The village stirred gently beneath the touch of the morning sun. Smoke curled from chimneys like sleepy sighs, the scent of fresh bread wafting lazily through the air. For a fleeting moment, Kaelen allowed himself to believe in stillness a real, breathing stillness untouched by the world's cruelty.
He walked down the worn path that led through the heart of the village, passing huts patched with care and homes that leaned together like old friends. There was laughter in the distance with kids shouting about monsters and heroes, and the low murmur of early trade between neighbors.
And then came the voice, sharp and amused.
"You're up early. Planning to steal all the good air before we get to breathe it?"
Kaelen turned. Maelra.
She leaned against a fence, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed. A crooked smirk sat on her lips like it belonged there. Her hair, tied in a loose knot, looked like it had wrestled the wind and barely survived.
"I could say the same for you," Kaelen said. "Didn't expect to see the villages little troublemaker up before noon."
She made an exaggerated gasp. "You wound me. I'll have you know I've already done three chores today."
"Let me guess. You pointed at something and made someone else do it."
She grinned. "Delegation is a skill."
Their banter was interrupted by a tug at Maelra's sleeve. A boy no older than ten stared up at her with wide eyes. "Tell us the ghost story again! The one where you wrestled the banshee in the graveyard!"
Kaelen raised a brow. "Wrestled now? Wasn't it just a punch last time?"
"Stories evolve," Maelra whispered. "Besides, banshees are dramatic. You gotta match their energy."
Kaelen couldn't help it—he laughed. It came out softer than he expected, like he wasn't used to the sound.
"Hey!"
He turned as Tomas, the same boy who'd been the one bringing him food every evening, came jogging up. He carried a small cloth bundle.
"I know you didn't eat breakfast," Tomas said, holding it out like a command.
Kaelen blinked, awkwardly taking the bundle. "You've got a habit of showing up right when I need something."
Tomas grinned. "You've got a habit of acting like you don't."
Maelra snorted behind him, pretending to hide her amusement. Kaelen shot her a look, but her expression was all innocence.
As the kids dragged Maelra toward the edge of the village for more storytelling, Kaelen found himself standing alone with the warm bread in hand and a strange ache blooming in his chest.
This is what it could be, he thought. This… stillness. This is what they destroyed.
He looked over the fields, where workers laughed and animals bleated, where life moved in rhythms untouched by greed or war. A village so small, it would go unnoticed by the world's eyes. But within it peace resides.
A memory flickered.
Ash in the sky. Screams. A child's drawing half-burned in his palm. And something else on the walls of what was left behind. Shapes. Symbols. He hadn't known what they meant, not then. But now…
The scent of fire drifted through his memory, and he blinked it away.
Not today.
Today was quiet.
Kaelen sat down near the fence, watching Maelra chase kids with dramatic ghost-howls, her sarcastic edge softened by the joy she stirred around her. Tomas sat beside him, munching on his own bit of bread like it was the most important thing in the world.
And Kaelen thought:
'If I kill the king… if I tear it all down… could the world look like this again?'
The wind stirred the wheat, and far in the sky, a bird circled once, twice, and then flew toward the horizon.