Six years had passed since the night of fire.
The boy who once cowered in a root cellar was gone. In his place stood a young man—tall, lean with muscle, eyes sharp as flint. Araz moved through the Mirani camp with the quiet grace of a hunter, his staff resting across his shoulders. The children no longer whispered about him, and the elders no longer watched him with suspicion. He had proven himself again and again: weaving, healing, guiding the horses across swollen rivers, tracking lost traders through storm and shadow.
And yet, for all his skill, he remained apart.
The Mirani were his teachers, his companions, his shelter. But they were not his people. Their laughter, their songs of stars and endless roads—he listened, he learned, he even joined. But when their stories ended, when the fire died low, Araz felt the silence creep in. In that silence lived the voices of his parents, his baby sister, the cries of his village.
He was Zoryan, and the Varnesh had not let him forget.
That summer, a trader arrived from the east, his donkey laden with bolts of cloth and jars of honey. The camp gathered to bargain, to listen, to hear the news from far-off valleys.
The man's face was hard, his eyes heavy. "Another Zoryan settlement," he said. "Gone. Burned to the ground. They say Kren himself led the attack."
At the name, Araz stiffened.
The trader spat into the fire. "He calls himself Warlord now. No one crosses him. His men carry torches like banners. They leave nothing but ash."
Murmurs rippled through the circle. The Mirani bowed their heads, whispering prayers for the dead. But Araz's hands clenched tight on his knees until his nails bit his skin.
Again, he thought. Always again. How many more will they burn? How many more children will crawl into darkness and wait for silence?
That night, he trained until sweat soaked his shirt. His staff whirled in his hands, faster, harder, each strike echoing like a vow. He could see them in his mind—the riders, the banners, the faces twisted with cruelty. He imagined driving his staff through them, breaking their blades, their bones. He imagined standing before Kren, unflinching, pendant on his chest and fire in his hands.
He did not hear Seline until she spoke.
"You'll break yourself before you ever touch them."
He froze, staff mid-swing. She stood at the edge of the clearing, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, silver threading her dark hair.
"Seline," he said, breathless.
Her eyes softened, but her voice was firm. "I know what you heard today. I saw your face when they spoke his name."
Araz lowered the staff. "Then you know why I can't stay."
"You are not the only one who has lost." She stepped closer. "The Varnesh killed my brother, remember? I could not save him. I have carried that pain every day. But I chose healing. That is how we endure. Not by spilling more blood."
Araz's jaw tightened. "You chose peace because you could. You still had a family. A people. I have nothing left to lose."
Her voice broke. "You have us."
For a moment, silence stretched between them. The fireflies blinked in the meadow. The night breeze carried the faint sound of laughter from the camp.
"I can't forget," Araz whispered. His hand closed around the pendant at his neck. "And I will not forgive."
The next morning, he was gone.
He left before dawn, slipping quietly between the tents. His pack was light: a water skin, dried meat, a knife, his staff. Around his neck, the pendant hung heavy.
At Seline's tent, he paused. He placed a folded scrap of parchment at the entrance, weighed down with a small stone. His handwriting was uneven, but the words were clear:
I cannot forget. I will not forgive.
He stood there a long while, the sky paling to gray above him. He could imagine her waking, finding the note, her lips pressing together in grief. He hated himself for the pain he would cause her. But he hated more the thought of living and doing nothing.
The camp still slept when he walked into the trees. Each step felt like tearing something from his chest. The Mirani had given him food, shelter, kindness. They had taught him to live again. But they could not give him peace.
Only vengeance could do that.
He walked faster as the sun rose, his staff steady in his grip. The world beyond the Mirani awaited—the wilds, the villages, the burned fields. And somewhere among them, Kren.
Araz did not look back.
But the guilt followed, a shadow he could not shake.