back to the Whispered Scrolls resting beside each grave, ready to be buried with the caskets. Most were barely inscribed, faint lines etched into worn wood or stone, the effort clear despite their simplicity. Vows… not Oaths, he thought, letting the distinction settle in his mind. These are promises of daily life, of loyalty, of love. Small, fragile.
He knelt briefly beside one tablet, tracing the shallow grooves with his gloved finger. Each mark felt like a heartbeat, a whisper of the person who had lived, who had loved, who had now gone. I carry their lives, even in death. I must honor that.
A flicker of cyan light in his palm drew his attention, but he ignored it for now. These simple scrolls, these fragile vows, held a quiet power of their own. Kael felt a strange reverence stir within him. Maybe it's not the Oath that binds, not always. Sometimes it's the promise, kept quietly, faithfully, that makes us strong.
He straightened slowly, the chill of the morning biting through his cloak, and let his eyes sweep over the dozens of scrolls. Each one told a story. Each one was a reminder of why he couldn't falter. I may wield power, but they wield hope. And that is something I cannot take lightly.
Kael's gaze swept over the Whispered Scrolls again. Some were filled with careful, deliberate carvings, like the guards' tablets—lines of vows etched deep, words heavy with responsibility and experience. Others, mostly the young volunteer boys, were barely marked, faint scratches that spoke more of hope than understanding. Experience writes deeper than innocence, Kael thought quietly, letting the contrast settle in his chest. Yet even the faintest vow matters. Even they tried.
As the final casket settled, the Majordomo stepped forward, raising his hands. He spoke of honor, vows, sacrifice, and the dead. A ritual honoring life and vows alike, blessing the fallen and binding their memories to the Whispered Scrolls beside each grave. The villagers bowed their heads, voices low, muttering their own personal vows under the cold, gray sky.
Kael's gaze was lowered, fixed on the whitened ground, his breath slow and steady as he listened intently to the Majordomo's words.
When the Majordomo stepped back, the temple priest took his place at the head of the graves. Clad in simple black robes, dusted with falling snow, the priest raised his hands to the sky. His voice was soft but clear, carrying in the still air like the toll of a distant bell.
"May their vows rise with their last breath. May the vows they swore guide them beyond this life. And may their spirits find safe return to the sky."
A murmur passed through the villagers as they repeated the blessing, voices wavering, some strong, some broken.
Kael kept his eyes lowered. Safe return to the sky… The words stirred something in him, something that twisted like a knife.
The priest continued, his voice steady, almost serene. "They are not gone. They are carried in the vows we keep, in the fire of our hearths. The fallen do not vanish; they are bound to us, as we are bound to them."
Snowflakes clung to Kael's dark hair, melting into droplets that ran cold against his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening, not as a baron, not even as a mage—but simply as one more soul standing among the grieving.
I can't promise them safety, he thought bitterly, but I can swear this much: I'll hold the line until the day I can't stand anymore.
As the thought solidified, a faint pulse of cyan light flickered at the edge of his vision, like the world itself had acknowledged the vow. The snowflakes seemed to hang a moment longer in the air, glinting faintly as if the sky had caught his words. A whisper, almost imperceptible, brushed through the temple—a sound that might have been wind… or something more.
Kael didn't move, didn't speak. He simply felt it, the quiet affirmation of a promise taken seriously, as though the very air had bent to listen.