The boisterous warmth of the Dunlyre Tavern gradually faded behind them, replaced by the cool embrace of the Aerion night. After the harrowing discoveries in the forest and the brief, necessary camaraderie of the shared meal, the squad had dispersed, each member seeking their own solace or the oblivion of sleep before the next day's duties inevitably dawned.
The city, unlike the mortal flesh it housed, seemed tireless. Phosphorescent stones embedded in the high walls and cobbled streets bathed the capital in a silent, lambent glow. The cool, white radiance surpassed daylight, casting long, dancing shadows. It lent a serene, almost mystical ambiance to the late hour.
Henry walked beside Sophia. Freed from the harsh confinement of his duty gauntlet, his calloused palm enveloped her smaller, softer hand. Her fingers curled instinctively around his, a familiar anchor in the tumultuous current of their lives.
They moved in comfortable silence for a time, passing beneath ornate stone archways and past shuttered shopfronts, simply savoring the rare moment of quiet intimacy. For a few minutes, there were no missions, no monsters. There was only the solid warmth of her hand in his, and the quiet rhythm of their steps on the glowing stones. He held onto it, this fragile moment, knowing it could be gone by morning.
Breaking the silence, Henry's words came as a low murmur, barely disturbing the quiet air. "This morning, the cave it troubled you deeply, didn't it?" His words sent a slight tremor through her hand, a current of shared memory.
Sophia's chin dipped slightly. She was unable to meet his look as she stared down at the glowing cobblestones. A shadow passed over her features, dimming their usual warmth. "Yes," she whispered. "It was truly dreadful. Worse than usual."
She hesitated, searching for words. "Despite the countless missions, the faces, the things I've witnessed the scene this morning" Her voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken horror. "It was overwhelming. The sheer violation of it."
She needed no further explanation; Henry understood completely. He knew it too - the gut -wrenching revulsion, the cold dread that seeped into the marrow.
The nameless corpses, victims subjected to the most savage, ritualistic forms of execution, they haunted not merely for their graphic horror, but for the chilling truth they represented: in this brutal world, anyone, at any moment, could become that. A discarded piece of flesh on a blood-soaked altar. That stark reality, Henry knew, was a persistent torment for Sophia, a shadow cast by the trauma of her own past.
"Thank the Angels for our safe return," Sophia murmured then, her grip tightening almost painfully on his hand, her eyes lifting to meet his, reflecting a fragile blend of gratitude and the lingering chill of fear. "That you made it back. That we're still here, together."
Henry offered no immediate verbal reply, his own grip intensifying, a silent, fierce affirmation. He couldn't offer platitudes; the Angels, if they watched at all, seemed capricious in their favour.
All he could offer was his presence, his strength, his unwavering commitment. In this world teeming with uncertainty, violence, and loss, each moment their hands were intertwined was a small, defiant miracle, a cherished grace he would fight tooth and nail never to relinquish.
"It's late," he said finally, his voice softening as he glanced towards the distant silhouette of the barracks rising against the luminous sky. "Almost ten. We need to return soon." He paused, then added, "But perhaps two more hours? Somewhere quiet. Just us."
Sophia sighed softly, then she managed a weary smile that chased some of the shadow away.
"Yes," she agreed softly. "Please."
Two hours. A fleeting measure of time in the grand scheme of things, yet for them, in the precarious balance of their existence, it held the weight of an entire world, a precious sanctuary stolen from the jaws of duty and danger.
Later, under the subdued, warm glow of a rented room's single lumen-stone lamp, Henry silently observed Sophia.
They occupied a small, anonymous room above a quiet inn, a necessary extravagance for privacy couples sometimes required.
Sophia rested her head upon his outstretched arm, her unbound brown hair cascading like watered silk against the roughspun linen of the narrow bed.
Her deep golden eyes, glowing in the soft light, were fixed on his face. Her look was so full of love and vulnerability it became a physical presence in the room, humbling him even as it solidified his resolve.
Words remained unspoken. There was little need for them now. Only their fingers brushed, interlaced, a gentle, reassuring pressure.
These same hands had wielded blades stained with the gore of monsters and men, trembled before the specter of death in lightless caverns, expertly field-dressed wounds under fire. But now, in this stolen peace, they simply sought the warmth, the living pulse of the other, as if that touch were the only verifiable proof that they both still existed, still endured.
Henry reached out with his free hand and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind Sophia's ear. His calloused fingertips then traced the delicate curve of her cheekbone.
The unexpected softness of her skin against his rough hand sent a tremor through him, a sensation that was achingly tender yet fiercely possessive. The familiar, overwhelming urge to shield her surged through him. He needed to hide her from the daily horrors, from the memories that haunted her waking and sleeping hours.
"Sophia" he began, the name a rough whisper.
She shifted slightly, turning her face towards his touch. Her own look locked with his, a silent world of trust passing between them. He saw the echo of the day's horror still lingering there, but beneath it, an unwavering trust, a deep and abiding affection that anchored him.
He tightened his embrace almost imperceptibly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her smooth forehead. The vow rose unbidden, as it always did in these quiet moments, heavy with the weight of unspoken history. "I will protect you," he murmured against her skin, the words more than just sound, more than just intention.
They were an oath, sworn in blood and horror years ago, reaffirmed in the quiet desperation of now. It was the only truly inviolable offering he could make her in this broken world.
Each time he uttered those words, felt their weight settle upon him, Henry was inexorably pulled back through the mists of time. Back to a desolate, blood-soaked field under a sky bruised with smoke and twilight.
Back to the silence, the terrible, profound silence surrounding the shattered remnants of a refugee caravan. And amidst the countless corpses, the lifeless bodies of families, friends, strangers united only in their brutal end - a single, small figure. Sophia.
Twelve years old, huddled amidst the carnage, her dress stained crimson, her eyes wide and vacant, utterly alone in a landscape of death. He had found her there, a small flicker of life in an ocean of finality. And kneeling beside her in that field of unspeakable horror, amidst the chilling silence of absolute loss, he had sworn a silent, unbreakable vow to himself: Come what may, whatever the cost, I will never allow such desolation to touch her again. I will be her shield.
Sophia sighed softly, curling tighter within Henry's embrace now, pressing her face against his chest, absorbing his warmth, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. She didn't need to hear the vow spoken aloud again; she knew it in his touch, saw it in his eyes, trusted it implicitly. It was the bedrock upon which her own fragile sense of security was built.
A fragile haven built on trust, shared history, and the desperate, unwavering commitment to protect each other against the encroaching darkness. He held her close, wishing he could freeze this moment, keep the outside world and its horrors forever at bay.
Years ago, when Henry's homeland was ravaged by monsters. Parents and relatives were all lost, he fled with a few survivors from the village. Then those people sold him to traffickers, who forced him into hard labor for a time before selling him elsewhere.
From eight to twelve years old was a hellish period when he was forced to do everything to get money: begging, scamming, stealing… but still frequently beaten and starved.
He endured patiently until these people deceived a pitiful woman, one who treated him like a son. That was the last straw that made him determined to escape the villains; he didn't want to do such conscience-pricking things anymore.
During one theft attempt, these people wanted to steal some goods from a group of migrating people, who seemed to have abandoned their homeland for a better place. At this time, Henry raised the alarm, causing chaos in the area. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he escaped from the traffickers, moving continuously through the forest, running along a stream for many days.
Henry had heard that more and more groups were heading to Aerion, considered the promised land, the capital of the strongly rising nation of Zephyros. They would travel along a river eastward to reach Aerion. Therefore, he hoped that by following the stream bank, he would reach that river, then find a chance to sneak into a group heading to Aerion, perhaps finding an opportunity for a less wretched life.
By the fifth day, Henry had spotted a migrating group. They weren't too far, but he couldn't approach immediately. The small stream he followed had now grown much larger and turned into a fierce waterfall. Henry stood on a cliff more than twenty meters high; if it were flat ground, he could have joined the group, but now he was forced to stand rooted, watching. Going around was impossible; the past five days had completely drained his strength.
Risking his life, Henry clung to a thin layer of vines on the cliff face. But those vines were too fragile for him - just a child; he hadn't climbed down two meters before the vines started snapping one by one. Terrified, Henry threw himself towards the waterfall, because at least below was water, perhaps he could still survive. The terrifying current of the waterfall never refused anyone; Henry was swept straight down to the foot of the falls without mercy.
He didn't know how much time had passed. At the sensation of someone tapping his face, the world returned not as a clear picture, but as a blur of overwhelming golden light. His eyelids were heavy as lead.
"Hello, I'm Sophia."
Miles away, within the opulent, heavily guarded confines of a luxurious estate in Aerion's central military district, General Zalogr sat behind a vast, polished desk crafted from dark, ancient wood. The air in his private study was still, heavy with the scent of old parchment and expensive wine. Before him stood a high-ranking intelligence officer, Captain Verus, delivering his periodic report, his posture ramrod straight, his gaze fixed respectfully on the wall behind the General's chair.
"…and the pattern remains consistent, General," Verus reported, his voice a low monotone. "Subject Seven - 'Henry' - maintains his routine. Awake at 0400 hours. Standard physical regimen: endurance running, calisthenics, followed by weapons drills - one thousand swings, one thousand thrusts, precisely executed. Then morning meal, followed by assigned duties - patrols, guard shifts, occasional low-rank reconnaissance."
Zalogr listened impassively, the only change in his stony expression a slight narrowing of his sharp, eagle-like eyes. He betrayed no emotion, his face a mask honed by decades of command and political maneuvering.
"His off-duty hours," Verus continued, consulting his notes, "are primarily spent in the company of Subject Twelve - 'Sophia'. Standard social interactions observed: shared meals, walks within the city, occasional visits to the Estath Cathedral. His interaction with other squad members remains professional but reserved, Captain Jacobs excepted. Every Friday, as documented, he engages in a fifteen-minute sparring session with Captain Jacobs. Subject Seven invariably loses, often requiring minor medical attention afterward, though his recovery rate remains unusually high."
Zalogr remained silent for a long moment, contemplating the report. Subject Seven - Henry. Ten years, but Zalogr could still see the boy's defiant eyes, still feel the chill of that impossible promise in the blood-soaked air of the command tent.
"Tell me, Captain," Zalogr finally said "your assessment regarding the primary anomaly. Does the subject possess Mystic Sense?"
Verus hesitated fractionally. "General, direct confirmation remains elusive. Standard arcane scans show nothing beyond his documented Rank 2 aether levels, albeit with unusually high reserves, as noted by Archbishop Ralph recently. His outward demeanor shows nothing conclusive - no overt signs of precognition or empathetic distress beyond standard battlefield reactions. He exhibits exceptional discipline and resilience, yes, but" Verus chose his words carefully. "nothing that definitively proves the presence of the Sense."
Zalogr leaned back slowly in his high-backed chair, the fine leather creaking softly. His focus seemed to soften, to look right through the walls of his study as his mind drifted back a decade. Ten years, ten years since the Dark Reaper incident.
He remembered standing outside the command tent afterwards. The stench of blood was overwhelming as soldiers cleared the hundreds of corpses and shattered equipment left in the wake of the A-rank monster's rampage.
And inside that tent, amidst the chaos and fear, a boy. Barely twelve years old, face smudged with muck, clothes torn and bloody, yet standing defiantly. Holding a trembling girl - Subject Twelve - protectively in his arms. The boy had looked directly at him, at General Zalogr, commander of the entire Zephyros southern forces, a man wielding Rank 6 power, his young face set with a chilling, desperate resolve that showed no trace of fear.
"I offer my life as guarantee," the boy had declared, the words surprisingly steady despite the horrors he'd witnessed. "I will eliminate the Dark Reaper. It won't cost you a single soldier."
Audacity. Madness. Yet the boy had succeeded. Against all odds, against all logic, the Dark Reaper had been destroyed. And Zalogr had gained a significant political and military victory, solidifying his reputation as the 'Hero of Zephyros'. But the question remained, the anomaly persisted. How? And did the Sense, the Dark Reaper's unique and terrifying ability, find a new host that day?
"Continue surveillance, Captain," Zalogr ordered quietly, bringing his focus back to the present. "Maintain standard protocols. Report any deviation, however minor. Especially any incident suggesting heightened awareness or unusual luck."
"Yes, General," Verus replied, offering a crisp salute before turning and exiting the study, leaving Zalogr alone with his thoughts, the memory of a defiant twelve-year-old boy, and the lingering, unanswered question that had shadowed him for a decade.