The night after the Commander's fall had been restless. Though the battlefield was behind them, its weight clung to the companions like soot on their skin. Even as dawn stretched pale fingers across the horizon, no birds sang. The land was quiet, as though it too had bled too much to welcome the day.
Kael walked ahead, his crimson hair catching the muted light. His sword rested across his back, the black-steel scabbard humming faintly as though it remembered every strike it had sung the night before. Behind him, Seliora and Aric murmured quietly, their voices low but not without life. Darius kept to the rear, eyes sharp, scanning the treeline as if expecting husks to lurch out at any moment.
The road was little more than a scar through the wasteland, cracked stones and patches of ash where once farmland had thrived. The air smelled faintly of smoke, though no flames had burned here for weeks.
They traveled in silence for most of the morning, until Aric finally broke it with a huff.
"This place used to be called the Green Vale," he said, gesturing at the dead fields. "My father passed through once—said you could smell wild mint for miles."
Seliora gave a hollow laugh. "Mint? All I smell now is ash and rot."
"Still," Aric pressed, his youthful defiance forcing brightness where none existed, "doesn't mean it's gone forever. Soil can heal. Maybe one day it'll grow again."
Darius scoffed. "Not while the Sovereign still breathes."
The words landed like a stone. Kael didn't turn, but he slowed his pace, letting the weight of Darius's truth hang between them.
As the road bent, they came upon movement ahead—a cluster of figures huddled around a broken cart. At first Kael's hand drifted to his blade, but the closer they came, the clearer the scene became. Villagers. Ragged. Skin stretched thin over bone. Their eyes, wide with suspicion, tracked the companions' every step.
One of them, an old man leaning on a splintered staff, shuffled forward. His voice trembled.
"Stay back. We've nothing for you."
Kael raised a hand, palm open. "We're not here to take. Only passing."
The man's gaze narrowed, flicking between Kael's scarlet eyes and the ominous blade on his back. Whispers rose from the villagers—fearful, reverent, uncertain. Seliora stepped closer, lowering her hood so her face could be seen.
"We have food," she said gently. "A little dried meat, some bread. You look like you need it more than we do."
The villagers stiffened at the offer. One woman clutched a child to her chest. Another muttered, "No one gives freely. What's your price?"
Aric frowned. "The price is that you live another day." He dug into his pack, pulling out a strip of dried venison and tossing it toward them. The child snatched it before the mother could stop him, gnawing desperately.
For a heartbeat, suspicion cracked into gratitude. The old man's shoulders sagged. "The roads are cursed. Husks hunt anything that breathes. You shouldn't linger."
Darius stepped forward, his tone sharp. "We can't protect everyone we stumble upon. If we stop for every starving band, we'll die before reaching our goal."
Kael turned then, his crimson eyes locking on Darius. "They're not burdens. They're lives."
Darius's jaw clenched. "And if their presence slows us? If feeding them means starving us later?"
For a moment, tension sizzled between them like sparks on steel. Seliora moved between the two men, her voice even. "This isn't the battlefield. We can give what we can, then move. Both of you are right."
The villagers, sensing the argument was not meant for them, retreated a few steps, clutching the offered scraps as if they were treasure.
Kael finally nodded. "We move on." He looked back to the old man. "Stay off the main roads. Travel at night if you must. And if you hear the husks before you see them—run."
The old man dipped his head, whether in thanks or fear Kael couldn't tell.
They walked on, silence reclaiming the road. The encounter lingered like a shadow over the group until Aric muttered, half to himself, "If I ever start thinking like Darius, put me down."
Darius snorted. "You won't live long enough to get that grim, boy."
Despite himself, Kael's lips curved into the barest ghost of a smile. It was gone as soon as it came, but Seliora caught it.
By afternoon, the road narrowed, cutting through the husk of a village. Houses stood blackened and hollow, their roofs caved in. A well sat at the center, choked with ash. No bodies, no bones—just absence.
Seliora's hand tightened around her staff. "Too clean," she whispered.
Kael stepped into the square, his eyes scanning the empty windows. "The Sovereign's men were here. They didn't just kill—they erased."
Aric shivered. "Why erase a village no one remembers?"
Kael rested a hand on his blade. "Because fear spreads faster when no trace remains."
The silence pressed heavier than any battle cry. Darius finally muttered, "Let's not linger."
As they left the village behind, Kael couldn't shake the chill gnawing at his spine. Not from husks, not from soldiers. From something worse: a silence that spoke of power great enough to unmake.