Another month passed, and the village of Glintmere slipped further into quiet desperation that went beyond mere yearning.
The winds that swept through the scorched remnants of homes carried no laughter, no children's games, no sound of a hammer striking nails.
What remained was a village shrouded in stillness, its soul a hollow echo of what once had been.
The fires that consumed the merchant and his guards had long since burned out, but they had left behind more than ash.
They left silence.
And silence bred fear.
Most of the dead had been the backbone of the village: young men, strong women, workers, foragers, and farmers. They were the ones that lived right next to the farms and fields, and thus they had been the first ones to burn along with the fields.
The rest who had survived were either too old to labor, too young to be of use, or too injured to help. Their arms hung limp from shattered shoulders. Their legs bore twisted scars from falling debris and lashing winds.
Their eyes held the distant look of those who had witnessed something their minds could not grasp.
Even those who lived wished, at times, that they hadn't.
Angus was one of the few still able-bodied.
Each day, he went further and further into the surrounding woods, gathering what little game or fruit he could find. His hands grew calloused, his back bowed, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. And he was not alone.
Three other villagers, also among the few survivors with minor injuries, took to the task of maintaining what little they could. They hunted. They foraged. They tried to mend what homes remained. But it wasn't enough.
The turning point came on a gray morning when the clouds refused to part and the smell of mildew hung heavy in the air. A gathering was called in what remained of the central square... a broken circle surrounded by burnt cottages and crumbling stone walls.
Nearly every villager showed up.
The elderly came, wrapped in threadbare cloaks.
The children came, clutching the hands of their frail parents or worse... alone.
Even the injured limped forward, compelled by the gravity of necessity.
The village chief, a thin man named Mark who had once been known for his keen eyes and sharper tongue, stood atop a half-broken crate to address them. His face was pale, his posture stooped, but his voice carried.
"It's been a month since we sent word through the merchant, even though we knew they were long gone..." He said. "We held on. We waited. We hoped."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
"But nothing came. No relief. No messengers. No carts of grain or priests from the Temple."
Mark's eyes swept over the assembled faces.
"We cannot pretend any longer. Either the merchant betrayed us. Or the gods saw fit to burn him away. Either way, we are alone."
Cain stood near the back, his arms folded beneath his cloak. He listened in silence as whispers grew. Despair rippled through the crowd like rot.
"We have no food left. No seeds to plant. The fields are ruined. The cattle are dead. Even the herbs in the forest are nearly gone. Angus and the others have done what they can, but it isn't enough. They can't feed all of us."
Eyes turned to Angus, who stood a few paces ahead of Cain, expression grim but unbowed.
"We need to act," Mark continued. "Someone must go to the nearest town. Deliver our plea. Bring help, or supplies, or even news. If we do nothing... we die here."
A hush followed.
No one spoke.
No one volunteered.
They all knew what it meant to leave Glintmere.
The path was long. The forests were wild. Beasts roamed freely, and bandits preyed on the desperate.
And then, a voice rose.
"I'll go."
All heads turned.
Cain stepped forward, cloak fluttering slightly as a breeze swept through the square. His eyes were clear. His jaw set.
"I'm healthy. Recovered. I can walk. I can fight. And if the gods truly did save me... maybe it was for this."
Gasps followed.
A few villagers murmured blessings under their breath. Others looked away, as if fearful to draw the attention of divine forces.
Angus stepped toward his son, his face unreadable.
"Cain... you don't have to."
Cain shook his head.
"Yes. I do."
His voice rang with conviction. But beneath that conviction, hidden deep behind his calm exterior, was the truth:
He had his own reasons.
Selfish reasons.
The further he stayed in Glintmere, the more he felt the creeping hunger within him—a hunger for knowledge, for god gems, for power. He needed to understand the laws of this world. How magic worked. How the gods governed. What boundaries existed and how to break them.
He needed to explore. To grow. To reclaim the potential that had been stripped from him.
But above all, he needed to kill Zeus.
And he would never reach him by sitting in a village of ashes.
Mark looked to the others. "If Cain goes, we must support him. Prepare supplies. Give what little we can. This journey could mean the difference between salvation and extinction."
A few nodded. The old began whispering prayers. The children clung to their mothers if they stilll had them.
And Cain stood in the center of it all, silently watching.
Later that evening, as the fire crackled low and the stars blinked overhead, Cain sat outside the ruined porch of his home, sharpening a dull blade with a jagged whetstone. Angus stepped out, carrying a bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Food," he said. "Not much, but it should last you a few days. A few villagers pitched in."
Cain took the bundle with a nod.
"You don't have to do this," Angus said again.
Cain met his father's eyes. "Yes. I do."
Angus hesitated. "Do you still hear them? The gods?"
Cain looked to the sky.
"No," he said truthfully. "But I think they still hear me."
And if they did...
Then they would learn what it meant to be hunted by their own miracle.