(Lysander POV)
The day had ended peacefully enough—so peaceful that even the sparrows forgot to sing.
I had finished stacking the firewood behind the bakery, hands coated with dust and the faint sting of sap. The sun disappeared behind the ridge, dragging color with it. Dusk came quietly, like a held breath.
Elira had retired early, too tired after long work and laughter with customers. I lingered outside, watching light fade on the thatched roofs. The village glowed softly with hearth‑lamps, each window a pulse of gentle orange. It felt alive, unshakable.
That was when I first caught it—a strange silence beneath the ordinary.
Evening has melodies: crickets, dogs, the low rustle of dry grass. But that night, all of them stopped at once. The world's breathing paused.
My body—a vessel that once held divinity—stilled too. Power long gone, but instinct remains. I turned my head; the air itself tasted metallic.
Smoke.
The alarm came late, distant and raw—a scream, then the crash of pottery. I heard boots scrambling, a door thudding open. More shouts rose, overlapping like broken waves.
By the time I stepped into the lane, panic had taken shape. Flames licked the far end of the village; small but vicious, orange cutting through the dark. Against that glow moved figures—not men. Too short, too quick, hunched with deliberate motion.
Goblins.
Crude iron glinted in their hands. Their growls carried weird rhythm, half‑chant, half‑breath, like laughter strangled by hunger.
I stood still for a moment, watching the fire spread from roof to roof as people ran. Not fear that rooted me—calculation. Remembering what restraint meant. This body could kill with ease if I allowed it. But killing—the old language of eternity—did not belong here.
Behind me, the bakery door creaked. "Lysander?" Elira's voice ached with confusion. Her eyes caught the fire, widening. "The barns—"
"Go inside."
"But—"
"Now." My tone left no argument.
She swallowed, nodded, and vanished into the dark warmth of the bakery.
I walked toward the fire. The ground underfoot trembled with running feet and collapsing beams. The first hut was already gone, roof caving inward, sparks scattering like lost constellations.
One goblin darted through the smoke, knife between teeth, tugging at the corpse of a goat. It looked up, yellow pupils catching me mid‑step. Feral recognition crossed its face—no intellect, only predatory awareness.
It leapt.
I did not move at first; even the creature seemed to fall in slow motion. When it reached striking distance, I exhaled. My hand rose, caught its wrist mid‑slash. Fragile bone snapped under minimal pressure.
It screamed, a thin, sharp wail swallowed by fire. I threw it aside. The creature hit the ground and didn't rise again.
For an instant, guilt wavered through me—not for the kill, but for how easy it still was.
By now the entire northern quarter burned. Shadows ran wild across walls. Men carrying pitchforks tried forming a line, guards with spears shouting orders drowned by chaos.
I moved among them, unseen in their panic. My steps left prints where heat scorched the clay, yet I felt none of it. The pain of mortality had not reclaimed my body entirely; perhaps the entity had been merciful there.
"Get the children!" a woman cried. "Someone find the healer!"
A boy staggered near the well, clutching a broken arm and sobbing silently. I lifted him gently, felt how small he was—fragile against a strength that could crush stone. "Where's your home?" I asked softly.
He pointed weakly toward the empty yard behind the baker's field. I carried him there and set him beside a fence, hidden beneath wet burlap. "Stay low. Don't move until dawn."
He nodded, too shocked for questions.
Sometimes mercy means being silent longer than compassion desires.
Two goblins dragged barrels from a storage shed, splitting them open for grain. When they saw me, they didn't flee. Perhaps the glow erased my human outline; perhaps they smelled something off in my presence—something more predator than prey.
They lunged together. The first swung an axe chipped by misuse. I sidestepped, twisted his weapon arm until the shoulder gave way, and sent him into the other. They collided, snarling.
Heat seared hotter around us. Tiles crashed like thunder. I held one by the neck, felt sinew strain under palm pressure. "Leave," I said—not shouted, not threatened, merely spoken as truth. My voice cut through crackle, a tone the void itself might remember.
Their bodies stiffened, hands trembling. Then they bolted as one, dropping weapons.
Not long after, relief came—a distant horn from the watch hill. The goblins, realizing numbers shifting, began to scatter. Villagers pursued, clumsily but fiercely, armed with rakes and stones.
I followed none of them. I walked instead along the edge of destruction, helping where flame still clung stubbornly to beams. One by one, I lifted charred planks, tossed sand, guided buckets. Even laborers twice my age stopped mid‑motion to stare; the speed, the precision—unnatural.
When the last fire dimmed to embers, the air was ash and exhaustion.
Elira found me kneeling near the well again, palms black, shirt torn open at the collar. Her cheeks were streaked with soot, her hands trembling. "You're safe?"
"Yes."
She looked around—the ruin, the smell of burnt wood—and whispered, "You fought, didn't you?"
I hesitated. "I stopped what I could."
Her eyes searched mine, seeing something old flicker behind calm. "You look…" she trailed off, afraid of her own description.
"Different," I finished for her. "I know."
We worked side by side until dawn mended the world enough to breathe again. Chickens clucked uneasily, unaware of death among them. Smoke softened in morning gold.
When it was over, I washed my hands in the well, watching ash spiral away like ghosts refusing destination. The skin beneath was unmarked, too perfect for someone mortal. I closed my fists quickly.
Elira brought me a cup of water. "There'll be council talk soon," she said quietly. "They'll ask how you did what you did."
"I'll tell them luck."
She smiled faintly—disbelieving, but grateful not to press.
Behind her, the first carts rolled from the nearby villages—help arriving. Among ruins, children gathered broken pottery like treasure. The bakery roof still stood, miraculously untouched.
Perhaps the world refused to take its bread from her hands.
When the village finally slept again, I went behind the bakery, where night's edge still lingered between trees. My fingers brushed the axe left by the goblin—a crude weapon, its haft splintered. I lifted it and tested the weight.
Even now, tireless. My swing could fell it in one motion. Nothing had changed.
The entity may have stripped magic, but not power. Maybe it had trusted I'd learned restraint enough to keep such strength caged.
A sound came softly from the door—Elira again, holding a blanket over her shoulders. "You should rest," she said.
"I can't."
"Because of them?"
"Because of me."
She stepped closer, eyes gentle though rimmed with fatigue. "You saved lives. Don't twist it into guilt."
"I remember the last time I fought," I said. "It didn't end in saving."
The silence between us stretched, fragile as glass. Then she reached out, brushing soot from my cheek with thumb and said simply, "Then let this time end differently."
When the next sunrise found us, she baked again. Refused despair. Flour dusted her hair like snow. I helped rebuild the oven's outer frame, hands steady despite the ache echoing deep in bone.
As new loaves browned under fresh fire, the scent rose stronger than ash. Villagers gathered near the bakery, tired but drawn to the smell—a promise that life would resume.
Children whispered my name. Garren, even, from across the lane, gave a short nod of thanks before walking away.
Elira broke one loaf, handed it to me silently. It was burnt on one side, rustic, imperfect. I bit it anyway—warm, bitter, alive.
Later, when quiet settled again, I sat under the sycamore behind the bakery watching smoke trails dissolve into sky. My knuckles still trembled faintly—not from weakness, but restraint's memory.
There is a violence even in mercy; a line thinner than thought. But this time, I hadn't crossed it.
That was enough.