Tears slowly fell from Mira's eyes, wetting her cheeks streaked with dust and the cold breath of night. The little girl stood trembling, her voice shaking as she finally spoke, "I… I'm really scared of you now, brother."
The words pierced Riven like a cold blade. He remained frozen in place, his body stiff like stone. His eyes dropped to his hands.
Those hands... were soaked in blood. Not just the fingers and palms, but his tattered sleeves, the ragged cloak he wore, even his boots—everything stank of iron and the stench of death. A blend of fresh and dried blood, battlefield mud, and ash clung to him like a second skin.
Riven slowly lifted one hand, staring at the dried blood caught between his fingers. Whose blood was it? He no longer knew. Whose corpse had he touched, scavenged, dragged—just for a broken blade or a dented piece of armor?
He felt sick.
Not from the blood. Not from the stink of death clinging to his flesh. But from himself.
Monster.
That was the only word that echoed in his mind as he saw his reflection in his sister's eyes.
"Every time you come back from picking weapons off the corpses… you change," Mira continued, her voice cracking. "You used to smile wide… used to laugh so freely… but now, you're getting colder and colder…"
Riven said nothing.
He wanted to speak. To explain. To defend himself. But no words came. Because any word felt false in the face of that truth.
"I don't even know who my brother is anymore," Mira said, her voice breaking into sobs.
Her small fists clenched, her body shook. "I don't need gold! I don't need meat! I'd rather eat stale bread every day and work in the market than stay at home wondering if you'll ever come back alive."
Riven looked down at her tear-streaked face. The face he had always wanted to protect with everything he had—now stained with fear, because of him.
His hand slowly reached out, wanting to stroke her head like he always did. But when he saw his hand again, dirty and red...
He stopped.
He couldn't bear to stain her. Not with blood. Not with the rot of the battlefield.
"I'm scared every night," Mira said, her voice trembling, but steady. Like it had all been building up for so long. "Scared you won't come back. Scared the door will never open again. Scared of hearing footsteps… because it might not be you."
Riven swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in his throat. His hands trembled. His breathing was heavy. But still, he didn't speak.
Mira wept loudly now, uncaring if neighbors or enemies might hear. "Please stop being a scavenger! I'm begging you… please…"
Riven felt his chest split open. Mira's words struck him harder than any slap. He asked himself, "What have I done all this time?"
What kind of man had he become, chasing after scraps in exchange for dreams of warmth and food?
And just as he was about to collapse under the weight of his own guilt, Mira stepped forward—and hugged him tightly.
Riven was stunned.
The embrace was warm.
His arms hung frozen, afraid to return it, terrified of dirtying her small frame. But Mira didn't care. She held him like she never wanted to let go.
"Brother… promise me… please…" she said through her sobs.
Riven closed his eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks in silence.
"I promise…" he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking. "Today… today is the last day I scavenge the battlefield. I promise."
And that night, beneath a dark sky and bodies marked by wounds, a brother and sister held on to each other in shared strength.
.
.
.
Riven looked at the woman's body once more, then at Mira—still red-eyed, her nose running. Something deep inside him told him this was foolish. Reckless, even. But for the first time in what felt like forever… he felt relief.
"Mira," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "Help me. We're going to save her."
Mira's eyes widened. "W-What? You're serious? But if—"
"I know the risk." Riven turned to face their front door, to the chains and lock he'd never dared open. They'd been his only illusion of safety—meant to fool others into thinking the house was abandoned. He grabbed a small hatchet left behind by the home's previous owner, and without hesitation, CRANG! he struck the padlock. The metal shattered.
The door swung open. Riven glanced back, then carefully lifted the woman into his arms. Though she was light, he could feel how fragile she was—as if she'd shatter from the smallest mishandling. But then, once more… the scent.
Death.
But not rot. Not decay. This was different. It was… pleasant. Like flowers growing from a corpse-littered field. Sweet and strange and wrong.
Riven shook his head, forcing the thought away.
"Focus," he murmured.
He carried her into the only bedroom in the small house. The old bed that he and Mira usually shared was now a makeshift hospital bed. With gentle hands, he laid her down.
"Mira, bring clean cloth. And warm water. Quickly."
Mira rushed off to the kitchen, her limbs still trembling. Meanwhile, Riven pulled off his tattered cloak and made for the washroom. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands and face over and over. The water was cold, but enough to strip away the worst of the filth.
When he felt clean enough, he wiped his face dry and looked around. No alcohol. No bandages. No medicine.
If this were a modern world… there'd be a first aid kit. But not here. Not in this place.
Here, pain was stitched with thread and bitten lips. Or eased with magic.
"I need something else…"
And then it struck him.
"Salt."
He rushed to the kitchen, opened a small jar of cooking supplies, and found a handful of coarse salt. Mira returned at that moment, carrying a basin of warm water and several cloths.
"Set it here. Hurry."
Riven added a spoonful of salt into the basin, soaked one of the cloths, and swirled it gently with his fingers until the grains dissolved.
Then he turned toward the woman.
Her black gown was torn and soaked in blood. Oddly enough, its design reminded him of a skirt Mira once owned. But what mattered now was the wound beneath. He couldn't treat her if he didn't see it properly.
He swallowed. "I don't have a choice."
With slow, careful hands, he began to unfasten the front of her gown. His fingers trembled—not with lust, but with guilt… and caution.
And when the gown opened fully, Riven froze.
His breath hitched.