The village lay nestled at the base of two jagged hills, its buildings hunched like old men bracing against the wind. A few thin columns of smoke curled from chimneys, but no one came to greet them. No guards. No farmers. Just silence, and the distant clatter of shutters being drawn closed.
Rhen raised a hand, signaling the others to stop. "Stay sharp."
They moved in slowly, the worn dirt path crunching beneath their boots. Valen kept to the back, his eyes dull, spear dragging in the dust. The war had drained the color from everything. He barely registered the creak of doors closing as they passed, the way children peered from behind curtains, only to be yanked away.
"They don't want us here," muttered one of the soldiers.
"They're scared," said Rhen.
A woman darted across the road, clutching a child. She didn't look at them. She didn't need to.
They found an open square near the village well and dropped their packs. No one approached. No one offered food or shelter. The air felt heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
Valen slumped against the base of a water trough, eyes glazed. Then, he heard a voice.
"Valen?"
His heart stopped.
He looked up.
Dorin.
He was standing there, bruised, dirt-smudged, but alive. Aris was beside him, armor dented, one arm in a sling. Behind them, others from their old unit, faces Valen had mourned, stood watching.
His breath caught. "Dorin… Aris…?"
Aris gave him a small, tired smile. "You look like you've been dragged through ten hells."
"I thought, I thought you were dead." Valen staggered forward, eyes wide, chest tightening with something between disbelief and joy. "I saw the camp… the bodies… I thought—"
"We made it out," Dorin said quietly. "Barely."
Valen reached out. His hand passed through Dorin's shoulder.
Everything froze.
The square was empty again.
Only his comrades stood behind him, staring.
Rhen stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Valen… who are you talking to?"
Valen looked around. The square. The villagers. The quiet. His breath hitched.
"No… no, they were here. I saw them. I—" He clutched his head. "They were *right there*…"
Rhen knelt, voice low but steady. "You're seeing ghosts, Valen. It's the war. The blood. The loss. It's in your mind."
Valen backed away, heart thundering. His spear fell to the ground.
"They were real…" he whispered. "They were real."
But no one stood in front of him now. Just dust and silence.
They camped outside the village, unwelcome. Fires were forbidden. The villagers offered no food, no water, no words.
"Why the hell are they acting like we're the enemy?" one soldier muttered.
That night, as the sky wept softly and the others slept fitfully, Valen sat alone beneath a crooked tree.
A small voice broke the quiet. "You shouldn't be here."
He turned. A boy stood at the edge of the trees, thin and barefoot, a threadbare cloak clutched around his shoulders. His face was hollow, like someone who'd seen too much, too young.
"You're with them," Valen said quietly.
The boy nodded. "My name's Lio. I live here. Kinda."
Valen stared at the fire. "Why do your people hate us?"
Lio sat beside him, legs drawn up. "Because every soldier that comes through brings more death. You don't mean to. But you do."
Valen didn't answer.
Lio's eyes shimmered. "My mother was killed by men in armor. They burned our old home. Said they were taking it in the name of their god. Not yours. Theirs. Then another group came. Burned it again. Said they served another."
Valen turned to look at him.
"They keep coming. Soldiers from other kingdoms. Priests preaching war. Everyone's fighting for favor. For blessings. They think if they kill enough, the gods will reward them. That's why they don't want you here."
Valen's voice was low. "That's not what the gods are meant to be."
Lio looked up at him. "Then why are they watching again?"
Valen had no answer.
The next morning, Rhen and Valen stood before the largest house in the village. Guards didn't stop them, they weren't needed. The air itself warned them away.
The chief was old, his beard a mix of grey and white, his eyes sharp as frost. He sat behind a worn table, sipping broth.
"You've brought death to my doorstep," he said without looking at them.
"We're not raiders," Rhen snapped. "We need shelter. Food. Anything."
"You'll get nothing here," the chief said.
Valen stepped forward. "Why? Why do you all look at us like we're already dead?"
The chief finally looked up. "Because you are. You just don't know it yet."
A tense silence.
Rhen slammed his hand on the table. "Speak plain, old man."
The chief didn't flinch. "The gods are awake. And they are hungry."
Valen's blood ran cold. "What does that mean?"
The old man stood slowly, walking toward the window. "Long ago, the gods turned their gaze from us. Our world quieted. Kingdoms grew soft. Peace dulled the blades."
He turned back to them, eyes dark. "But now… blood spills freely again. Ambition rises. Kings whisper of conquest. Each one wants the favor of a god. Each god craves devotion and domination. So they *feed* on war. On pain. On sacrifice."
Valen swallowed. "You're saying… the war is for them?"
"Yes," the chief said. "Not for land. Not for gold. For *favor*. The kingdoms pray with blood. And the gods answer."
Rhen whispered, "That's madness…"
"Madness," the chief echoed, "is believing this war can be won. It cannot. Not while the gods hunger."
Valen stared at the floor, Aris's phantom smile still burning behind his eyes.
"So what do we do?" he asked softly.
The chief met his gaze. "Survive. Or kneel. Or find a god of your own."
And with that, he turned his back to them.
That night, Valen didn't sleep.
He sat beneath the same crooked tree, watching the wind whisper through the branches.
Lio appeared again, silent as a shadow. He sat beside him without a word.
After a while, Valen spoke. "You said your mother died… because of men like us."
Lio nodded.
"I'm sorry."
Lio didn't answer. But he leaned against Valen's side.
It wasn't forgiveness.
But it was something.