The forest was quiet that Evening, too quiet for Eren's liking. He moved slowly between the gnarled roots of the oak trees, careful not to trip on the damp moss that coated the forest floor. The smell of wet earth mingled with the faint sweetness of wild herbs, and he inhaled deeply, trying to focus on the task at hand. His basket, already half-full, rattled lightly with the herbs he had collected—sage, thyme, and a few delicate blossoms his mother liked to add to dinner.
Eren hummed softly, a tune he had made up himself, something light to drown out the ever-present echo of fear that had haunted him since… since the last time he had been home.
He paused for a moment, brushing a strand of black hair from his face, and looked up. Sunlight disappeared through the canopy, creating fractured shadows on the ground, and for a brief second, the world felt safe. He pictured his mother standing in the doorway of their small hut, her hands dusted with flour, smiling at him as she chopped vegetables. His sister, skipping around the yard with her wooden doll clutched tightly, and his brother, six years old, laughing as he chased a chicken across the field.
The image warmed him.
Then he turned the corner and the forest opened onto his village.
Smoke rose in thin ribbons, curling into the dark sky like the fingers of some invisible, malevolent hand. The smell hit him first—iron and rot and something he could not name, something that made his stomach curl violently. His legs went numb.
Eren's basket fell to the ground with a clatter. His heartbeat, steady moments ago, became a frantic drum in his chest.
The huts were broken, splintered doors hanging on their hinges. The wind whispered through shattered windows, carrying with it the faint, hollow sounds of silence. And in that silence… there were bodies.
He staggered forward, and the first figure he recognized was his mother. Her scarf, the one he had touched that morning, lay soaked in blood. Her eyes stared blankly at the sky, unseeing, unblinking.
Then he saw his father, sprawled across the doorway of their home. His sister lay curled on the ground, her small hands clutching her doll, its head broken. His brother was slumped against the fence, his toy sword still in his hand, a faint grin frozen on his face.
Eren's chest heaved. His knees buckled. He fell to the ground and screamed. The sound was raw, ragged, tearing itself from his throat, a sound of pure, shattering grief.
He clawed at the dirt, at the bodies, at anything he could touch to make them real, to make them move, to make this nightmare stop. But they did not. They would not.
And then he saw him.
Rudo Rain, the Harrow. A figure that seemed to appear from the shadows themselves, tall and lean, his long dark hair tied back in a simple knot. His face was stern, unmoving, though his eyes—the only part of his face not shadowed—took in the devastation in a single, silent sweep. He realized he arrived too late.
He knelt beside Eren before a word could be spoken. His hands were large, calloused, and firm as they rested on the boy's shoulders. He said nothing. He did not need to. His presence alone was enough to anchor Eren in a world that had gone violently mad.
Eren, trembling, buried his face in Rudo's chest. His sobs wracked his small body, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Rudo did not flinch. He held him tighter, whispering nothing, saying nothing, simply being there, absorbing the pain without comment.
Hours passed, though Eren had no sense of time. Together, they dug graves for every villager, their hands raw and bloody, their backs aching. Every handful of dirt thrown over a fallen body felt like another weight pressing onto his chest, another reminder of what he had lost.
Before leaving the ruins of his home, Eren gathered tokens from each of his family members:
-His mother's scarf, still faintly scented with her perfume.
-His father's belt, worn and frayed.
-His sister's doll, battered but intact.
-His brother's wooden sword, splintered at the hilt.
He tucked them into his tattered tunic, pressing them to his chest. And then his body gave out. Exhaustion claimed him fully, and he collapsed into Rudo's arms, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Rudo lifted him without a word, carrying him away from the village, into the dense forest, to a place of relative safety. He did not speak, did not comfort. He merely walked, each step purposeful, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows, watching, waiting.
That night, Eren dreamed.
It did not start with the village, nor with the bodies. It started with a shadow. A figure, tall and impossibly graceful, with long, dark hair that seemed to flow like liquid night. A mask concealed most of its face, but the red and white eyes—glowing, intelligent, malevolent—pierced through the darkness of the dream.
"You were not here," a voice whispered, shifting seamlessly between the voices of his mother, sister, brother, even Rudo. "You escaped. Why?"
Eren tried to run, to scream, but he could not. The shadow reached for him. Its fingers cold as frost gripped his chin, lifting his head.
"I remember you, little survivor," it said, and Eren awoke with a start, heart hammering, body trembling, soaked in sweat.
Outside the door, Rudo sat in silence. His sword was sharpened to a razor edge, its steel catching the faint moonlight. He made no move to enter. He simply watched. A silent promise echoed in the still night air: "You are not alone. Not tonight."
And for the first time in hours, Eren believed it.