The dungeon's breath faded behind him.
For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Thane stood beneath the open sky. The light didn't blind him. The wind didn't chill him. The forest just... waited. Silent. Watching.
He had come full circle.
This path through the hills, the overgrown trail winding toward the ridgeline—it all used to feel so big. When he was five, his brother carried him on his back down this very road. When his stomach hurt, when the snow was thick, when they were hungry and laughing and trying to find mushrooms.
Now he walked it alone.
Now the air reeked of ash.
He crested the final hill.
And stopped.
His village no longer stood.
There were no houses—only blackened wreckage, splintered beams, and the smell of burnt cloth. What few structures remained had been torn apart by claw and fire. The small wall they'd once built around the square was nothing but stumps and rubble.
At the center of it all, the well still stood.
And beside it—
Spikes.
Six of them.
Six heads.
His breath caught.
Each one had their mouths sewn shut with wire.
Their eyes wide open.
His brothers.
All of them.
Dead.
Put on display.
Thane did not blink.
He stepped forward slowly, wind curling around his coat.
A goblin shrieked in the distance.
Then he saw the pens.
Three wooden cages, each lashed with chain and bone. Inside—women.
Dirty. Barefoot. Shaking. Eyes hollow. Bodies too thin to move. Some clutched their stomachs. Others lay motionless.
One of them—a girl barely older than him—looked up as he approached.
Her face registered no expression.
Just recognition.
Then a whisper, barely audible.
"…Thane?"
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
He took another step.
And saw his mother.
Crumpled in the corner of the pen.
Not dead.
But close.
Her hair was gone. Her arms covered in bite marks. Her clothes in rags. She didn't move.
He stepped closer.
The goblins saw him now.
Two of them emerged from one of the half-burned huts, dragging what looked like food in a bloodstained sack.
They laughed when they saw him.
They drew rusted blades.
They didn't know what they were facing.
Thane reached into himself.
And he let the mana burn free.
Firebolt.
The spell tore through the first goblin's chest, launching him backward into the ruins. The second screamed and charged.
He didn't even waste mana.
He stepped forward, caught the goblin's arm mid-swing, and crushed it with his bare hand. Bones snapped like brittle wood. The creature screamed louder.
He cast Magma Sword.
One slash. One scream.
Then silence.
The remaining goblins poured out of hiding.
Fifteen. Maybe more.
Armed. Snarling. Confident.
They swarmed.
He didn't move.
Scorch Zone.
The ground erupted around him, flames climbing in spirals.
The goblins hesitated.
Too late.
Flame Arc.
Lava Geyser.
Burning Chain.
They died screaming—blades melting in their hands, armor fused to skin, bones turning black before they even hit the ground.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a purge.
When the last one fell, he stood in the center of the ruined village, the air still steaming around him.
He walked toward the pens.
One by one, he shattered the locks.
The women inside flinched. Curled up. Hid their faces.
He dropped to one knee beside the first girl who'd spoken.
She stared at him again.
"Is it... really you?"
He nodded once.
Then turned to the final pen.
His mother lay curled in the far corner—frail, shaking, breath ragged. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her nails crusted with blood, her face turned toward the ground.
She didn't look up when he approached.
He opened the gate.
Stepped inside.
Her body flinched at the creak of metal, but she didn't speak. She turned her head only when his shadow covered her face.
Her eyes met his.
Dull. Glazed. Half-aware.
"…I knew… you'd… come back…"
There was no warmth in her voice. No joy. Just fading breath and empty memory.
Thane knelt beside her.
He didn't reach for her hand. He didn't speak her name.
He waited.
And when her eyes finally dimmed, when her lungs gave out and her broken body gave in—
He stood.
Summoned a flicker of flame to his fingertips.
And turned her to ash.
A mercy. Nothing more.
He stepped out of the pen. Closed the gate.
And kept walking.