Edran pushed through the evening crowd as he ran, the streets of Greimdall blurring past. He had to push through a wall of bodies made up of city guards, cloaked tourists, and market stalls. The sound of footsteps behind him was not as loud as his heartbeat. Like a curse, the letter blazed in his pocket.
The looks didn't bother him. When someone cursed at him, he didn't slow down. He needed to leave. The hills had to be reached.
At last, the hills parted to reveal the temporary expanse of the camp for refugees, but something was amiss.
He remembered quiet laughter and crackling fires, but not in the camp. It was too silent. Heads turned, voices hushed, movement stirred but cautiously. As he went by, eyes flitted away.
Then he caught sight of them.
Armed and on guard, three soldiers stood in the middle of the camp, close to the gathering post. With a scroll in hand, one of them read aloud for everyone to hear.
"Davan of Vaelridge is hereby charged with treason against the Kingdom of Greimdall by order of Duke Ardrin."
Edran stopped. His throat tightened with breath. His father was kneeling there. Face bruised but unbroken, wrists bound. Even as the crowd silently watched, his eyes were defiant.
Edran took a step forward, rage building in his chest, but he was snapped back by a hand that grabbed him from behind.
He pivoted. An elderly woman's terrified eyes were fixed on him. Behind a pile of crates, she dragged him. "Don't," she said sharply in a whisper. "They remain here. They will also take you if they see you."
Edran's voice broke. "But he is my father. I have to go. I have to help him. This is a mistake."
She took a firm hold of his arm. Her face was deeply sorrowful, but her voice softened. "At this time, you can't help him. You will only be next if you try."
Edran's hands shook. His legs resisted his body's cries to move and fight. Like a flame trapped in glass, he felt imprisoned.
Leaning forward, he took another look around the crates. The soldiers were done reading. They dragged his father to his feet and started to lead him away without any ceremony or hesitation. Heading west on the path toward Greimdall and the outer road, and Edran could only watch.
Edran sat quietly in front of the firewood pile next to the main tent. His father had been there the previous evening, humming softly while he split logs with trembling hands. The room was now deserted, the logs undisturbed, the axe lying where it had been. The fire crackled close by, its flames swaying as they had the night Vaelridge was engulfed in smoke, and he gripped the bracelet tightly around his wrist. The truth sunk like a stone in his chest as he gazed into the light without blinking. A deep, silent crack had appeared inside him. He was still unable to move. Not while her song was still being whispered by the fire.
-break-
After a long time, Edran got up, not because he was ready, but because his body moved on its own initiative, pulled by something more profound than his thoughts. He moved slowly, stiffly, and hollowly down the road that led to Greimdall. He didn't flee. There was nowhere else to flee to. The only bit of warmth he could still feel was the bracelet, which was still clenched tightly in his hand. Safety was no longer synonymous with home. Family no longer meant the camp. Everything had been tainted by the truth, making the world smaller, colder, and painfully silent.
Each step he took was heavier than the last as he made his way south along the ancient streets that wound around the outskirts of the city. Instead of walking, his feet dragged aimlessly, motivated only by the weight of everything, the truth, and the necessity to leave Greimdall.
He only knew that it had to be away, but he had no idea where he was going. Then he saw it through the gray fog of his mind. The twisted shape of the Dragon Fang tavern was visible up ahead, tucked away in a peaceful corner of the lane. He hadn't planned on coming this way, hadn't given it any thought. But it was there, waiting, as though the wind itself had drawn him to it.
The familiar creak of the sign, now strangely unsettling in the silence, swayed in the wind. The tavern stood closed in the late hours, just a ghost of the commotion and laughter it usually evoked, its lamps extinguished. It felt unnaturally quiet, as if a song had been interrupted in the middle.
Something drew Edran's attention toward the back as he passed the front, intending to continue walking.
A hunched figure sat in the shadows close to the back entrance, where the alley connected to the tavern's kitchen door. With a cautious step closer, he could make out the shape in the pale wash of moonlight. The elderly man from earlier was there.
Edran called softly, "Hey." "It's me, old man."
His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he knelt next to him. The elderly man's hat hung low over his forehead, and his face was slightly turned away. Edran spoke in a firm voice while crying. "You were right. You were right in everything you said."
His voice caught in his throat as he released a tremulous breath. "I ought to have paid attention," he whispered. "I assumed you were simply bitter, drunk, or..." Still no response. Reaching down, Edran put a hand on the man's shoulder. "Hey, say something." He shook him gently, but the man sagged even more, limply and strangely cold.
There was a heavy silence, and then a sharp, metallic smell curled into his nose. As Edran leaned closer, he noticed a small, purposeful stain that was dark and dried and barely visible in the folds of his tunic, just below the ribs. A clean wound from a dagger. He gasped for air. With his hands shaking and his heart pounding in his chest, he stumbled backwards as the weight of everything fell on him.
Footsteps echoed behind him, metallic, measured, and much too quiet for the hour. This time, though, something was different, it was heavier and colder. The sort of sound that promised consequences in addition to merely announcing one's presence. Edran turned toward the end of the alley and felt a chill run down his spine. A smooth, deliberate voice with a hint of quiet menace came from the shadows outside the tavern's edge. "You should've left shadows where they sleep."
Edran turned, struggling for air, as Captain Halric emerged from the darkness, composed, methodical, and eerily accurate in every step. The faint glow of nearby torchlight flickered at the hem of his cloak, and his boots hardly made a sound on the ancient wooden boards. With every step he took, the silver sheath of his sword gleamed. Halric stopped a few steps away, staring at Edran as if he was a judge deliberating over a case.
"But you couldn't just let it go, could you?" he asked in a steady, almost disheartened tone. "Always seeking justice." even if it brings you directly into contact with a blade."
He moved forward and held out a gloved hand. "Give back what you took."
After hesitating, Edran carefully reached into his coat and took out the rumpled letter. His hand shaking, he threw it at Halric's feet. His voice cracked as he asked, "Why?" "Why Vaelridge? Why my father?
As though the question bored him, Halric let out a sigh. "Orders," he said plainly. "From Duke Ardrin himself. Vaelridge and other villages were inefficient. A waste of resources."
Edran's a voice rose, stifled by anger and incredulity. "You used illusion sigils, then? made it appear as though shadow beasts or dragons had attacked?"
Without flinching, Halric looked him in the eyes. "Naturally, we did. The sigils were provided by the duke. Things were... cleaner as a result. When people are afraid, they don't rebel. After grieving, they move on. They don't inquire. The realm remains united when monsters are blamed. It protects Greimdall. That's what counts."
Edran's piercing, enraged voice rang out. "Yes, but you lie to the people. You gave us the impression that it was monsters. You covered your slaughter with banners of glory and protection, allowing everyone to cling to some noble lie. And for what purpose?"
Halric did not flinch. He spoke in a steady, icy tone. "It was never about glory, truth, or even safety. Coin was at issue. Resources. stability. Order. Do you believe that honor governs kingdoms? No you fool. They thrive on gold and the quiet it brings."
Edran balled his fists. His voice broke, full of anger and grief. "With you people, it's always the same. I observe it in the streets, the guild, and even among the soldiers. Behind every gleaming breastplate and every speech about harmony and peace, there is greed. You talk about order, but all I see is money made from blood."
His legs buckled under him. The weight of betrayal, grief, and truth finally brought him to his knees. His wristband dangled loose, the final remnant of a life engulfed in lies and flames.
Then Halric moved suddenly. A quick, accurate flash of steel. His blade left a trail of flames behind it as it sliced across Edran's face. Like a hot brand smeared across his skin, the pain was sudden, sharp, and stinging. Warm, steady blood trickled down his cheek as though his body was attempting to process what had just transpired.
Over him, Halric stood coolly composed, his blade still shining in the low light, a thin smear of red catching on the edge. He knelt next to Edran, his voice cold and purposeful, his breath brushing his ear.
"You wear your truth now."
With deliberate steps, he turned away and stood up. "But it won't make a difference. Crawl back to the mud you came from. Or don't. In any case, nobody will give a damn. Do yourself a favor and finish it, just like the elderly man next to you. Save our land the expense of squandering more money on scum like you."
Edran remained silent. As Halric's footsteps vanished into the night, sucked up by the wind, he fell to the ground. Warm against the chilly skin, blood trickled down his cheek. The dirt his fingers dug into felt like ash, like the remains of something that had once been alive.
He felt like screaming. to desecrate Halric's name. To weep for his dad. For Daina. Because nobody wanted to see the truth. However, nothing appeared. No tears, no sound. Only the hollow, raw ache spreading through his chest.
Like a discarded object, he lay motionless and half-curled behind the tavern. He questioned why Halric hadn't completed it already. Why didn't he drive the blade deeper and put an end to it all? Perhaps being left breathing and forced to bear the truth that no one would accept was the punishment. To decay silently as the world went on.
The stars above him blinked coldly, too far away to give a damn. The same thick, oppressive silence that had pervaded the camp and persisted after screams was back. Edran allowed the dust to land on his lips and closed his eyes. Cold and restless, the wind moved. He heard a faint, brief melody somewhere outside the streets and outside the night. It might have been a song by Daina. Perhaps the wind was pretending.
He remained motionless. He remained silent. Skyland was swept by the wind, which stirred the dust surrounding his motionless body.
As the final strand of her song silently vanished into the night, he stayed there with blood on his face and silence in his chest.