Ardon hesitated as he reached for the door, fingers brushing the wood like it might bite him. He knocked once—lightly—then pushed it open. The hinges gave a soft groan.

  "It's me," he said into the dim.

  The light inside barely shifted. Shadows ruled the room, long and heavy, stretching from where the three women crouched in the far corner. Nora, Maggie, and Matilda—what was left of them, anyway. Their eyes found him all at once. Haunted, but still human.

  Maggie surged forward first, half-running before sense pulled her up short. "Ardon! Gods, I thought—" She caught herself, voice cracking. "You're alive."

  He gave a slow nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. "I'm fine," he said, though his voice dragged with exhaustion. "We're safe."

  Nora rose more slowly, brushing dust from her skirt as if trying to reclaim a sliver of routine. "They're dead?" she asked, voice low and careful. "All of them?"

  "Every last one," Ardon said. He pulled out a chair and dropped into it. His weight made the old wood creak. "The streets are… you don't want to see it."

  Matilda still hadn't lifted her head. Her voice came muffled, trembling. "Thank the gods." But she didn't sound thankful. More tired than anything else. Like relief had cost her too much.

  "They're really gone?" Maggie asked again, as if repetition might make it real.

  "They won't be back," Ardon said. "Not unless someone figures out how to walk with a sword sticking through their neck."

  There was a hush, brief and thick.

  Nora narrowed her gaze. "And the strangers? The ones who came out of nowhere?"

  Ardon's mouth thinned to a line. Then, reluctantly, "Still outside. One of them's hurt bad. They're tending to it themselves."

  "You talked to them?" Maggie's voice lifted, uncertain. "What did they say?"

  "Said they want food and somewhere dry to sleep." He ran a hand through his beard. "Claim that's all. No talk of taking the place or lording over anyone. Just a place to rest, then they move on."

  Nora frowned. "That's it?"

  "That's what they told me," Ardon said, glancing toward the door. "They saved our skin. And after what I saw that mage do—" He paused, swallowing hard. "They don't need us for anything. If they wanted this place, they'd have taken it."

  Matilda shuddered violently and finally looked up. "Mage." The word broke in her throat. "I don't trust power like that. It's not… right. No one should be able to do things like that."

  "I've never seen one," Nora said, voice barely more than a thought aloud. "He was an actual mage?"

  Ardon nodded. "Saw it myself. Steel lifted from the earth like it had weight but no master. Spinning like stars, then flying—clean through flesh and bone. Like he wasn't so much fighting as deciding who left this world."

  "I saw it too," Matilda muttered. "Through the shutters." Her hands were white-knuckled in her lap. "One moment they were men. The next—just pieces."

  Nobody spoke for a beat.

  Then Maggie asked, "Have you checked on Gerlan's place? Anyone left over there?"

  "Nah. Haven't made it that far yet."

  Nora stood straighter. "Then I will. Someone has to check. See who's still breathing."

  "Wait—what?" Maggie caught her arm. "You're going out there? What if they see you?"

  Nora slid her hand free. "Then let them." She drew a long breath. "Maybe it's time someone saw the villagers walking again."

  "So they know we're not all ghosts," Ardon said, nodding faintly. "Might not fix anything, but it's something."

  Matilda curled tighter into herself, like the idea of leaving was physically painful. "I'm not going," she whispered. "Not one foot out that door."

  "You don't have to," Nora said softly. She crouched beside her and rested a hand on Matilda's back. "You're safe in here. Rest. That's enough."

  "It's over," Maggie said gently. "The worst of it, I mean."

  Matilda didn't reply immediately. Then, "For now."

  Silence fell again—this one heavier. Not hopeless—just steeped in everything unsaid.

  Ardon leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "We've got bodies everywhere. Square's full. And gods help us, they're not going to bury themselves."

  "Burn them," Nora said, her voice matter-of-fact.

  "Too much wood," Ardon said with a shake of his head. "Too little to spare. No oil either. It's for heat, not the dead. They'll have to go in the ground."

  "Then ask the strangers," she said evenly.

  Ardon stared at her. "We're asking them for help now?"

  "If they say no, they say no," Nora returned, meeting his gaze. "But if they say yes, we don't waste a full day breaking our backs. Helps both of us."

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  Ardon sighed and closed his eyes for a second. His shoulders rose, then fell. "We keep stacking favors, we'll be buried in debt before dinner."

  "Maybe," Nora admitted. "Or maybe they won't ask for more."

  "You think that power comes free?" Matilda said sharply. "What if they're just being kind now so they can hurt us later?"

  "That's always the risk," Nora said gently. "But right now, we've got dead to bury. And not enough hands."

  Maggie crossed her arms. "You think the other villagers will help? Most are probably still shaking in their boots."

  "They will if we ask proper," Ardon muttered. "If nothing else, grief gets heavier when left alone. Might make relief enough to get 'em moving."

  Maggie looked unsure, but she nodded slowly. "I'll go with Nora. I'll try to convince Jilai. And the fletcher twins. They've still got shovels."

  "Tell everyone to meet at the well," Ardon said, rubbing his forehead, weariness making him slump. "Bring anything that digs. Shovels. Pots. Their bloody hands if it comes to it."

  He looked over at Matilda. "You gonna be alright alone?"

  She managed a nod. "Just… need time. That's all."

  Nora touched her shoulder one last time, then stood. She reached for the door, Maggie close behind.

  The frame groaned as it opened.

  Cool air kissed their faces, carrying the scent of blood, dust, and something else—harder to name.

  Not peace. Not yet.

  But maybe the first steps toward it.

  They stepped outside.

  And the door closed quietly behind them.

  Mira paced near the well, boots crunching against shattered cobble, her shoulders tight with emotion she didn't want to name.

  "He shouldn't be out here," she said sharply, more to herself than anyone else. "Not like this."

  Viktor lay slumped against the mossy rim of the old well. His coat was streaked with dried blood and dirt. Sweat matted his curls to his forehead, and his skin had blanched to a frightening pale. Even from a few feet away, Mira could see the way his fingers twitched now and again, like he was still holding something he couldn't let go of.

  She watched him with a storm behind her eyes. Worry, yes—but also something cooler, meaner. Guilt. Dread. Fear.

  Not of what might happen to him.

  But of him.

  She'd seen it—seen him. How he'd summoned death like it were a feather quill sliding across parchment. Calm. Certain. Terrible. The memory gripped her by the throat. She'd flinched—and she hated herself for it.

  But what if she'd been right to?

  A few paces away, Arelos stood like a sentinel, arms folded, gaze turned outward across the quiet stretch of broken village square. His voice came even, cool.

  "He's resting."

  Mira turned on him, frustration bubbling. "He's freezing, Arelos. If that counts as 'resting,' we've gone wrong somewhere."

  "The stone's cold, not death," Arelos said, barely shifting. "He'll live. Just needs time." He faced her now, finally, and added, "We all do."

  She huffed, brushing a loose strand of hair from her brow. "He should be inside by now. Blanket. Fire. Something. This… this isn't just about waiting. This is you playing diplomat, isn't it?"

  "And what's wrong with that?" he asked mildly. "We're guests here, Mira. Temporary ones, even after all that's happened. It costs nothing to be respectful."

  "Respectful? We bled for them. You really think they're going to revoke our invitation if we borrow a door?"

  "That's not the point."

  "Well, maybe it should be," she snapped, folding her arms.

  Arelos let the silence stretch just long enough to make his stance clear. "Diplomacy matters. We helped, yes. But we also probably scared the crap out of them."

  Mira gestured broadly to the war-battered square. "They were scared long before we got here. We just changed who they were scared of."

  At that, Arelos's jaw ticked. He didn't answer, not yet. His silence wasn't agreement—it was caution. He turned back toward the road, scanning again, like patience alone might will the headman to return.

  Mira's gaze slid back to Viktor. She could still see that last spark before he collapsed—fury extinguished by sheer cost. The others had flinched when the weapons began floating, when they struck. So had she. But it lingered with her, the way fear clung to the bones.

  Was it wrong to love someone you also feared?

  Kneeling, she brushed a streak of dark, matted hair from Viktor's brow. His skin was pale, lips nearly white. She whispered, low and urgent, "You with me?"

  His head lolled slightly. "M'sorry…" he mumbled. "Pushed… too far. Too fast…"

  "You scared me." The words tumbled out before she could reach for subtlety. Her hand stayed on his cheek. "You scared all of us."

  He didn't respond. Maybe he hadn't heard. Maybe he had.

  Mira bowed her head, voice softer now. "But I'm still here."

  "If we're just gonna sit around waiting for some dude to reappear," Jax said, striding into view with a jaunty stagger and a hand at his bandaged side, "someone better feed me. I'd kill for some jerky right now."

  Fenric didn't even glance up from where he knelt among a fallen bandit's belongings.

  "I'll get you some pinecones to chew on," Fenric said dryly, pocketing a dull coin.

  From his perch on the rim of the well, Soren didn't laugh. He just sat, arms wrapped around his knees, staring down at the square like he was counting ghosts.

  "I killed a man today," he said. His voice cracked around the edges of the words, as brittle as frost.

  Silence fell like a dropped stone. The jokes hit an abrupt end. The remaining warmth bled out of the air as all of them turned toward the youngest in their midst.

  Soren looked at his hands—shaking, stained dark. "I saw his face… I just—killed him."

  Fenric scratched the back of his neck with faux casualness. "Yeah… me too." He glanced at the bodies. "…A few, actually."

  Jax kicked at a pebble beside his boot, sending it careening across the stones. "Welcome to the club, little brother," he muttered. But even he didn't smile this time.

  Soren didn't seem to hear. His body folded tighter, as if shrinking from memory. "…I looked into his eyes. I saw him. I just… acted. And now he's nothing."

  Mira half-turned from Viktor. Her gaze softened. "I know."

  Their eyes met, and something passed between them—muted sorrow, quiet understanding. They were all broken in different places.

  Arelos finally stepped in, his presence grounding.

  "You stopped him before he stopped one of us," he said quietly, placing a hand on Soren's back—steady, not forceful. "That's the truth of it. That's the only truth that matters right now."

  Soren didn't speak again, but after a long breath, he nodded—barely.

  Back on the ground, Viktor stirred with a harsh, rattling cough. Mira turned instantly, one arm under his shoulder, propping him up.

  "Okay. No." Her voice was final now. "I'm done being polite."

  Arelos frowned. "Mira—"

  "No." She raised a hand. "Ten more minutes, five—I don't care. We're not leaving him out here while you polish your sense of honor like a badge."

  Arelos met her glare with calm. "He's not dying, Mira. He's just spent. We move too soon, and it looks like we've come to take."

  "Let them think what they want," she retorted. "We already scared them. What'll another blanket do?"

  "It's not about blankets. It's about trust."

  She gave an exasperated sound but didn't argue further. Instead, she pulled her cloak off her shoulders and eased it around Viktor. The fabric draped clumsily over his frame, but offered warmth, and more importantly—care.

  Viktor blinked groggily. "You… s-stayed?"

  "Course I did," Mira murmured, tucking a corner of the cloak tighter around his chest. "Always."

  There was a stretch of stillness, the square hushed except for the sound of wind stirring dried leaves and gravel, the far-off caw of a crow perched somewhere out of sight.

  Then—as if summoned by patience alone—a door creaked open.

  Two figures emerged into the dying light—women, both. They kept their eyes low, arms wrapped tightly across their middles, and hurried away without a word.

  Silence returned, heavy and expectant.

  Minutes passed.

  The wind nudged a loose shutter, tapping it gently against the wood.

  Then the door creaked again, and a lone figure stepped out.

  Ardon.

  His steps were measured, his eyes watchful.

  Mira stood slowly, Arelos straightening beside her.

  "Well," she muttered under her breath. "About damn time."