The village burned.
Smoke twisted into the sky, thick and suffocating, carrying the scent of scorched wood, blood, and something deeper—the remnants of what had once been life. Houses collapsed under the weight of fire, their wooden beams splitting apart like brittle bones. Ash fell like snow, coating the ground, softening the jagged ruins.
Tona was gone.
But the villagers had fought.
Not because they believed they could win. There had never been hope of that.
They fought because this land was their home, because their lives were stitched into the fields and the stones, because surrendering meant giving up something that could never be reclaimed.
And so, they resisted.
They fought with whatever they had—hammers, scythes, even bare hands—knowing it would not be enough. The invaders, hardened by war and greed, cut through them like a blade through wheat. A baker fell before he could even raise his rolling pin. A blacksmith collapsed, his blood staining the very metal he had once shaped. A mother, shielding her child, was struck down without hesitation.
They fought, and they fell.
Ryen had tried, too.
He had moved. Acted. Reached out.
And he had failed.
His body still ached from where he had been struck down. He had barely lasted a moment before they had thrown him aside, as insignificant as dust in the wind. He had always known he was weak. In body, in mind. It was a truth that had been with him for as long as he could remember, lingering like a shadow at the edges of his thoughts.
Maybe that was why he had always stayed distant.
Maybe that was why he had never let himself care too much.
Because deep down, he had known that if he ever let himself hold on to something, losing it would break him.
Now, there was nothing left to break.
The night was heavy, filled with the weight of loss.
The battle had ended long ago, but the echoes of it remained. The groans of the dying, the quiet sobs of those who had survived, the distant laughter of the victors as they gathered their spoils.
The surviving villagers knelt in the dirt, their hands bound, their faces hollow.
The leader of the invaders stood before them, surveying them with detached amusement. He was broad-shouldered, with a scar running through his lip, his armor stained with blood. He looked down at them not as people, but as objects—remnants of a battle already won.
"Bravery," he murmured, almost lazily. "A wasteful thing."
No one spoke.
He crouched, reaching out to grip the chin of one of the villagers, tilting their face up to meet his gaze. He studied them for a moment before releasing them with a disappointed sigh.
"Foolish," he muttered. "You could have lived quiet, simple lives. Instead, you chose this."
No answer.
He straightened, casting one final glance over the remnants of Tona. Then, as if it no longer interested him, he turned away. His men followed, their work complete.
There was nothing left to take.
Somewhere beyond the smoke and ruin, the warriors arrived.
Late, as they always were.
They rode in on dark-coated horses, their cloaks heavy with dust, their weapons drawn but unstained. They moved through the wreckage with slow, careful steps, their faces unreadable.
They had seen this before.
They had come to save what could no longer be saved.
They found the survivors still kneeling, their bindings cut but their bodies unmoving. None of them looked up. None of them spoke.
There was nothing to say.
One of the warriors crouched beside a fallen villager, pressing two fingers to their throat. A long pause. Then, a slow shake of the head.
The same gesture was repeated over and over.
No one wept.
No one screamed.
The grief had settled too deep for that.
Ryen watched.
He was there, but unnoticed.
Even the warriors did not sense him.
Something had changed.
He had tried to help, and it had made no difference. He had fought, and he had fallen. He had always believed himself to be an observer, watching from the outside, untouched. But that wasn't the truth.
The truth was simpler.
He had remained detached because he could not handle the weight of loss.
And now, he was slipping further.
He did not speak. He did not move.
Ryen became one with silence.