Six years later.
Seventeen years old.
At an age where most would still be searching for who they were meant to be, Shina Mariposa had already become a legend. Her name echoed across the Empire—from border towns to royal halls. The Hero of Fallcry, The Crimson Wind, The Gentle Blade—titles stacked upon her like burdens, each heavier than the last.
But behind every legend… lies a wound no one sees.
The war in Fallcry still raged. Nearly twenty years had passed, and there was no end in sight. No victor. No peace.
And in the middle of it all, Shina made a quiet decision.
She had to go home.
The village of her childhood—the place where her mother once hummed lullabies, where her uncle taught her to hold a spoon and a blade. The place she was taken from seven years ago by Mesh and his men, with promises of power... and veiled threats of destruction.
She left her unit without a word. No guards. No fanfare.
Just a worn-out map and a heart filled with quiet hope.
---
The day was overcast. A low wind drifted through the hills.
Her steps slowed as she reached the final slope.
And then… her breath caught.
Below her, nothing.
Only ashes.
Ruins.
A wide stretch of scorched land, blackened timbers, collapsed beams, and scattered stones. She recognized the terrain—the fork in the dirt path, the edge of the fields, the bent wooden well.
But everything else… gone.
Shina descended slowly, knees trembling.
She wandered through the wreckage, staring at the hollow bones of the homes she remembered. Her home.
The wind was silent. No birds. No laughter. No smell of baking bread or drying herbs. Just death—and time.
She fell to her knees.
But then—footsteps behind her.
Quickly she stood, her hand moving toward her weapon out of habit, until she saw who it was.
An old woman. Frail, bent with age, leaning on a crooked cane. Her clothes were worn, her eyes faded with time… but familiar.
"…Granma Baba?"
The woman's eyes widened. And then they filled with tears.
"Shina… Oh, by the stars… you're alive…"
Shina stepped forward. "What happened? Where is everyone? Where's my mother? My uncle?"
Granma Baba stared at her for a long, aching moment.
Then she spoke.
"They… they were all killed."
Shina's heart sank.
"Who?" she whispered.
"Them. Mesh's soldiers," Baba said, voice cracking. "The same ones who took you."
Shina froze, her chest tightening.
"They came two weeks after you were taken. Didn't explain anything. Just… said the village had to be erased. That no trace of your past could remain. Her weakness."
Baba paused, her voice trembling.
"They killed every adult. Burned every house. Took the children—to be sold. I… I was the only one they left alive. They told me to wait. To tell you, if you ever returned."
The old woman kept talking, but her words became a blur in Shina's ears. The world went quiet. Her vision swam. Her mind tried to absorb it—but it was too cruel. Too much.
She fell to the ground, hands digging into the blackened soil.
Tears poured from her eyes.
Not for a single life.
But for all of it.
Everything.
Her mother's voice. Her uncle's smile. The scent of firewood. The warmth of home.
Gone.
She wept openly, helplessly. Her cries filled the silence. The land listened, offering no comfort.
This was her reward.
This… was the price of her power.
And for the first time since the war began, Shina Mariposa—the Hero of Fallcry—felt completely, utterly broken.
{Chapter 47 end}