The village of Brindlehollow wasn't on any map, and if it was, it would've been drawn in the margins forgotten, half-erased. A place where the roofs sagged and the people spoke with eyes more than mouths. The war had never touched it directly, but scars still found their way here. They always did.
Kael and Liora arrived at dusk. Their boots were caked in mud, their cloaks heavy with road dust, but the villagers didn't flinch. They just watched. Tired, wary eyes. Children peeked from behind doorframes. A blacksmith paused mid-swing and stared like he wasn't sure if they were trouble or salvation.
"We don't mean harm," Kael called gently. "We just need a place to rest."
A few moments passed. Then an old woman with a back like a question mark nodded toward a barn near the edge of the fields. "You can sleep there. No trouble, no lies."
Liora bowed her head. "Thank you."
Inside the barn, it smelled of straw, sweat, and old wood. They laid out their gear in silence. Liora lit a small lantern, casting a warm glow that fought off the shadows, just barely.
Kael sank down against a post, stretching his legs with a wince. "Feels like we've been walking for years."
"Because we have," Liora said, brushing hay off a corner of the floor. "Not just miles. In choices. In grief. In time we don't get back."
He looked at her through the flickering light. "You ever wonder who we'd be if none of this had happened?"
"All the time," she replied, sitting beside him. "But then I remember we're not who we are in spite of the pain. We're who we are because of how we survived it."
Kael nodded slowly, his eyes on the lantern. "I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse."
"Maybe it's not about feeling better," she said. "Maybe it's just about still feeling."
For a while, they sat in silence. Then came a knock. Not loud. Almost shy.
A boy no older than ten stood at the barn door, holding a small loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. He didn't speak. Just walked in, handed it to Kael, and left without a word.
Kael stared after him. "That's the kind of thing that breaks me," he whispered.
"Kindness?" Liora asked softly.
He nodded. "It's harder to face than enemies sometimes. Because it reminds me what we're fighting to protect. And how much we've already lost."
Liora leaned her head against the post, eyes on the ceiling beams. "Then let it break you. Let it remind you. Just don't let it stop you."
He tore the bread in half and handed her a piece. They ate quietly, chewing in sync with the crickets outside.
Salt. Crust. Warmth.
In that moment, the world was small and simple. A flickering lantern. Shared bread. Two souls too tired to dream, but too stubborn to stop walking.
Sometimes, survival didn't look like swords and spells.
Sometimes, it looked like sharing the last piece of bread in a barn in a nameless town.