It's quiet tonight.
I can still smell the faint trace of blood in the air — cold and metallic, fading slowly into the damp moss and the sweet perfume of nightflowers. The vampire's ashes have already scattered into the wind, but the memory of that fight lingers in my veins like smoke that refuses to leave. I kept thinking what would happene to her husband now.
The mission is over.
I should be relieved.
I should be packing my things, preparing to return to the capital.
But I can't bring myself to move.
There's something heavy in my chest — not fear, not regret exactly — just that strange emptiness that comes when the battle is done, and all that remains is silence.
For years, I thought silence was my friend.
Now it feels like a mirror — showing me everything I try not to see.
It's strange how life changes in small, unexpected ways.
Just when I thought this mission would be nothing but another dark page in a long story of blood and duty… a boy came he said he want to learn drawing .
His name is Lith.
He appeared at the edge of our camp one morning — shy, eyes bright like sunrise after rain. His hands were trembling when he asked if he could learn drawing from me.
At first, I thought he was joking.
Me — teaching art? I've only ever used my hands for the sword, for magic, for sealing wounds. But there was something earnest in his voice, something fragile but brave.
And so, I said yes.
He started with simple sketches — the curve of a leaf, the shadow of a stone, the delicate lines of a bird's wing. His hands moved awkwardly at first, his lines uncertain. But he had an eye for beauty — not the kind that can be taught, but the kind that lives inside. By the end of the week, he was sketching the forest as if he'd lived within its soul all his life.
I remember watching him one evening, sitting under the fading light, his face half-shadowed by his hood, the last glow of sunset painting his hair gold. He was so focused, so lost in the motion of his pencil, that he didn't notice me watching.
There was peace in him — the kind I've been chasing for years and never caught.
Maybe that's why I couldn't look away.
Sometimes I think Lith reminded me of myself when I was younger — before the wars, before the endless missions, before I learned that victory always costs something invisible.
He looked at the world as if everything still held wonder.
Even after facing monsters, he could still find beauty in a tree's silhouette or the sparkle of dew on the grass.
I envy that kind of heart.
Today, as we rested near the edge of the lake, my old friend Aerin came to visit.
I hadn't seen her in months — not since the last mission where we nearly lost half our squad to the shadow beasts. She looked radiant, as always, her long silver hair tied with a blue ribbon, her lute hanging by her side.
She smiled when she saw Lith sitting near me, sketching the reflection of the clouds on the water.
"So he's with you now?" she asked, teasing as always.
"Yes," I said, smiling faintly. "He's my student. He wanted to learn drawing."
Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, Amelia, you'll be surprised then. Lith's my student too."
I blinked, thinking I'd misheard her.
"What?"
She laughed softly. "He's been learning music from me — the flute, the lyre, a little singing. He's talented, that one."
For a long moment, I just stared at her, words tangled somewhere between disbelief and amusement.
Lith — my quiet, reserved, ever-observant student — the same boy who could barely look me in the eye when asking for new paper — was also learning music?
And from Aerin, no less — the most passionate, expressive elf I've ever known.
When I looked back at him, he was humming softly as he sketched, the tune gentle and pure, like wind moving through glass. I hadn't noticed before, but his rhythm matched the strokes of his drawing.
Each line flowed with the melody.
Each shadow followed the tempo.
I realized then that for Lith, art and music weren't separate.
They were the same language — two rivers flowing into the same sea.
I don't think he even knows how rare that is.
Aerin said she discovered his gift during her last patrol. He had asked her to teach him because he wanted to "paint with sound." That's how he described it — paint with sound. Such an odd and beautiful phrase.
When she told me that, something in my chest softened.
It's been so long since I met someone who could still see the world with poetry.
I remember when I first met Lith, he was just another recruit — quiet, always lingering behind others, polite to a fault. He didn't speak much, but when he did, his words carried weight. Not because they were grand, but because they were honest.
And honesty is something rare in our world.
After Aerin left that afternoon, I sat by the campfire while Lith drew the dying light over the lake.
I asked him why he wanted to learn these things — drawing, music, all of it — when he could have spent his time mastering combat or magic like the rest of us.
He thought for a long while before answering.
Then, with that same calm voice of his, he said,
"Because when I draw or play, I remember who I am. When I fight, I forget."
I didn't know what to say to that.
His words struck deeper than I expected.
I've spent years fighting — for the kingdom, for peace, for names I can't even recall anymore — and somewhere along the way, I stopped remembering why I started.
Hearing him speak felt like being handed a mirror I'd long avoided.
Maybe that's why I agreed to keep teaching him.
Teaching him wasn't just about drawing.
It became something else — something healing.
For him, and maybe for me too.
Sometimes we would draw together in silence. He'd sketch the world as he saw it, while I tried to capture the way it made me feel.
He'd always end up drawing with more life than I did. His lines were gentle, alive, breathing.
Mine were careful, distant — too controlled.
He'd laugh softly and tell me, "Your draw is better than mine , teacher Amelia."
In his presence, I began to remember the part of me that wasn't forged for war — the part that still found joy in creation, in quiet mornings, in the way sunlight touched water.
He reminded me that beauty doesn't belong only to peace; it can survive even in the ruins left by battle.
Last night, after we returned from the vampire's nest, he showed me a sketch he'd made.
It was of me — standing amidst the ruins, sword lowered, the moon behind me.
But he hadn't drawn the blood or the destruction.
He'd drawn me with light — faint, soft lines surrounding me like aura.
I didn't recognize myself at first.
"It's not how I looked," I told him.
"I know," he said simply. "It's how I saw you."
I couldn't speak for a while after that.
It's strange how someone you barely know can see you clearer than those who've known you for years.
I wonder what he would draw if he could see my soul — would it still have light? Or just shadows and regrets?
Tonight, the stars are bright again. The moon hangs low, heavy and pale. Lith has already fallen asleep near the fire, his sketchbook clutched against his chest like a shield.
I laughed, but part of me doesn't want to let him go.
It's been a long time since I've felt… attached to anyone.
I don't know if it's friendship, affection, or simply the comfort of being seen without the armor of duty. But whatever it is, it scares me a little.
Maybe because I know everything in our lives is temporary.
Missions end. Friendships fade. People die.
And yet, we keep reaching for connections — fragile, fleeting, but real.
Sometimes I think the gods gave us art and music as ways to survive what our hearts cannot endure.
When I see Lith draw, I believe that again.
I used to think my story was already written — another soldier's tale buried in the capital's records.
But lately, I've begun to wonder if there's still another chapter waiting — one that isn't written in blood, but in color.
Maybe that's what this diary is becoming — a record not of battles, but of the small, quiet moments that make the fight worth surviving.
If someone ever reads this after I'm gone, I hope they understand:
The monsters we fight aren't only out there in the dark.
Some of them live inside us — in the fear of feeling, the refusal to hope, the walls we build to stop ourselves from caring.
Lith, in his gentle way, has taught me that it's okay to lower the sword sometimes.
That creation can be another form of courage.
Tomorrow, we'll start our journey back to the capital.
I'll make sure Lith sends his sketches to the Academy. He deserves to be seen — not as another soldier, but as an artist who can make even scars look beautiful.
And maybe, when I return home, I'll visit Aerin's music hall.
She said she's performing a new melody — one inspired by the moonlit ruins where we fought.
She called it "Wings of Ash."
I think she wrote it for us — for the things we lost, and the things we found again.
I'll end this entry here.
The fire is low, and the night is growing colder.
Lith mumbles in his sleep — something about the stars, I think. I'll put another log on the fire so he doesn't shiver.
He reminds me that not all warmth comes from light — some comes from the quiet presence beside you.
Perhaps that's what I needed to learn all along.
— Amelia