Shen didn't know how to respond to Usan's words. He could only nod in silence.
As the battle concluded, the members of the Xan family began to count the casualties. Although the losses were few—only a hundred or so deaths in exchange for a total victory—any other nation in Valoran would be celebrating. But for the Ionians, who had known peace for so long, the weight was heavy.
To the bewilderment of the Noxian prisoners, the Ionians didn't celebrate their victory. After a brief moment of excitement, they fell into a long, somber silence.
Despite winning, the warriors and farmers simply removed their bloodstained armor in silence, wandering their familiar land with a sense of sudden displacement. The Noxian soldiers were ushered into a temporary prison handled by Faen.
While the prisoners were confined, Riven, as Faen's guard, was free to roam.
Carrying her runic greatsword, Riven felt a deep sense of disorientation from the atmosphere, which was the polar opposite of a Noxian victory celebration.
We won. Shouldn't people be happy? Why is it like this?
She looked at the houses on the street corner. Riven watched the Ionian warriors—though calling them warriors was inaccurate; today was likely the first time they had ever held blades with the intent to kill.
The reality proved that their skill and temperament were mediocre. Once they shifted from a "harmonious dance" to a "dance of death," they practically forgot how to use their weapons. Now, they were quietly comforting a brother's mother, their faces etched with the same grief.
At that moment, a young warrior noticed Riven. He whispered to an older man, likely his brother. The elder raised his head to look at Riven. Seeing her Noxian-style armor, his expression grew complex. He knew she was the guard of Faen—the man who won the battle for their village—so he didn't harbor blind hatred.
But his heart was full of questions. He approached Riven and asked with a frown, "You are Noxian, aren't you?"
"...Yes," Riven nodded. It was a simple answer, and the casualties here had nothing to do with her. She had even helped many of them during the fight. Yet, in this atmosphere, simply admitting her identity brought a wave of inexplicable pressure and unease.
"Why did you set foot on this land!" a younger warrior shouted, unable to contain his emotion. "He was such a good man! Every month he visited the orphanage to bring food and play games with the children! He never killed a single person; he only died to protect me! Why did you—"
"Enough!" the elder warrior snapped. "Calm down, Shon-Luen! This lady is not our enemy. She is Lord Faen's guard. She harmed no Ionian and protected our village!"
The young warrior, Shon-Luen, opened his mouth as if to argue, but finally lowered his head. "I'm sorry..."
"...It's fine." Riven didn't know what to say. Even though she wasn't responsible, recalling her own past made it impossible for her to find true peace.
"Stop arguing. Come inside and rest." An old woman, who had been weeping silently, walked out of the house. she guided Riven and the others into the dwelling, which looked as though it had been woven from living trees.
Initially, Riven didn't want to go in. She didn't know these people. But meeting the old woman's gentle gaze, she couldn't bring herself to refuse. After a long silence, she nodded bitterly.
Inside, the old woman sat by a circular earthen hearth. She looked at Riven and said, "Though you are both Noxian, I can feel that you are different from the others."
Riven said nothing, just staring at her. The woman continued softly, "In their hearts, I can feel a craving for fame. they stepped onto this land to satisfy themselves."
"But you are different. I can feel the confusion in your heart... yes, I can feel it."
Noticing Riven's puzzled look, the woman offered a gentle smile. She didn't hate Riven for her origin, nor did she blame her for her son's death. Instead, she picked up a string of bells and walked toward a shattered ceramic pot.
"The house beneath our feet has existed since I was a child. To a Noxian, it must seem impossible, yes? Why do trees grow in the shape of a house? It is because my father was the village Tree-singer."
The old woman recounted the past: "When we need a home, we speak to the spirits of the land. The Tree-singer goes to a chosen spot and communicates with the trees, asking them to grow into the shape we need. In return, we nourish them, water them, and feed them. Even when they grow larger and the house changes, we communicate with them to maintain a harmonious coexistence."
"Later, my father died. My brother became the Wood-speaker, and I became a Tinker."
As she spoke, she gently shook the bells. Ding-ling, ding-ling.
She picked up the broken shards of a plate, held them to her ear, and began to hum softly. She adjusted her pitch slowly, calling out to the earth spirits within the clay.
After a moment, she found the correct tone, and the earth spirits resonated with her song. While maintaining the pitch, she adjusted the rhythm of the bells to join the resonance.
The shards began to float. As the woman listened and hummed, she pushed the pieces toward the central fire, her fingers picking up clumps of a mixture of fat and clay. Under Riven's astonished gaze, the mixture flowed over the ceramic, naturally filling the cracks and bonding the broken pot back together.
"In Ionia, all things have spirits," the woman said gently. "Whether they are objects or living beings, they all want to be whole. A Tinker's job is to ask them what they need to be fixed, and then provide it."
"It leaves scars," Riven noted after a silence, looking at the healed jar. "The scars won't go away."
"But scars are the signs of healing. This plate will never be flawless again, but it is whole," the woman replied warmly. "And it is strong... at least to me, I find it more beautiful now than before."