A frail woman lay on a worn-out bed, her breath shallow and uneven. The glow of life that once graced her face had faded, leaving her skin pale and stretched thin over delicate bones. Though her eyes remained closed, the suffering she had endured was etched into every crevice of her face.
"Leave... Y-You should leave with them, Altair... I'll be fine here," she murmured shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the same plea she had repeated for days, urging the man to go, to leave her behind.
Kneeling beside her, a young man clutched her cold hands with trembling fingers. He didn't respond, as if accustomed to her weak plea.
His sullen expression, darkened by exhaustion and sorrow, made him appear far older than his twenty-three years age. His shoulder-length hair hung in unruly strands, his sunken eyes bore deep shadows, and his thin lips were pale. Though his body was lean, firm muscles could be seen beneath his worn sleeves, scarred from years of toil. The signs of overwork and sleepless nights clung to him like a second skin.
Altair tightened his grip on his mother's frail hand, as though afraid that if he loosened it, she would slip away into the void.
Afterall, how could he really comply with her request? She was his mother, the only kin he had left.
A firm knock on the door shattered the silence of the small wooden house. Altair did not move. He remained where he was, unwilling to let go of the only family he had left.
When no response came, a heavy sigh echoed from outside. The door creaked open, revealing an elderly man with a weathered face and wise, weary eyes. He stepped inside, his nose twitching at the lingering scent of bitter herbs and medicine. The house was in disarray—dried plants lay scattered across the wooden floor, and a chipped clay bowl filled with the remnants of a medicinal brew sat untouched on a nearby table.
Pushing aside the thin cloth that served as a makeshift bedroom door, the village chief took in the heartbreaking sight before him. His gaze softened with sympathy.
"Altair," he spoke in a quiet, steady voice. "The villagers are leaving today. Are you certain you and your mother still want to stay behind?"
Altair finally turned his head toward the old man. His dark, hollow eyes reflected both grief and unshaken resolve.
"Village Chief," he rasped, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. "I've already made my decision. Mother won't leave this place. If she stays, then so will I."
The village chief frowned. "Altair, I understand your feelings, but staying here is dangerous. The Corrosion is spreading. Soon, the land will be barren, the air poisoned. There will be no food, no clean water—only suffering. You both should come with us. If we reach Veinburgh Capital, there might still be a chance to save her."
A bitter chuckle escaped Altair's lips, his grip tightening around his mother's frail fingers. "Save her?" he echoed, his voice breaking. Tears welled in his eyes, but he forced them back. "Village Chief, you know as well as I do… she isn't sick because of some illness. She's sick because of grief. She's been waiting for my father all this time, refusing to believe he's gone. If I force her to leave, she'll die of heartbreak before we even reach the capital."
The village chief remained silent. He knew Altair spoke the truth.
Altair's father—his mother's beloved husband—had left for town a few years ago to sell medicinal herbs. It was supposed to be a simple trip, one he had made countless times before. But this time, he never returned.
At first, the villagers searched for him, but no one had seen him arrive in town. The merchant he usually sold to had no records of his visit. Some believed he had met an unfortunate fate along the road. Others, crueler in their speculations, whispered that he had abandoned his family and started a new life elsewhere.
Altair's mother, Alina, refused to accept either possibility. She clung to hope, convinced that her husband was merely caught in circumstances beyond his control. She waited—day after day, season after season—until her body, weakened by sorrow and neglect, could no longer sustain itself.
Altair never believed his father had abandoned them. He was sure something had happened to him. Though he had long accepted in his heart that his father was gone, he never voiced this aloud, fearing that the truth would shatter his mother completely.
The village chief exhaled heavily and shook his head. "I suppose there's nothing I can say to change your mind."
Altair swallowed hard and remained silent.
The old man reached into his robe and pulled out a bundle of papers. He placed them in Altair's hands, his expression solemn.
"From this moment on," he said gravely, "Cintra Village belongs to you. I don't know if we'll ever be able to return to this place, but I'm leaving it in your care. If you change your mind, follow the instructions written here. Go to the town, to the pickup point. If fate allows, we may reunite in the capital. Take care of yourself… and her."
Altair stared at the papers, his hands trembling. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to speak.
"Thank you… Village Chief."
The elderly man sighed once more and placed a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder. Then, without another word, he turned and left the house.
Outside, the sounds of departing villagers filled the air—oxen carts creaking under the weight of supplies, children crying as they were lifted onto wagons, adults speaking in hushed tones of the uncertain future awaiting them.
Altair stood by the doorway, watching as his people—his former neighbors, friends, and elders—disappeared down the road.
Within an hour, the village fell silent.
All that remained were abandoned homes and empty streets.
Altair took a deep breath, his gaze shifting toward the horizon. In the distance, the sky was tinged red—the unmistakable sign of the Corrosion creeping closer.