Chapter 14 – The Square of Silence
They entered the village in silence, but the silence did not last.
The villagers saw them — Luceris and the battered remains of his forces. Faces bruised, armor cracked, eyes downcast. A hush fell over the streets like fog.
Whispers rose.
"There leader… defeated?"
"Three against an army… how?"
They had heard the battle. The screams. And then — silence. A silence that had meant only one thing: Defeat.
Valtor walked at the front, his steps heavy with command. Behind him, Lilith's sharp eyes watched their prisoners like a panther in velvet.
The elf walked — quiet, his aura wrapped around him like mist. He said nothing, but his thoughts churned.
He could still feel the blade — not its pain, but the impossibility of its failure. Flesh had parted. Yet here he stood. Whole. Strong. Too strong. A fragment of a name flickered at the edge of his mind, but when he reached for it, it vanished like smoke in wind. The woman in the vision…
His pace did not falter, but inside, the storm built. Not fear — never fear — but questions. Old ones. Forgotten ones.
Behind him, Luceris stumbled.
"Walk faster, " Valtor growled, his voice like rolling thunder. "Or fire will teach your feet to obey."
Luceris glanced at his men, then at the villagers watching with wide eyes.
"Do as they say," he muttered. "We've lost. Our only hope now… is to survive."
Lilith's lips curled.
"Survival?" she scoffed. "That mercy rests solely in my Master's hands."
They reached the center of the village. The fountain, long unused and choked with vines, stood like a memory waiting to be reclaimed.
Lysanthir stopped and turned.
"Valtor," he said calmly. "Bring them forward. On their knees."
He grinned and snapped his fingers.
"You heard him. Down."
The soldiers didn't resist. Some had already collapsed. Others dropped to their knees with hollow eyes.
"This is it," one whispered. "We'll burn… or worse, " whispered another. "I'd rather die than become undead."
A crowd began to gather — first the curious, then the cautious. Some bore hoes, others pitchforks. Most came with only silence.
From between the houses, Angela ran.
"You did it!" she cried. "I knew you would!"
Her mother, Paulina, followed — slower, breathless. She gasped at the sight of the fallen invaders, then looked at the elf with wet eyes.
"You're a true saint," she whispered.
Angela stared at the soldiers, then at Valtor, Lilith, and him.
"Are those… are those the ones who tried to take the village?"
He turned his head toward them.
"Join the others," he said. "You'll hear everything soon."
They stepped back into the crowd as he raised his voice.
"People of this village!" he called. "Come forth. Stand witness."
And they came.
Children peered from behind mothers' skirts. Elders leaned on staffs. A dog barked, then went silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
They're listening, Lysanthir thought. So many… and yet I do not feel fear. Only a strange stillness — as if this was meant to be.
He let the moment breathe. Then spoke.
"I came to this village a stranger. I did not come seeking war. But war came anyway."
He gestured to the captured men.
"These soldiers came not for glory, but by command of a man who bleeds you dry — the Duke who rules from afar and burns what he cannot claim."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
An old woman spat on the ground.
"Let the Duke choke on his silver."
Luceris said nothing. He did not lift his head. He knew the words were true. And worse — he agreed. Still, he could not speak against his father.
He clenched his fists. He had served loyally, blindly. But now, with the villagers' eyes on him and his men broken at his feet, shame burned hotter than any flame. Was loyalty worth silence? Or was silence the last cowardice he could afford?
Lysanthir continued. "This village must change. It must rise."
He stepped to the edge of the fountain, the cracked stone glowing faintly under his presence.
"You are not warriors — not yet. But some of you will become more."
He glanced to Lilith.
"My servant will call forth her kin — old blood, long hidden."
She bowed, her smile razor-sharp.
"They will answer, Master."
"To Valtor, I entrust the blades yet to be forged — the hands that will rise, and the hearts that must learn to strike."
Valtor laughed, full of teeth and fire.
"Finally! Something worth doing."
"And I," He said, voice low and steady, "will strengthen the rest."
The villagers listened — not with doubt, but with awe.
Paulina whispered to her daughter.
"He doesn't speak like a man. He speaks like a storm before it breaks."
Angela nodded slowly.
She remembered how he had first walked into the village — silent, strange, barely speaking. Now, he stood before them all, not just powerful, but… right. Not a stranger anymore. She didn't know what he was. But she knew he was theirs now — and they were his.
Something was changing.
Not just in the village. In the world.
Then he looked out at the crowd, then placed his hand gently upon the mossy stone of the fountain.
Power didn't flare. It hummed — low and sure.
"This place, "he said,"will be more than a village.It will be sanctuary, shield, and sword."
He stepped down and walked before them —between farmers, old men, children with wide eyes.
"If you follow me, you will no longer live in fear. But if you stay, you must rise."
He paused.
"The Duke will come again. And next time… he will bring more than soldiers."
Angela took her mother's hand. Paulina squeezed it tight.
From the rear, a voice called out.
"Then we stand with you."
Another joined.
"Aye! I will follow."
"My son died for the Duke's war," a woman whispered, tears in her voice.
"No more." "I'll train. I'll fight," said a young man with trembling hands. "If you lead us… we'll stand."
More voices followed. A wave building. The villagers didn't cheer — they vowed.
Lilith turned, her eyes sharp.
He speaks little. But when he does…
Valtor folded his arms and smirked. "So, Master. A kingdom from ash and mud?"
Lysanthir's gaze drifted upward, past the rooftops, past the trees, into the endless sky.
"From ash and blood… we build."
But far beyond the forest, in halls where maps marked borders and coin bought silence, a rider galloped through nightfall. His words would reach the Duke by morning. And the storm that followed would drown the unprepared.