The rain had stopped that morning.
A thin mist hung over the village courtyard, veiling the horizon in a milky white layer. The air was still cold, as if the earth hadn't fully decided to wake up yet.
Reno stood outside the communal kitchen, wearing Tomas's worn cloak. In his hand, a note listing testimonies—not to be read aloud, but to be whispered at just the right moment. Behind him, Yarra's footsteps sounded heavy, but steady.
"Are they really coming?" Yarra whispered, handing him a cup of warm tea.
Reno nodded slowly. "Their carriage entered the valley last night. Three horses. Slow, but intentional. They want to be seen."
Tomas approached from the west, dressed simply but neatly. His face was tense, but his eyes were different. No longer confused—now, prepared.
"Berond is calling the villagers to the main hall. He says he wants to 'explain everything before the guests from the capital arrive.'"
Reno held back a faint smile. "Too late. The voice of the people doesn't wait for permission from a ruler who's about to fall."
At exactly midday, the carriage from the capital stopped in Ezzera's main courtyard. It wasn't luxurious. There were no soldiers. Only a man in a dark blue coat, hair tied neatly, and unreadable eyes. Behind him, two female aides—one documenting every step, the other carrying a small wooden box draped in cloth.
His name: Vern Aurelien.
He wasn't a high noble. But Reno knew—he was the tongue and ears of House Aurelien for the western region. Including Ezzera.
Just as he had once said, Reno wasn't creating a new path—only reconnecting one that had been intentionally severed.
Vern stood before Berond, who had been waiting at the main hall, wearing a robe that looked too clean for the morning.
"Welcome to our humble village, Lord Vern. We are grateful for your visit—"
Vern raised his hand slowly. Silence. Then he
"We heard the old logistics route was closed. But our records show no such order f
The
The villagers gathered. No gavels. No high chairs. Just a long table and wooden benches. Vern sat at the center. Beside him, Tomas—not as a
Mira stood to the side, awkward, both hands gripping a sheet of paper. Reno stood far back, in th
Berond began defensively.
"We were merely following central orders. Prices rose, yes, but that's due to a new distributor. The current trading house is faster—"
Reno stepped forward once. He didn't look at Berond. He spoke to Vern.
"Four years ago, Ezzera received medical supplies via the Noctera route—marked by a one-legged crane. The official seal of V.A. Noctera. Then suddenly, that route was cut off. No disaster. No order from the capital. Just... gone."
Vern glanced at his aide, who opened the wooden box. Inside—an old map and a red wax seal. Vern placed them on the table.
"This contract is still valid. And this village... is still on our route."
Murmurs broke out among the villagers.
Someone stood. Her name was Elra—the wife of a farmer who had nearly lost their child to fake medicine.
"My child had a fever. The medicine we bought... crumbled into dust before we could use it. It was never like that before."
Then a young man:
"I once delivered crates to the city. But they never made it. Korr... told us to reroute and store them in the shed near the kitchen."
One by one, the voices flowed. Not loud. But heavy. Like small stones piling against a dam.
Berond began to sweat. He looked to his left, searching for Korr. But the guard's seat... was empty.
Then Reno spoke softly, almost like a deliberately audible murmur.
"Captain Korr... will not be coming."
All heads turned.
Tomas stood, his face tense yet composed.
"Three nights ago, we found him... in the forest, near the old route. He had hanged himself from an acacia branch, using a saddle strap buckled twice—a suicide method specific to the military."
The villagers went quiet. No one knew what to say.
Tomas continued.
"There was a note. Scribbles naming... victims. Including Mira. And forged shipment records. He didn't deny anything, but he didn't confess either. He just... gave in to his own shadow."
Silence. Heavy.
Mira lifted her head. Her hands trembled, but her voice didn't.
"I... am no one. But I know what it feels like to be a victim. And I know that it wasn't the price that made this village sick. It was... the hands that stole behind those prices."
Vern slowly stood. He turned to his aide. The woman nodded and handed him a small scroll with a seal.
"In the name of House Aurelien and the authority of regional logistics, we hereby declare that Village Chief Berond... is under arrest for abuse of distribution channels, falsification of reports, and negligence leading to the loss of civilian and civil servant lives."
The villagers didn't cheer. No applause. Just a long silence... followed by a deep exhale. Relief... or perhaps bitterness.
Two attendants from the carriage entered, carrying light wooden shackles. Berond didn't resist. But before he was taken away, he whispered—to anyone who could hear:
"So... he knew everything from the start... didn't he?"
No answer. None needed.
Berond was taken away without a struggle. The old guard had already stopped moving since yesterday.
Tomas now stood tall at the hall's entrance, answering the villagers' questions.
The trade route flowed again through Yarra's hands. And Mira—though still trembling—became the face people slowly began to trust.
Vern stood once more at the center of the hall.
"We do not appoint a new leader. But we choose whom we speak with."
He turned to Mira.
"From this day forward, you are our representative. We will restore the old route. But only if the people's voice is heard."
That evening, two old men sat by the edge of the village's old well. They had watched everything from afar.
"Berond fell... finally," one muttered. "But it all feels... too neat."
The other smirked faintly.
"Tomas, Mira, Yarra—they all moved in sync. Then Vern showed up. You think that's coincidence?"
The first man shook his head.
"There's always someone pulling the strings behind the curtain. We're just too busy watching the stage."
Meanwhile, in the distance, a small child gazed toward the hill road.
At the edge of his vision, the silhouette of a young man disappeared behind the trees, carrying a worn cloth bag.
"Big brother Reno…"
But his mother had already pulled his hand to go home, and the name faded with the wind.