The battlefield was silent, though it should have roared.
He limped across the churned earth, boots thick with mud and blood. His ribs screamed with every step, but he pressed forward with a stubborn, patient weight. Behind him, Bren staggered, coughing through the smoke, arm bandaged, fury etched in his eyes. The two were all that remained of their unit — and perhaps all that remained of a war that had yet to end.
The ash of spent relics clung to everything. Faintly glowing shards littered the field, humming like dead stars. Some murmured, whispering secrets no living ear could catch. He didn't listen. He had learned long ago that relics had their own will.
A sudden, cracked whimper froze them both.
From behind a shattered cart, a child emerged — no more than six. Mud streaked his face, and blood crusted along his hairline and clothes. His wide, dark eyes darted from the corpses to the men. He shook slightly, as if the wind itself might tear him apart.
Bren cursed, glancing at the soldier. "Great. Just what we needed. Another mouth to feed, another weakling to trip us up."
Eryndor crouched, keeping his voice calm, even gentle. "What's your name, little one?"
The boy flinched, whispering nothing. His lips trembled, but he didn't run.
He reached slowly, letting the scar across his chest ache without complaint. "I'm the one helping you. He's Bren. You're safe with us... if you'll come."
Something in his tone, quiet and steady, unshakable in the chaos, drew the boy forward. He allowed himself to be pulled out from behind the wreckage, trembling against the scarred man's shoulder.
Bren muttered under his breath, clearly unimpressed, but he didn't argue. They kept walking, hand firm on the boy's back, moving toward the distant city walls that glimmered faintly in torchlight.
The air carried a low hum — drums or maybe the wind, he didn't know. He only knew one thing: the city waited. Not safe, not free, but waiting for those who could survive the march. And march they must.
"Walls won't hold forever," Bren spat.
"Maybe not," he replied. His voice was steady, deliberate, carrying a calm weight that made the boy stiff against him feel slightly braver. "But they'll hold until we reach them. And until then, we keep moving. Step by step."
Step by step. That had always been his way. Not heroics. Not glory. Survival. Careful, precise, clever survival. Luck had carried him this far, yes — but also a stubborn refusal to give up on anything that mattered.
The child clutched his coat. He could feel Kutan's heartbeat, wild and frantic. He didn't flinch. "You're not alone now," he said softly. And for a moment, he imagined a world where that could be enough.
Smoke curled into the night sky as the two men and the boy crested the hill. Below, the city slept fitfully, lit by scattered lanterns and torchlight along its walls. No cheering crowds, no cries of victory. Only quiet, tense anticipation.
Bren's eyes narrowed. "They'll come at dawn. They always come at dawn."
He didn't argue. He looked at the boy, at the city, at the scarred horizon. He felt fatigue, yes, and fear, but also the strange, steady pulse of responsibility. Someone had to survive. Someone had to care.
And maybe... someone could still make it home.
The first torch of the enemy lit along the distant ridge. One step more, he thought. One step.
The city sprawled before them like a wound stitched with torchlight. Narrow streets twisted between buildings of stone and timber, their walls blackened with smoke from fires hastily extinguished or long abandoned. Roofs sagged under years of neglect, and the air smelled of ash, wet earth, and the faint tang of blood that lingered from the outskirts. Eryndor slowed his limp as the three of them entered, every sense alert.
Bren's steps were loud on the cobblestones, echoing off shuttered windows. "Toven," he muttered under his breath, jerking a thumb at the boy. "That's your name now. Don't look at me like that — it's better than letting you wander nameless in the dark."
Toven clutched Eryndor's coat tighter, small fingers digging into the fabric. His wide eyes scanned every shadow, every flickering torch. Every echo of movement sent him flinching. The boy smelled of wet mud, blood, and the faint sweetness of a meal half-forgotten, perhaps scavenged from the battlefield. Bren frowned at the smell, then gave a low whistle. "Not dying of starvation yet," he muttered, half amused, half relieved.
Eryndor didn't answer. He studied the city like it was a map of danger, each alley a possible ambush, each torch a warning. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, steady and deliberate, masking the pull of exhaustion clawing through his ribs.
The streets were nearly empty. A few hurried figures — merchants, women, children — moved past them in a blur, dragging carts and bundles. The tension in the city was palpable, coiled like a spring about to snap. Bells tolled softly from the far tower, a warning and a countdown all at once.
Bren's voice cut through the tension. "This city's running on fear. You see that? Running, hiding, waiting. And we're supposed to... what? Sit inside a home like everything's fine?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He moved Toven forward, letting the boy's trembling body rest lightly against him. "You'll live here, for now. Don't forget — the world doesn't slow for anyone."
Eryndor watched, quiet, as Bren's shoulders rose and fell. The ally who had snarled at the battlefield, who called Toven a weakling, now carried the boy like a shield. There was tenderness there, buried beneath frustration and blunt speech. Bren's voice softened, almost a whisper: "You're small, but you're still alive. That counts for something."
They reached Eryndor's home — a modest dwelling nestled against the far wall, half-hidden by a burned-out spire and leaning houses. A thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney, carrying the scent of cooking — bread, herbs, and the faint, familiar tang of firewood.
Arenya was waiting, as she always had, though the sight of Eryndor limping through the gate, followed by Bren and a bloodied child, made her pause mid-step. Relief, fear, and incredulity fought across her face. "Eryndor..." Her voice trembled.
He lifted a hand in greeting but did not speak. Exhaustion weighed him down, but he forced himself to move forward, ushering Toven inside. The boy's small feet scuffed against the floorboards, ears twitching at every sound — a door creaking, the wind rattling the shutters, the distant echo of the city's panic.
Bren stayed near the threshold, eyes scanning the empty streets through the window. He was impatient, restless, but not without thought. He muttered to himself, almost inaudibly: "They shouldn't all be leaving... some will have nowhere else to go..." His voice held a strange mixture of guilt and foresight. He hated weakness, yet hated carelessness more, and his mind raced with strategies even while he pretended to ignore them.
Inside, the warmth of home clung to them. Fires crackled in the hearth, filling the room with light and the scent of bread. Toven pressed against Eryndor, eyelids heavy. Eryndor felt the pull of sleep on his own bones, the exhaustion he had denied for weeks threatening to swallow him whole.
Yet none of them could settle. The city beyond the walls whispered of chaos: empty streets, hurried steps, and the ever-present tension of distant drums. Every creak in the floorboards, every flicker of torchlight outside reminded them — rest was not yet granted.
Eryndor moved toward the hearth, crouching to set the boy by the fire. He glanced at Bren. "We'll rest when we can. For now, watch the streets."
Bren's jaw tightened, shoulders stiff. "Watch and prepare. I never stopped doing that." There was pride there, buried under his bark — a steadfastness, an unwillingness to abandon what little safety remained. And beneath it all, an unspoken care for the boy, and perhaps even for Eryndor himself.
The three of them stayed that way, tethered by survival, vigilance, and fragile trust. The city was quiet, yet alive with fear. And in that quiet, Eryndor understood something he hadn't before: it was not the battlefield alone that tested men, but the spaces between — the fragile moments of home, of family, of fleeting rest.
Outside, the wind carried the smell of smoke, wet stone, and distant fires, carrying the echo of a world that refused to stop moving. Inside, the hearth glowed, soft and warm, though none could truly rest.
Somewhere in the city, a bell tolled again.
And they waited for a war that never would end.
The fire sputtered in the hearth, flickering across the walls of Eryndor's modest home. Smoke curled upward, carrying the scent of burnt wood and bread that had gone slightly cold. Outside, the city whispered its unease — footsteps on empty streets, doors banging shut, a bell tolling far off.
Inside, Toven sat pressed against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. His eyes were wide, glassy, staring at nothing, yet seeing everything.
Eryndor knelt before him, voice low but firm. "You're safe here. No one's coming for you tonight."
The boy's lips trembled. A wet sob escaped. "I... I can't... sleep..."
Bren leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Sleep? You think this world gives people sleep? Get up. Watch. Move. Survive." His voice was hard, but there was a tremor beneath it, a shadow of worry he tried to hide.
Toven pressed his hands to his temples. "I saw... I saw everything... the cart... the—" His voice broke. The images ripped from the battlefield were vivid, relentless.
And suddenly, he was there again.
He remembered the crash with unbearable clarity. Wheels shattering, splintered wood stabbing his legs. A screaming mule tumbled into the chaos. And then the sky had broken.
The catapult's payload struck with a thunderclap that shook his bones. He had seen heads split by the impact, flesh torn, bodies crushed beneath the iron and timber. The stench of blood was everywhere — coppery and sharp, mingling with the acrid smoke of burning debris. Screams peeled from the streets, then silence, punctuated by the dull groan of dying limbs.
Every sound cut into him. Every image branded itself onto his mind like fire. He felt the vibration of falling bodies through the ground into his chest. Hands clutched him as if he could hold back the carnage, but there was nothing he could do. No strength, no control. Only terror, only the knowledge that life could end with a single, careless swing.
His small body had curled into the cart, but it offered no protection. Bone and blood and fear swirled around him. He had wanted to sleep, to close his eyes and shut it out, but sleep never came. The images haunted his eyelids, replaying every snap, every spasm, every scream.
Toven shuddered violently, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Eryndor wrapped an arm around him, careful not to startle him further. "It's over now. You're safe. No one can hurt you here."
Bren knelt beside the boy, his rough hand on Toven's shoulder. "I know it looks like everything's ending. But you're stronger than you think. You made it here. That counts." He struggled to keep his voice steady, but the raw care beneath it cracked through. "You're a liability, maybe. But every living thing matters. Even you."
Arenya came closer, kneeling in front of Toven, placing her hands over his small ones. "We're here with you. No one has to fight alone tonight. Let the fire warm you, even if your mind won't. Let us carry some of it."
Toven flinched at the touch, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, relaxed into the warmth. The fire painted their faces in gold and shadow, each flicker marking safety in the smallest way.
"I... I can't stop seeing..." he whispered.
Eryndor pressed his forehead gently against the boy's, his voice soft, deliberate. "Then remember something else. Remember that you survived. That someone brought you home. That you are alive, and you are not alone."
Bren exhaled sharply, rubbing at his temple. "I don't do speeches. But... damn it, kid, you did good. You survived this long. You'll survive tonight. And that's what counts."
Arenya's gaze swept the room, settling on Eryndor and Bren. "We'll rest when we can," she said softly, "but tonight, we endure. And we endure together."
Outside, the city whispered still — but inside, for the first time in hours, the tremors in Toven's chest slowed. Not fully gone, not forgiven, not sleep. But enough to breathe, enough to survive another night.
Night had settled over the city like a damp blanket. From inside Eryndor's home, the flickering fire cast long shadows across the walls. Yet Toven could not sleep.
He lay on a blanket near the hearth, knees pulled to his chest, eyes wide in the half-light. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind rattling the shutters, pushed him closer to panic. He saw the streets outside flicker with torchlight, imagined the distant drums of an approaching army, and the images of the battlefield from earlier clawed at his mind again.
Toven's fingers brushed against the relic he had scavenged— a small, rough pendant of carved wood, no larger than his palm. It pulsed faintly under his touch, warm as if it were alive. At first he had thought it a piece of debris, forgotten among the dead, but it has woken.
He held it tighter, and the world subtly shifted around him. Shadows stretched across the room, lengthening unnaturally. The fire's glow bent, forming shapes that reminded him of what he had seen — a mule tumbling, splintered wood, faces frozen in terror. His pulse quickened.
The pendant responded. Not violently, not with brute force, but with suggestion. The chair near the wall creaked as if nudged by unseen hands. The door swung slightly in its frame, though no wind passed. A faint whisper seemed to curl through the room, echoing a memory that wasn't really there.
Toven's breath came in short bursts. He wanted to close his eyes, but each blink brought more hallucinations: the sky tearing open, bodies suspended mid-fall, the smell of iron and ash thick in his nostrils. He pressed the pendant to his forehead, desperately.
Eryndor, watching from across the room, recognized the subtle shifts immediately. "Your.. relic is awake," he murmured. His voice was calm, deliberate. "It's not dangerous yet... but it responds to you. Your fear is its thread."
Bren stood near the doorframe, arms crossed, observing the room. "Kid," he said gruffly, "if you let it take control, you'll see things worse than before. You've got to breathe. Focus."
Toven shook his head. "I can't! I can't make it stop!"
The relic pulsed against his skin again. The shadows shifted closer, coalescing into shapes that suggested movement — figures that weren't there, but felt entirely real. Toven whimpered.
Eryndor stepped forward, kneeling beside him. "Listen," he said softly. "It doesn't want to hurt you. It can't. But it mirrors what you feel. Fear, anger, grief... it takes those and stretches them. You've survived this far. You can survive this night."
The pendant pulsed again, more insistently. Toven's eyes darted around the room, seeing the fire warp, the furniture lean slightly, shadows twist. But with Eryndor's words, he found a thin thread of control. Slowly, he focused on his own heartbeat, steady and deliberate.
The shadows retreated. The shapes softened. The firelight returned to its normal flicker. Toven's chest heaved, sweat cooling on his skin.
"You see?" Eryndor said gently. "It bends reality, yes. But only to follow you. Calm your mind, and you can guide it."
Bren crouched beside the boy, hand on his shoulder. "It's still scary," he admitted, voice low. "I've felt it too. But you're not alone. You're alive. That counts more than you think."
Toven's fingers still gripped the pendant, but the trembling eased. His eyelids drooped, heavy from exhaustion but no longer paralyzed by terror. For the first time since the battlefield, he felt slightly safe — not from the world, not from war, not from memory, but from himself.
Outside, the city still breathed uneasily. Windows rattled, shutters banged, distant bells tolled. But inside the small home, the fire flickered warmly, shadows returning to their natural lengths, and the three of them — Eryndor, Bren, and Toven — settled, at least for a moment, into the fragile quiet of night.