The Echoing Plains were still beautiful. That was the first thing that struck Captain Eva as she rode east from Aethelburg. The sea of grass, now touched with the golden hues of autumn, still rolled towards the horizon, and the distant spires of the mountains still held their vigil against the sky. But Eva saw it all through a new lens. This breathtaking expanse was no longer a testament to a benevolent god's creation; it was a hunting ground. Every league she crossed, every small, nameless village she passed, was another potential target on Ghra'thul's map.
She rode with a small contingent of four of her best guards, including Joric. They were a grim, silent procession, their silver-inlaid armor a stark contrast to the rustic peace of the landscape. They were intruders here, carriers of a truth far heavier than their steel.
It took them three days to reach the vicinity of Oakhaven. From a distance, nestled in a gentle dip in the plains, the village looked exactly as the old reports described it: a peaceful, idyllic cluster of stone-and-timber cottages. But as they drew closer, the illusion shattered.
The silence was the first sign. There were no children playing in the fields. There was no cheerful sound of a blacksmith's hammer or the chatter of villagers going about their day. The air, which should have been alive with the energy of a thriving community, was heavy and still, thick with a palpable sense of apprehension.
As they entered the village's single lane, doors were quietly shut. Faces peeked from behind grimy windows, their expressions not of curiosity, but of suspicion and fear. Eva's Royal Guard uniform, once a symbol of security, was now clearly seen as a mark of oppression. They were the King's enforcers, the ones who had commanded them into a silence that had done nothing to stop the dying.
Following the directions from the dispatch, Eva sought out the cottage of the farmer Dillon. She dismounted, her armor creaking in the unnerving quiet. She knocked on the heavy wooden door.
After a long moment, the door opened a crack. A man's face, gaunt and bearded, peered out. His eyes were hollowed-out things, filled with a weary, defensive anger. The strong, smiling farmer from Rhys's memories was gone, replaced by this grim stranger.
"What do you want?" Dillon's voice was a low rasp.
"I am Captain Eva of the Royal Guard," she said, keeping her own voice steady and calm. "I have come from Aethelburg on behalf of the King. We heard of the loss of your elder, Hayley. We came to offer our condolences and to understand what happened."
Dillon gave a short, bitter laugh. "Condolences? From the King who told us to hold our tongues while the sky eats us alive? Your condolences are late, Captain. So is your understanding." The door started to close.
"Please," Eva said, her tone softening. She was not here as an enforcer. "I am not here to give orders. I am here to listen."
Perhaps it was the unexpected gentleness in her voice, or perhaps it was simply the exhaustion of his own anger. Dillon hesitated, then slowly, reluctantly, opened the door.
The inside of the cottage felt different from the warm, inviting space Rhys remembered. The air was stale, and a layer of dust coated the simple furniture. It felt less like a home and more like a shelter where people were simply waiting out a storm.
Alyssa was there, sitting by the cold hearth, a small, quiet boy at her side. Her face, once described in reports as warm and kind, was now drawn and tight, her eyes constantly darting towards her son, as if expecting him to be snatched away at any moment. The boy was Rhys. He looked smaller than his eight years, and he watched the armored soldiers with a wide, silent terror.
"My husband is right," Alyssa said, her voice brittle. "What is there to understand? The Reaping came for Hayley. It took her, just as it's taken so many others."
"Tell me what happened," Eva prompted gently, choosing to stand rather than intrude further into their space.
Alyssa's gaze became distant. "It was as simple and as terrible as a stone falling. She was in the common, telling the children one of the old stories. Trying to give them some comfort, some memory of the light. She was in the middle of a sentence… and she just… stopped. Her breath left her. Her eyes went blank. One moment she was there, and the next, she was a vessel of empty flesh. The children just sat there, waiting for her to finish the line."
Eva's heart clenched. This was the reality of the pins on her map. Not a statistic, but a story stolen from a child's ears.
"Her death… it broke something in this village," Dillon added, his voice low. "She was the last one who truly believed Qy'iel was just testing us. She was the one who told us to keep faith. When she was taken, her faith died with her. And so did ours."
Eva looked at the silent boy, Rhys. "Your son… he has not spoken?"
"He speaks when he must," Alyssa said, pulling Rhys closer. "But the wonder is gone. The Reaping took Hayley, and the Great Silence took the light from my boy's eyes."
Dillon stepped forward, his anger reignited. "And what of the King's great plan? His 'Declaration of Silence'? Do you know what that has done to us? You told us to be silent to show our faith. We were silent. And Hayley was still taken. Your King's silence is a lie. It is not a shield. It is a gag to keep us from screaming while the wolf picks us off one by one."
He gestured to the door. "We don't Whisper anymore, Captain. We don't dare. Instead, people have started leaving… Offerings. A bundle of their best grain, a hand-carved toy, left at the edge of the woods at night. A desperate, foolish hope that if they give something up, the sky will take the offering instead of one of them. We are no better than the primitive tribes from your history scrolls."
Eva listened, a cold dread seeping into her. This was worse than she imagined. The King's plan had not just failed; it had backfired, creating a spiritual vacuum that was now being filled by primitive, fear-based superstition. They were not just losing their faith in Qy'iel; they were forgetting the very nature of it.
She wanted to say something, to offer some word of hope or reassurance, but what could she say? The truth she carried was a thousand times more terrifying than their current reality.
As she stood there, locked in her own silence, the small boy, Rhys, finally spoke. He had been staring at her, at the polished steel of her armor, his expression unreadable. His small voice was clear and thin in the tense quiet.
He looked directly at Eva, his eyes holding a depth of loss that no child should ever possess.
"Did the moths die too?"
The question was a ghost from another age. A reference to a time of impossible, innocent magic. A time when God was a friend who made insects dance for the delight of a small boy. It was a question about the loss of all wonder, of all light, of all grace.
Eva, the pragmatic Captain of the Guard, the woman who could face down a riot without flinching, had no answer. She could only stare into the eyes of the boy who was the living embodiment of their lost world.
Later that night, camped a mile from the village, Eva sat by a low fire, her journal open on her knee. She was writing her report to the King, the quill scratching furiously across the parchment.
The spirit of Oakhaven is not broken, Your Majesty. It is being actively corrupted. The Great Silence has hollowed them out, and fear is now rushing in to fill the void. They are forgetting the nature of grace and learning the grammar of appeasement. Your decree has failed. They see it as a punishment from a God they no longer understand, and it is driving them to the superstitions of the First Men.
She paused, the boy's question echoing in her mind.
We are not just losing people to The Reaping. We are losing the very idea of what it meant to be human in this world. This is not a war of attrition. It is a war for their souls. And we are losing.
She sealed the report, her face grim. She looked back in the direction of the dark, silent village. A year ago, it had been a beacon of light. Now, it was a tomb of memory, haunted by the echo of a dead god.