Dry leaves cracked beneath the old scribe's feet, each snap a scream in the damp darkness of the forest. The night breeze brushed the back of his neck like cold fingers, and no matter how carefully he tried to move, his body was not made for hunting—let alone for chasing.
His chest heaved.
His heart, once calm, now pounded wildly, as though it wanted to escape through his ribs.
The figure he had been following—that shadow that had slipped so stealthily from the mayor's house—had long since vanished into the dark. And yet, something compelled him forward. There was something in that presence, something in the way it moved, in the way it had disappeared without a sound... It was not common. Not natural, perhaps. But even so, the scribe had to know.
He was important.
Perhaps it was fear. Perhaps faith. Perhaps it was simply the hope that this strange man was the key to freeing the village—or himself—from this quiet hell called Eloren.
But the path vanished. The branches began to close in. He stopped, gasping, bracing against a moss-covered tree trunk, trying to pierce the pitch-black with his eyes.
Nothing.
No tracks. No shadow. No light.
"Damn it…" he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Where did you go, you bastard?"
Then—absolute silence. No wind. No animals. No sound.
A sharp crack behind him.
The scribe turned, but it was already too late.
A shadow dropped from the trees above.
A strong arm seized him by the collar and slammed him against a tree, driving the breath from his lungs. A blade appeared before his throat, cold as northern ice.
"You followed me," said the voice—rough, low.
The scribe tried to speak but choked on his fear. Words wouldn't come. Rael's eyes—dark and furious—locked onto his like twin voids ready to devour.
"What do you want?"
"I—I…" the man stammered, trembling. "I just wanted…"
The blade pressed closer.
"Speak. Now."
"Please…" he swallowed hard, tears already forming. "Please, don't kill me. I… I saw you leaving the mayor's house. I thought maybe… I'm not your enemy!"
Rael remained silent. The wind returned, light, brushing against his cloak and the scribe's damp scarf. The man's heart thundered like a war drum.
Then Rael exhaled—long, heavy.
He stepped back.
The scribe collapsed to his knees, gasping, hands at his neck.
"Then speak, old man. Say what you came to say."
The silence that followed the threat was heavier than any scream.
The old scribe stayed kneeling, his trembling hands on the damp forest floor. His chest rose and fell with difficulty, as though he were still fighting for the breath fear had stolen. Rael stood before him, unmoving. The glint of his blade was gone, but his eyes remained sharp, laden with shadow.
"I… I lost everything because of him," the man said, voice choked and shaky—but sincere. "My wife… her name was Sariah. A seamstress. She worked her whole life with dignity, even when the food ran low and the work doubled. And my youngest daughter… she died of fever. The medicine was in the mayor's hands. He charged for everything. Even for breath, if he could."
"I begged. Gathered coins, went door to door… And when I went to his office, he laughed. Said my wife and daughter weren't worth a vial. Said 'life renews itself,' and 'the poor die every day.'"
The old man looked up at him. His eyes were filled with tears—but beneath them, there was rage. Burnt, suffocated, shaped by helplessness.
"And you know what else?" the old scribe said, voice quivering. "I'm not the only one. He's seized land from entire families. Had a farmer's fingers cut off for failing to pay taxes. Used the guards to intimidate women. And no one does anything—because no one can."
Rael narrowed his eyes, his face hardening into a mask of cold resolve.
"The Kingdom of Cronos placed him here," the old man continued. "He answers directly to supervisors from the capital. Even if we stood together… it wouldn't be rebellion against a man. It would be treason against the king himself. And now that the crown prince is dead, I doubt the king will show any mercy to a village as small as ours."
The pause that followed was sharp, cutting.
"And this village…" his voice faltered, "…we don't have the strength to fight. All we can do is bow our heads, bury our dead, and pretend we still have dignity."
The scribe's eyes brimmed with tears.
"But you…" he whispered, swallowing his sorrow, "…you are different. You're strong. You move like a soldier, speak like a king, and you let me live when you could have killed me. I don't know who you are… but for all that is sacred… do something."
The silence between them was thick, as if the forest itself held its breath not to interrupt.
Rael still watched the old man with a hardened gaze. The shadows of the trees veiled half his face; the other half, illuminated by the weak light, revealed a look marked by hesitation. He turned slightly, as if preparing to leave—but then his voice broke the stillness, deep and steady:
"I'm not a savior."
The scribe raised his eyes, breathing heavily.
"I didn't come here for justice," Rael continued. "Nor for hope. I came because I was betrayed… and I'll return that betrayal to the world, drop by drop. I suggest you do the same, without waiting for anyone else. Don't use me as a banner. Don't ask me for what I can't give. I have nothing to offer. And I don't want to."
"You have strength," the old man replied without hesitation. "And it's not just the strength of your sword, boy. It's the way you look at things. The way you walk, the way you feel the world around you. I saw you. I saw the way you look at Lyara."
Rael's patience faltered for a moment.
"You've been watching me this whole time?"
"I saw you. I saw when she cared for you, tended to you. I saw the way she looked at you… with hope. Something this village hasn't seen in years. I work with words, boy. Observation is what I do. Especially when it comes to her—because she needs it more than anyone."
Rael clenched his fists.
"That girl…" the old man went on, his voice breaking, "…carries scars no one sees. Lives under the shadow of a monster branded with the seal of the crown. And no one does anything. Not because we're cruel. But because we're afraid. Afraid to die. Afraid to suffer what she suffers."
And then, the memory came—clear, sharp, violent.
Lyara kneeling by the river, trying to leave him food in silence. The white cloth tied over her face. A delicate gesture… hiding pain.
He remembered seeing the bruise. The redness beneath the scarf. Her attempt to smile, to pretend nothing was wrong.
At the time, he didn't understand.
"Was it me…?" he had asked.
She had said no. Then ran—nearly stumbling in her haste.
And now, he understood. Everything made sense.
The distant voice. The sudden tension in her shoulders. The suffocating silence whenever she spoke of home. The downcast gaze, as if apologizing for existing.
He had never wanted to see.
But now he did.
Rael stood still. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath. Blood pounded louder in his ears. His knuckles turned white. The sword strapped to his back began to stir—as though it, too, could feel what he felt.
Rael stepped forward. His face was fully visible now, and something in his eyes began to change. Slowly.
The scarf on her face. The tone of forced obedience. The flight. The exhaustion in the eyes of someone beaten beyond endurance.
"What does he do to her?" Rael asked, voice flat, controlled—but every word poisoned by fury ready to erupt.
The old man hesitated.
Then answered, voice trembling like a blade's edge:
"He hurts her. Always in the shadows. In the mornings, before anyone can see. Never too hard… just enough to remind her she belongs to him. A slap. A shove. A veiled threat. And she… she wipes away the blood. And returns to her chores. Because she has no choice."
Rael bowed his head for a moment. The forest, the sky, the earth—everything seemed to fall silent around him.
The sword on his back vibrated gently—not with the blind thirst for vengeance as before, but with something new.
Directed.
"She will not endure this again," he said aloud, a vow made not to the old man, but to himself.
Not while he still drew breath.