Ch 28: No Stones Left Unturned

  The fire was gone, but the heat remained—trapped in stone, soaked into ash, curled beneath the splintered bones of tents and toppled posts. Char and ruin stretched far as the eye could reach, the skeletal remains of a camp that once pulsed with cruelty.

  No crows had come. Not even flies dared venture here.

  Everything was too fresh, too raw. The devastation hung thick in the air.

  Near the far edge of the wreckage, a figure moved among the bodies with quiet purpose. Neither reverent, nor careless, but moving with steady resolve. His hands worked with the precision of ritual, mind blank where memory feared to tread.

  His fingers paused momentarily, long enough for the weight of reality to settle. That blood hadn’t dried properly. Still sticky at the edges. Like the corpse was clinging, refusing the permanence of its own stillness.

  Three bodies lay close together—piled by either ruin or ritual, perhaps even his own hands. Memory failed him. He knew only that their proximity made things easier. To loot. To look. To feel less like he was walking a graveyard and more like cleaning up after it.

  Krenja lay half-submerged where ash gathered deepest, his frame sinking into the soot. One side of his helmet had folded inward like wet paper. A shattered axe lay near his hand—useless, blunt, broken. The way he fell looked like defiance. The way his blood pooled said otherwise.

  Aedor wasn’t far off, body crumpled beneath what had once been a command tent’s iron scaffolding. His war hammer was nowhere in sight—lost or buried. Limbs bent at brutal angles. Multiple stab wounds riddled his torso—ragged, deliberate punctures. The kind Ayola left. One shoulder was scorched, the skin darkened by flame. From the look of it, the collapse had finished what she started.

  Varek’s remains bore witness to more than death, they told of unraveling. Cloth fused to scorched flesh, and whatever warped his spine hadn’t let go, even in death. His veins bulged like poison still lived in them. The hole in his throat was clean. Precise. A mercy punctured into something that couldn’t be saved.

  The battlefield hadn’t taken them in silence. It had taken them screaming.

  Raekor hadn’t been buried.

  There wasn’t much left of him. Blood and torn cloth scattered across broken stone, a gauntlet flattened where it must’ve struck ground before the beast took him. Bits of charred armor lay warped and bent, one boot turned on its side, the leg it once held long gone.

  The only thing intact was the spear. Lodged blade-first into the earth, where it had landed after the throw, his throw. Its haft was scorched, but the blade still gleamed in places, sharp enough to remember.

  Without a word, Soren stared, then looked past it.

  Their gear was better than most—modified plating, unique pouches, reinforced boots. Soren took what he could. Ammunition, knives, currency scraps, ration tablets. Doba coins from stitched pouches. Not much, but enough to mean something. This wasn’t looting. This was survival with a purpose.

  His hands worked automatically, dirt and blood crusting into the lines of his skin.

  A cough. Staggered breath. A groan muffled by grit and blood.

  “You’re awake.” his voice flat against the silence.

  Behind him, Ishar rolled onto his side with a hiss of pain. Every breath scraped like a knife being dragged through cloth. He pushed himself to his elbows, trembling—body broken in more ways than one—but his eyes found Raekor and anchored there, unblinking.

  The space between them filled with everything unsaid.

  Then Ishar’s voice, thin but sharp: “You killed him.”

  Soren remained still, only his thumb moving absentmindedly along the edge of the black ring strung around his neck. His gaze fixed on Raekor’s body said more than words could.

  Ishar sat up fully, ribs protesting beneath skin that looked like it had only paused its bleeding. His eyes swept the scorched landscape—battlefield, silence, ruin—registering each piece before settling on what wasn’t there.

  “…Where is he?” His voice barely carried across the ash.

  Soren’s brow furrowed, gaze drifting toward a tall tree with scorched bark. There, a figure lay wrapped in dark cloth—arms crossed, lips parted in a peace he hadn’t earned in life.

  Makori hadn’t been left alone.

  Ishar’s throat closed. His body went rigid, eyes widening before narrowing against the sight he couldn’t bear but couldn’t look away from. He dragged himself forward on trembling limbs, each inch closer to Makori’s body a battle against his own collapsing will.

  When his knees finally hit dirt, something broke loose in his chest. A sound raw and primal, ripped from somewhere deeper than grief.

  He pressed his forehead to Makori’s chest, hand curling into the fabric like he needed to feel the weight. Like part of him still didn’t believe

  “I should’ve stopped it,” Ishar rasped. “I should’ve seen through it.”

  The words hung unanswered. What response could possibly matter now?

  Eventually, Ishar leaned back, eyes glassy but dry. “You used it.”

  “What?”

  “The spear,” he said, voice tight. “The one that… I…”

  The unfinished sentence carried more weight than the completed one.

  “Yeah.”

  Two syllables. A confession. An acknowledgment. Enough.e the silence there.

  Ishar nodded once. Then closed his eyes.

  Another breath passed. Then another.

  When they opened again, Soren had moved—closer, crouched beside him, not close enough to crowd, but just enough that the silence between them felt like company instead of isolation.

  Neither said anything for a while.

  Until Ishar whispered, “Thank you.”

  Soren looked over.

  Not confused.

  Just quiet.

  “For finishing it.”

  This time, Soren’s thumb pressed harder into the ring at his neck. “Don’t thank me for that. He would’ve been trouble regardless.”

  Then he added, “But I wasn’t gonna let him walk away.”

  Somewhere, further in the ruins, the wind began to pick up. The camp smelled less like burning now, more like earth and soot and the smoke of memory.

  The swordsman stood,offering a hand.

  Ishar took it.

  The two didn’t speak as they stepped away from Makori’s body.

  But before they reached the edge of the clearing, Ishar looked back once more.

  And said, “We’ll do it right. When we burn the names.”

  The swordsman glanced over, not blank, but uncertain. He didn’t know what the ritual meant. But the way Ishar spoke…it sounded like it mattered. So he nodded, slow. Quiet understanding, even if he didn’t understand at all.

  Soren gave a small nod.

  Then the wind carried them forward.

  They had each carried one.

  Ishar had gathered Makori—wrapped him in the same cloth used for the fallen of Ny’Kelos, arms crossed. He’d said nothing. Just lifted the boy’s light weight like it was the heaviest thing in the world, step by step through the ash.

  Soren had found Ayola crumpled beneath the remains of a splintered tree, where Makori must’ve dragged her before it all ended. She was barely breathing, blood streaked at her temple, but alive. He scooped her up without ceremony—burns, cuts, and all. Her hand twitched once against his chest. A whisper.

  They walked in silence, each step a thread stitching the moment shut.

  Soren lingered behind.

  His katana lay half-buried near a scorched tent post, blade chipped but intact. The sheath had split near the edge, thin leather frayed by heat and impact. He crouched, thumb tracing the flat of the steel before sliding it into what remained of the sheath and securing it to his hip with a fresh loop of cloth.

  Chain. Daggers. Other gear. Each piece found and claimed in practiced, fluid movements.

  Not sentiment. Just survival.

  Out here, a forgotten weapon meant you’d never need one again.

  Lowering himself, his gloved fingers closed around Raekor’s weapon. Its shaft sleek, grip blackened, the curved blade still wet with drying blood. A naginata, or something close. Ornate, cruel. The kind of weapon you didn’t carry unless you were proud of the damage it did.

  The weapon rose in his grip without reverence, lifted with nothing but practicality.

  Might be a bounty on him. Might not. Either way, weapons still held value. Steel, craftsmanship, and a name attached, even if it was cursed.

  Without bothering to clean the blade, he slung the weapon across his back.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Behind him, Ishar shifted. His gaze found the blade—then trailed up to Soren’s face.

  Rather than explaining, Soren simply tapped the haft once with his knuckles.

  “Worth something,” he said. “Figured I’d find out.”

  Ishar’s jaw flexed. Something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then he exhaled—a breath that sounded half a laugh, half a sigh.

  “I’m not taking it,” he said. “Wouldn’t want it even if it was worth its weight in doba.”

  Soren gave a quiet nod. He didn’t offer it again.

  Didn’t have to.

  The silence said everything else.

  Toward whatever came next.

  NyKelos

  Consciousness returned to Ayola in fragments, muted groans melding with rustling fabric, the sharp bite of antiseptic herbs cutting through her mental fog. Her vision slowly resolving. The ceiling that sloped low above her, woven branches crisscrossing like a cage for the smoke that pooled near the beams, caught in thin shafts of afternoon light.

  Others surrounded her. Makeshift bedding stretched in rows on both sides—some occupied, others hastily emptied. The communal healing hut seemed to inhale and exhale with its occupants, the collective suffering creating a rhythm all its own.

  A pained groan fractured the quiet atmosphere. Nearby, someone whispered a plea for water.

  Fingertips digging into the coarse blanket across her waist, Ayola sought not warmth but confirmation of reality. Something beneath her ribs protested with each breath, as if the air itself had gained substance. Along her left side, pain throbbed in deep, unforgiving waves—the ghost of impact still making its presence known.

  Her shoulder twitched. Not from cold. From memory.

  Pressure flared down her hip the moment she tried to shift. She stilled. Gritted her teeth. The muscle remembered being bent backward, forced past its limits, then left to lock in place.

  Something behind her eyes pulsed, slow and jagged.

  Everything ached—dull, spiraling pain that coiled down her back like vines through stone.

  And then she remembered.

  Aedor. The tent. The fight.

  The crystal.

  Breath hitched in her throat. She blinked hard, tried to sit up—her body screamed in protest.

  A sharp throb cracked through her temple, spinning the ceiling for half a second. The air felt too thin, like her lungs had to claw for it. She braced her good arm against the cot. Her ribs didn’t like that. The right side sparked—strained, maybe cracked.

  Pain flashed in her shoulder—like phantom fingers driving it back, twisting. Her chest tightened.

  Swallowing hard, Ayola reassured herself—no blood surrounded her this time, no boots stomped nearby, no voice barked commands. Only the hut remained, with its lingering smoke and the quiet aftermath.

  Movement caught her attention as a shadow shifted at the room's far end.

  The rhythm of approaching footsteps carried familiar weight.

  With a protesting creak, the hut's entrance flap folded back, admitting the battered remnants of Team Taren one by one.

  "Well, look who's back from the dead," announced Ren as he entered first, his customary grin halved by pain despite attempts at swagger. Bandages wrapped his arms, while a rigid splint traced his side, betraying more serious damage.

  Vyn followed at a measured pace behind him, weight shifted to protect his injured right leg. "Didn't think you'd wake up today," he observed, his voice steadier than his gait. "You took a hell of a hit."

  Bruised but maintaining his bearing, Taren entered next, his weathered face unreadable beneath the thick beard now streaked with gray. One protective hand steadied Daelin's shoulder as the younger man, face drained of color, pushed forward on unsteady legs.

  Varis appeared in the doorway behind them, favoring one side heavily. Despite visible discomfort, he managed a terse nod of acknowledgment before pressing inward, the strain of movement evident beneath his forced composure.

  Elda arrived last at the threshold, lingering there with crossed arms and rigid posture. Fresh bandages circled her temple, while her swollen lip testified to recent violence.

  Ishar and Daelin broke from the group, moving toward her cot as the others hung back.

  “You good?” Ishar asked, his voice low. Careful.

  Ayola nodded slowly, pulling herself up a little more. “Been worse.”

  Daelin gave a soft, hollow chuckle. “Bet you have.”

  It was almost light. Almost.

  Until Ayola’s gaze scanned the group. Counted. Paused.

  “Where’s the squirt?”

  Silence fell.

  No one spoke.

  Rens eyes flicked to the floorboards, where blood once pooled, as if the answers might be hiding there. Vyn’s fingers tensed against the edge of his coat. Elda shifted her weight, suddenly far more focused on the floor.

  Ishar’s hand dropped to the side of her cot, curling into the blanket. And Daelin…Daelin didn’t look at her at all.

  Only Soren held her gaze. He stood slightly behind the others, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.

  “…Ah,” Ayola said quietly. She didn’t push. Just leaned back against the bedding.

  A long moment passed.

  Then—“You’re always nagging,” Ren muttered, voice too loud in the hush. “We came out of all that alive. We should be grateful. Smile a little. Live a little. You prude.”

  Elda’s head snapped toward him. “What did you just say?”

  “You heard me.” Ren smirked, but there wasn’t much teeth behind it.

  “Enough,” Taren growled, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re not doing this here.”

  Ayola exhaled, then forced a small smile. “Still good to see all of you.”

  Taren nodded. “We just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were still breathing.”

  “We’ll be heading out soon,” Vyn added. “Figured you should know.”

  “Right,” Ayola said. Her voice had that easy tilt again, but her eyes were sharper now. “Before you go—something I found. In the tent. Wasn’t much, but…”

  She reached beneath her blanket and pulled out a small, singed satchel—scorched leather with two cracked vials inside and a rolled parchment sealed in warped wax. “Might be connected to the group running the camp. Some kind of logistical documents, maybe inventory. A few references to other locations. Old stamps. No names I recognized.”

  She didn’t mention the insignia, three vertical slashes through a hollow circle, like a broken seal or an unfinished brand. The ink smudged too easily, like it didn’t belong there.

  Taren took it without a word. Nodded once, then passed it to Elda.

  Soren’s eyes lingered on it. Just a little too long.

  “Thanks,” Taren muttered. “We’ll hand it over when we report back.”

  The moment settled.

  Then Ayola turned toward Soren. “Hey. Before you go…”

  Her voice was too light. Too level. Like she was trying not to care too much how he answered.

  “…Can you stay?”

  A chorus of knowing groans rose from the group.

  “Oooohhh,” Ren drawled, elbowing Varis—who hadn’t even made it inside yet but had apparently limped to the door.

  “She said stay,” Varis muttered with mock scandal.

  “Soren, you dog.”

  Soren blinked, clearly caught. “It’s not—”

  “Don’t embarrass them,” Elda snapped.

  “She asked him to stay,” Ren whispered loudly.

  “I heard her,” Elda hissed back.

  Taren grabbed the nearest two by the scruff and started dragging them toward the exit. “Out. All of you. You can gossip in the dirt like normal people.”

  More muttering. Vyn gave Ayola a faint nod before he turned. Daelin just gave her a glance—sad, quiet—then followed the rest.

  Soon it was just Soren.

  And her.

  Door flap swaying in their wake.

  When the last of the footsteps faded, she turned her head just slightly—toward the cot across the room where no one lay. Not for long. Not ever again.

  Her hand drifted instinctively to the edge of the blanket, gripping it tighter. Not from pain. Not from cold. Just something to hold. Something to stop herself from looking again.

  “Stupid kid,” she whispered, too quiet for even Soren to hear. And then nothing,like the words had never left her lips at all.

  Ayola shifted to sit straighter and winced. Not a sharp cry, just a breath that didn’t quite finish. The motion pulled tight across her ribs, her bandages. A dozen aches flared, not loud, but layered. Bone-deep bruises, the throb of a shoulder that hadn’t been reset right, a burning pulse near her temple where the split skin hadn’t healed clean. She masked most of it, but not all.

  Soren noticed. Didn’t say anything.

  Instead, he scratched at his jaw, then muttered, “You’re not good at staying down, are you?”

  Ayola’s eyes narrowed. “No. And you’re not good at leaving, so I guess we’re even.”

  A small silence passed. Then she reached beneath the blanket and pulled out the second sheet of parchment.

  Ayola waited until their voices faded into the wind. Then reached under the blanket again—pulling out another sheet of parchment. This one untouched by smoke.

  She passed it to him without a word.

  The same mark. Same smudged ink. Those same three slashes—cut clean through the hollow circle like someone wanted it to mean something but not say it outright.

  Soren studied it in silence, thumb tracing the edge. “That mark—looks like some kind of militia insignia. Maybe regional?”

  Ayola's brow furrowed. “Not one I recognize. But the way it’s drawn... it’s meant to look official. Or make someone think it is.”

  “Thought you said there was only one document,” Soren said.

  “That was just the part I let them hear,” Ayola said.

  He didn’t answer. Just studied the page. Then her.

  “Don’t show them yet,” she said. “We don’t know what this is. Or who.”

  Soren frowned, eyes still on the page. “Could be a fake.”

  “Maybe, but somebody still wanted it to be found.”

  “Unless they planted it for us to find.” He glanced at her.

  She didn’t blink. “You’re not the only one thinking two steps ahead.”

  “Still don’t like how clean it looks,” she added, quieter this time.

  They sat with it a moment. The words. The spiral. The silence.

  “This isn’t a standard guild seal,” Ayola murmured. “Could be forged credentials. Could be a defunct faction. But someone went out of their way to make it look official.”

  Soren turned the page in his hands, brow twitching.

  “Or it’s a fake,” she replied. “Meant to give just enough direction without showing the real hand.”

  “City politics?”

  “Worse,” Ayola said, voice tight. “Private politics.”

  They sat with it. The symbol. The silence.

  “Either someone’s covering their tracks,” Soren said, “or we just kicked the wrong hornet nest.”

  “Whatever it’s pointing at, someone wanted it seen. Doesn’t mean they want it understood.”

  Then Soren leaned against the edge of her cot, arms folded. “You’re something else,” he muttered, Like he couldn’t decide if that was admiration, accusation, or warning.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a compliment.”

  “Didn’t say it was.”

  Silence settled again. But it wasn’t heavy this time.

  “If you’re done sulking,” she said dryly, “I assume this is the part where you quote Ren and make it worse?

  Soren leaned forward just slightly, tone too casual. “Well, I was gonna say something like… ‘Want me to fluff your pillow, or are you more of a spooning kind of assassin?’”

  Ayola stared at him. Flat. Like the silence itself wanted to recoil.

  Soren blinked. “Okay. Nope. See, I immediately regret that.”

  “I can tell,” she said, but the faintest twitch betrayed her mouth. Not quite a smile. More like her composure flinched.

  “Don’t quit your day job.”

  “This is the job,” he muttered.

  “Exactly.”

  They fell into a pause. A gentler one this time.

  Two strangers not quite strangers. Planning something they didn’t understand. Together.

  Heart of the Village

  Afternoon light penetrated the canopy in golden beams, slicing between branches like unraveling threads of prayer across the forest ceiling. From the central hearth pit, smoke curled upward in thin spirals, its embers kept deliberately low. This fire served memory, not warmth.

  The village had gathered at the base of the oldest tree, its bark gnarled with age and blackened at the roots where battle had scarred it. Yet it remained—stubborn and upright, like those assembled beneath it.

  Hugging the ground reluctantly, smoke seemed hesitant to ascend, like a collective breath no one dared release. Children pressed into parents’ sides. Bandages concealed wounds but not the pain, which had merely learned to speak in whispers.

  Elder N’Kari stepped forward with lowered hood, a carved branch clutched in his weathered hand. Before speaking, he surveyed the small sea of bruised and bandaged faces.

  “When a life is lost, it does not vanish,” he began, voice steady, worn like river stone. “It folds back into the world. Into root and soil. Into sky.”

  Soren’s jaw flexed once, the words landing like a weight on cracked stone.

  A hush passed through the crowd—not reverent, but raw. Not silence, but restraint. From somewhere at the back, a child whimpered. Nyri held them close.

  “Memory is the soil they return to. And from that, we shape tomorrow.”

  He raised the carved branch high.

  A few villagers stepped forward with small bundles of ash, cradled in cloth. Others held stones etched with runes, names pressed into their surface with trembling hands.

  Ishar walked slowly, crutch under one arm. His free hand held Makori’s tag.

  Daelin followed. No words. Just a spear of carved wood clutched in both hands, knuckles white.

  When they reached the tree, N’Kari stepped aside.

  Daelin knelt first. Pressed the spear into the earth at the base of the roots. His shoulders didn’t shake, but his jaw locked, and his eyes gleamed too brightly to be the light.

  Ishar fingers trembled as he lowered the tag. Like even touching it might erase what it meant.

  The tag clinked against the wood—quiet, but final.

  Then he cried.

  Not loud. Not broken. But the kind that steals breath and leaves only shudders behind.

  Soren didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He observed the ritual intently, as though it might vanish should he look away.

  Beside him, Ayola’s posture stayed upright, but her hand had curled slightly into the cloth of her cloak. One knuckle bent white.

  Ren’s lashes fluttered, eyes wet and distant. Vyn held his hat against his chest. Varis muttered something low, wiped a cheek like it was nothing. Elda stood still, lips pressed tight, gaze on the dirt.

  Taren didn’t move. Just watched.

  Orinai’s shoulders trembled as she helped an older villager hold a name stone in place. Nyri sang under her breath—a prayer or a lullaby, no one could tell.

  Joren leaned on Kai, both of them quiet, heads bowed.

  When the last name had been placed, N’Kari turned back to the group.

  “We do not bury our dead in fear. We lift them to light. Let the earth remember them.”

  One by one, the villagers took up the call. A soft chant—no words, just breath. Circle breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. All together. A tide of quiet.

  Then, N’Kari struck the staff to the dirt once. The chant ceased.

  “We will leave,” he said simply. “This home has fallen. But the forest is wide. The old roads still whisper. And there are roots yet untouched by flame.”

  A murmur moved through the crowd. Some nodded. Some wept.

  Some shoulders squared. Some slumped. The forest waited either way.

  “We go east,” N’Kari continued. “Beyond the serpent cliffs. Past the silver thickets. Where green still grows wild. We’ll find it. Or we’ll make it.”

  Ishar looked up. Wiped his face with the back of his arm. Daelin took one more breath. Then rose.

  As the villagers began to disperse, small pockets of quiet lingered. The air filled with quiet farewells, firm shoulder clasps, and meaningful glances exchanged across the ruined space.

  They had survived.

  But now came the leaving.

  NyKelos Entrance

  The forest stirred soft behind them. Wind traced the tall trees like fingers trailing a goodbye. The gates of Ny’Kelos—once sturdy, scarred wood wrapped in moss and woven cord—now stood cracked open, splintered at the edges where fire had licked and battle had pressed. Beyond them, a dirt path wound through the greenery. Forward. Away.

  They gathered outside the gates, boots sinking into soil still damp from yesterday’s rain. Bandages mapped their collected injuries—across ribs, around shoulders, a few bodies depending more heavily on canes or makeshift crutches. But no one remained seated. No one surrendered to the ground.

  “You sure you're not coming back with us?" Taren's fingers never strayed from his weapon's hilt as he studied them both.

  "Never planned to stay long," replied Soren, adjusting the strap that secured Raekor's naginata across his shoulders—the weapon balanced like a trophy he neither claimed with pride nor discarded with disgust.

  Vyn stepped forward, his voice dropping to unusual softness. "We could use the help." Despite the improvement healing had brought to his stance, tension around his eyes revealed unspoken burdens. "The work ahead remains substantial."

  "You'll manage without us," Ayola assured them, her carefully measured smile matching the controlled precision of her every movement. "That's never been in question."

  From within his weathered pouch, Soren extracted a tightly rolled cloth bundle. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he unfurled its contents—revealing dog tags, metal coins, and fragments of glinting steel harvested from the fallen. "Consider this payment toward your return journey. The mission ended prematurely, but compensation remains due."

  "That..." Ren's usual quickness faltered as realization dawned. "You stripped all this from the mercenaries?"

  Extending the makeshift payment, Soren nodded grimly. "From every last predator who thought Ny'Kelos would make them wealthy."

  But Taren shook his head. “We can’t haul more. Not after what we already took.”

  Even one of the villagers stepped forward, an older woman with streaks of white in her braid. “We’ve no need for doba or coin. We’ve got mouths to feed and a place to rebuild. Let the world keep its blood-money.”

  The moment lingered.

  Then Soren rewrapped the pouch, slipping it back into his belt.

  No one said thank you. Didn’t need to.

  They turned next to each other. Ren clapped Ayola’s shoulder gently, favoring his right arm. “Take care of this one, will you?” He thumbed toward Soren with a smirk.

  “I’ll try,” she said, and for once, her voice carried warmth.

  Soren went down the line. A nod to Vyn. A brief exchange of looks with Varis. A half-shrug to Ren. Then he stopped in front of Elda.

  She stood stiffly, arms folded, eyes unreadable.

  He extended a hand.

  She didn’t take it right away. When she did, it was slow—measured.

  Soren pulled her slightly in, just close enough to murmur: “I don’t forgive you for what you did. Leaving us behind.”

  Elda stiffened. Everyone did.

  Silence.

  Then he added, quieter still, “But I understand why you did it. Doesn’t make it right. Doesn’t make it wrong, either. Just… hard.”

  She blinked, tension flickering across her brow.

  Soren stepped back, releasing her hand.

  “Water under the bridge, for now.”

  Ren couldn’t help himself. “First Ayola, now Elda?”

  “Didn’t peg you for the type,” Varis added, elbowing Vyn, who only sighed.

  Soren flushed—just barely—and muttered, “Shut up,” turning away as the rest burst into low, tired laughter.

  Even Taren grumbled, “Save your legs for the road, not your jokes,” but the corner of his mouth twitched.

  Ayola smirked behind him, arms crossed.

  At the edge of the group, Ishar hadn’t moved. His gaze lingered not on Soren, but the naginata slung across his back. He didn’t speak. Didn’t reach for it.

  Just stared.

  Then gave the barest of nods when Soren glanced his way.

  No farewell needed.

  Somewhere deeper in the forest, the wind rustled.

  And then they parted—Ny’Kelos returning to tend its wounded, Team Taren beginning their long march home, and Soren and Ayola, strangers still, stepping onto a path that had never truly been theirs.

  No promises were made. No certainties offered.

  Soren’s fingers found the folded map at his hip—a gesture as unconscious as breathing. The kind of anchor you reached for when nothing else promised stability.

  Only the rhythm of footsteps marked their progress.

  West. Not toward home, but toward a place that still held their questions hostage.

  We made it.

  Echoes After the Fall is rooted in those in betweens. It’s drawn from my own life, my experiences, and the quiet battles we all fight. It’s also a reflection of societal pressure, expectations, and the weight of living in uncertain times.