The smoke hangs heavy in the air, thick like a choking blanket. It's a silence that presses against my lungs, leaving the weight of it in my chest as I stand in the wreckage of the village.
The fire still eats at the houses, gnawing through wood and flesh alike, but it's the ashes that stick to my skin more than anything else.
I can't remember the faces of the people who died.
But the screams—those I'll never forget. Not for as long as I live. Or whatever I am now.
I watch the flames curl higher, flickering orange against the gray sky. The sounds of the village are muffled by the weight of the smoke. It's almost peaceful in a way, the fire taking away what the Blood Takers couldn't destroy by force. This place will never be the same.
The villages I knew, where the harvest was just as likely to tear you apart as the bandits—they always had this strange, quiet sorrow.
It clung to the people, the land. A perpetual tension. Maybe that's why this feels so hollow now, like it's always been destined to burn. Maybe they all knew it was coming.
Was this just seen as a normal process in this world?
I step through the smoldering remains of a blacksmith's shop. The body of the man who tried to protect his people still lies by the well, his hammer caught in his outstretched hand like he was still holding on to something.
Still fighting.
Was this all because of me...
The answer doesn't come.
Reaching down I close the man's eye's at least let me grant him this much.
I keep moving.
The inn's burned out too, but not as bad as the others. The flames are dying down now, leaving only glowing embers.
The innkeeper's standing at the entrance, staring out at the chaos beyond the village walls.
I nod at him, but it's not a word we need between us. Not now.
The door creaks open behind him. I step inside, already knowing what I'll find.
Hayle's there, laying on a bed in the backroom, bandaged up from head to toe.
Her expression is pale, but her eyes are sharp—always sharp. A faint bruise marks her jaw, and the cuts from the scuffle are still red, but they're clean. She's alive.
That's all that matters.
Maybe it's because she was my first responsibility coming into this world but I can't feel anything but shame for letting this happen after talking big.
I move towards her, and she turns her head slowly, her gaze locking on mine.
"You're here." Her voice is hoarse, like she hasn't used it for hours, maybe days.
I nod again, unsure of what to say.
The innkeeper shuffles in behind me, his face unreadable.
"She'll heal," he mutters, more to himself than to me. "But it's gonna take time, unless you know healing magic?"
Magic? I pause besides the skills the thought of there being powers that I have no understanding of makes me feel even worse.
How would I have even defended myself against magic...
I kneel down next to Hayle's bed, my hand brushing against the top of hers. The heat of the flames still clings to me, and the smell of smoke lingers in the air like death itself, but I can't help but feel the weight of something heavier.
She was right there with me. She could've died, just like all the others. Just like the villagers that fell before us.
"You're not... you're not going to leave, are you?" she asks, her eyes searching mine.
I can't bring myself to even look her in the eyes.
"I'm not going anywhere," I answer after a long silence.
And maybe that's the truth. Maybe this is where it all starts to change. Or maybe it's just the smoke and ash that's clouding my judgement.
I look at the innkeeper, and he gives a half-hearted, grim nod. We've both seen the damage already. I'm not sure what comes next.
Hayle shifts, and for a moment, I think she's going to speak again. But instead, her eyes drift shut, and she falls asleep.
I linger in the quiet room for a while, the world still burning outside.
A commotion breaks outside.
At first, it's just murmurs—uneasy voices carrying through the broken walls of the inn.
But they grow louder, quicker. Footsteps against dirt. as someone starts shouting.
I rise slowly from Hayle's side.
The innkeeper glances out the cracked window, his brow furrowing. "What now…?"
I step past him and push the inn doors open.
The crowd is already gathering near the village entrance. Survivors—those who hid or were lucky enough to make it through—stand in a loose ring around someone. Not another Blood Taker. No, this one's… different.
He's dressed in long, tattered robes that might've once been white, now browned by dust and time. There's a strange insignia stitched into the fabric—one I don't recognize, though something about it itches at the edge of memory. A traveler's satchel hangs over his back, his face is shrouded in darkness as his hood covers his face.
He isn't armed.
But his voice cuts through the air like a blade.
"Who killed the Enforcers?" he shouts.
"Where is the one who fought them?! Don't even think about lying to me." he shouts pointing his hands towards the remaining fires.
Frost forming at his fingertips before shooting out like daggers into the remaining fires extinguishing them instantly.
Magic.
The crowd murmurs, some casting glances toward the inn. Others step back.
I step forward, and as I move, the traveler's eyes catch mine. They narrow.
"You," he says, pointing a bony finger straight at me. "It was you, wasn't it?"
My fingers twitch, instinctively ready for whatever this is.
The innkeeper mutters, stepping beside me, "He's not local. I've never seen him before. But he's been asking about strongholds, ruins, and... things best left buried."
"You're a long way from home," I tell the stranger, a veil hope at intimidation.
"So are you," he replies with a small chuckle.
"What are you even doing here, I've been looking for you for 2 days now do you know how much trouble your in?"
I don't respond. Am I supposed to know him?
This man isn't just some wandering scavenger. Is he-