The storm had ended, but silence weighed heavier than the thunder ever had.
Caelum stood at the edge of the village, staring across a landscape of shattered homes rimed in frost. The morning sun shone pale, glinting off ice-crusted rubble. Smoke drifted in ragged columns where blue flames still smoldered among collapsed roofs. Here and there, villagers gathered bodies of friends and family. Cries of grief cut through the hush like knives.
Oren emerged from the wreckage, one arm wrapped in bloodstained bandages. He limped toward Caelum, eyes haunted. "You saved who you could," he rasped. "But this place… it's finished."
Caelum's gaze fell to the katana resting across their knees. "Then I'll find the one who did this," they whispered. "I swear."
Oren placed a heavy hand on their shoulder. "The figure in the mask — he's no man. I saw him… he walked through fire like it was fog."
A cold certainty settled in Caelum's chest. "I know."
That afternoon, they dug graves in the half-frozen earth. Snow fell lightly, mixing with the mud. Caelum's arms burned as they lifted stones, each thud of earth over the bodies an unspoken vow. By evening, the village's few survivors gathered around a dwindling fire. Mourne stood among them, silent, his presence drawing eyes like a stormcloud.
Caelum approached him. "Why did he attack my village? Why now?"
Mourne's eyes met theirs with quiet sadness. "Because the threads of fate are unraveling. And you… you are one of the strands."