Barely surviving their hard-fought battle, Alistair and Maria made their way through the blood-soaked remnants of the village, the silence between them broken only by the crackle of smoldering ruins. The path ahead was clear to Alistair—he needed to find Morgana. For Maria, the decision to linger seemed abrupt, almost out of character.
"I need to make my way to Morgana. I have to leave the village," Alistair said quietly, the first words he'd spoken since steadying his breath.
Maria arched a brow, her tone sharp. "And how exactly do you plan to do that? You only survived by luck, boy. One misstep, and you'd have been lining that demon's gut."
Alistair's face remained blank, the shock still clinging to him like frost. But his voice held steady. "That won't be a problem. Morgana doesn't live inside the village—and the forest was clear of demons when I passed through it."
Maria's eyes narrowed. "Outside the village, you say? And you came here willingly?" She let out a low scoff, half disbelief, half mockery. "You're not a fool. Just painfully dumb."
He didn't answer.
She clicked her tongue, amused. "Well then, you won't mind if I tag along, would you? Strength in numbers and all that."
She paused. Something about his story gnawed at her. The forest should've been worse than the village... yet he claims it was quiet? And a girl lives there—alone? Her instincts twitched. At first, it was just a feeling. Now, it was something more. She'd investigated half the countryside, but nothing ever stood out. Until now.
Alistair followed her in silence as they made their way through the fractured village. Fires still crackled. Screams still echoed. The stench of blood, smoke, and scorched flesh thickened the air. The deeper they went, the more he saw—hordes of beasts, twisted creatures that defied the laws of nature, feeding, hunting. Demons from tales his grandmother once whispered by firelight.
The creatures of the night... he muttered to himself.
They passed villagers still fighting, still hoping. Alistair grit his teeth, each ignored cry like a splinter in his soul. He wasn't a hero—never claimed to be. Not long ago, he'd failed to protect the only person that mattered. And now, only one remained.
"I can't have that," he whispered, the words not for her, not even for the gods—just for himself.
Something inside him settled then. Not peace. Something colder. A truth he couldn't outrun anymore.
This was who he was. And the road ahead would demand everything.
Maria's eyes scanned the path ahead, but her mind moved elsewhere—sharper, faster. Experience had taught her that timing was everything. If there was a thread between the boy and the girl he sought, she needed to grasp it before it unraveled.
"Say, boy..." Her tone was light, almost playful, though her eyes never stopped reading the shadows. "You seem awfully concerned about that girl. Related? Or is it something else?"
Alistair hesitated, just for a breath. Then he spoke—not because he trusted her, not really. But because death felt near. And sometimes, when the void presses in, all a man has left is memory and meaning.
"It's complicated, I guess…" he said quietly. "We go way back. My family owes hers a debt."
He didn't know why he shared it. Maybe it was the weight of silence. Maybe it was the blood still drying on his skin. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because he needed to say it aloud. To remember. To hold onto the one thing that still tethered him to this world.
Not to survive. But to protect.
"As with everyone else, we grew up on the tales—Arik the Hero, his vow, the miracle he left behind in Hollowmere. 'A beacon of hope,' they said, 'for those seeking redemption... equality... a new start.' My family clung to that story like starving men to bread."
Alistair's voice wavered. Not from fear, but from the weight of memory.
"The War of Crowns starved the lesser-born. Stripped them of name and shelter. So my old man made his choice—to take us to Hollowmere. We didn't have much of a say in it. I reckon it was the same for Morgana's folk."
He paused, the wind carrying the ghosts of footsteps long gone.
"We marched in just over a hundred strong. But only we made it."
He looked down, as if the soil itself remembered.
"Or so I recall. My memories are scattered… pieces held together by my mother's voice and the ache of a long road. I was just a boy then."
His eyes drifted, clouded by the mist of time.
"The folk of Hollowmere welcomed us—or so it seemed. It didn't take long before we settled. The stories… they were true. Hollowmere was a blessed land, untouched by the wars of crowns, untouched by the rot of greed. The rivers ran clear, the soil was rich, and for a moment—just a moment—we believed we'd survived the storm."
He exhaled, a dry laugh caught in his throat.
"I remember my mother's words. 'We made it, Alistair. We truly made it.' And for the first time in years, I saw her cry—not from sorrow, but from the sheer weight of relief. But peace... peace was a mask. And the end of our journey was only the beginning of a deeper trial."
His tone shifted—darker now, more deliberate.
"A few months passed. Then another group of refugees came. Their pace was slower, wearier. Their numbers were fewer, but something about them stirred the village like smoke before fire."
His jaw clenched, and he looked to Maria.
"It was Morgana's kin."
The name seemed to hang in the air, as though spoken across a chasm of years.
"Their arrival was like lightning cracking a still sky. The warmth with which the village once greeted us vanished. The smiles grew tight, the gazes wary. And when they saw her—brown-skinned, with the eyes of a white man—their faces paled, as if the old tales had risen from the grave."
He paused, voice thick with the weight of remembrance.
"No one dared turn them away. Not openly. Not at first. The people knew the tales—knew the price of drawing blades on the desperate. But fear… fear is a cruel god, and it seeped into every heart."
He looked away, ashamed.
"Only the children were honest. Cruel, but honest. They gathered like a pack, whispering curses they'd heard from their fathers. I was one of them—silent, watching, afraid to speak, afraid to stand by her. Even then, she didn't cry. She met their hatred with silence. With strength."
He drew a slow breath.
"She had to. She bore the mark of the cursed union—descended from the primordial black man, the same bloodline the Pale Kingdom had tried to erase when Yggdrasil still wept. In Calendor, her kind would've been branded, enslaved, or worse. And though Hollowmere called itself a haven… even here, the rot of that old fear lingered."
He fell quiet then, his voice fraying at the edges.
"And so the blessed land revealed its truth." His voice was cold now, distant. "While the hero's blessing prevented harm from befalling those it recognized as Hollowmere's own… it had no power to command righteousness. It could guard the body, perhaps, but never the soul."
He paused, gazing out across the path ahead, though his eyes seemed trapped somewhere far behind.
"It was inevitable," he said quietly. "Children quarrel. That's the nature of things. But one day, it went too far. A cruel trick, a shove too hard, a wound that wouldn't close. I don't remember all the details—but I remember the silence after."
He gritted his teeth.
"And then it came… the hero's judgment. The miracle that watched over Hollowmere turned against them. Seven children, all struck down by an unseen hand. Wounds not made by blade or beast, but by something greater. Something divine."
Maria's eyes flicked toward him, her expression unreadable.
"For some reason," Alistair muttered, "I was the only one who didn't suffer. I wasn't touched by the miracle. I was there. I was just as guilty . But it left me unscathed."
His fists clenched.
"That was the day everything changed. Whispers spread. Fear curdled into resentment. The village turned cold—like a body after death. They stopped speaking Morgana's name, stopped looking at her family. They wouldn't buy, wouldn't sell. They were starving them, slowly, politely… murder through silence."
Maria's voice was low, but sharp. "So that was it. Not blood, but hunger. The slow kind of execution."
He nodded grimly. "It wasn't just the townfolk either. Once my old man heard the story… everything shifted. The name Morgana Vale passed his lips, and I remember the way he froze."
"Vale?" Maria echoed, eyebrows raised.
"Yeah," Alistair said, still puzzled even now. "He flipped. Like he'd seen a ghost. Said we owed the Vales. That a debt like that couldn't be ignored, not even in a place like Hollowmere."
His shoulders slumped, weariness bleeding into every word.
"I didn't understand it then," Alistair murmured, his voice barely more than breath. "And truth be told, I still don't. The whole truth... it's buried somewhere, scattered in half-remembered nights and words left unspoken. But I know this much—after that day, he changed."
The road beneath them cracked with the weight of memory. Twilight filtered through the dying trees, and the wind carried the scent of ash and distant blood.
"We started bringing them food. Quietly. At night. My father made it look like chance, like we were just passing by... but it wasn't. And I—" he hesitated, the taste of old guilt rising like bile. "I started spending time with her. Morgana."
Maria said nothing. She walked just ahead, her steps measured, her silence sharper than any blade.
"Maybe I wanted to protect her," he said after a pause. "Or maybe I just didn't want to feel like a coward anymore. Or maybe it was guilt—I don't know. But from then on, I stood by her side. And she remembered that. She always did."
The path narrowed, leading into thick underbrush. Shadows clung to the trees like old ghosts.
"She started opening up," he went on, his voice wavering. "She smiled more. Laughed, sometimes. Not often, but when she did, it felt like something sacred. Like the forest itself held its breath."
He bit his lip. His fists clenched.
"But I was a fool. We were fools."
The shame in his eyes was raw. Unhealed.
"My old man... they caught him. Caught him helping the Vales. And that was all it took. The town turned like a pack of wolves tasting blood for the first time."
He stopped walking. Maria turned slightly, her brow furrowed, but she said nothing.
"I don't remember it all," Alistair whispered. "Only flashes. Screams. Fire. The whispers of divine judgment. Forty villagers struck down in a single night. I survived. I don't know why. Maybe it was luck. Maybe it was punishment."
His voice dropped to a tremble.
"Granny took me in after that. Fed me. Sheltered me. But it wasn't the same. The house felt colder. The village... darker."
"And Morgana?" Maria finally asked, her tone unreadable.
"Her mother lingered for a few years. But it broke her. When she passed... Morgana was left all alone. A cursed child in a cursed town."
The wind howled through the trees like the echo of old sorrow. Before them, the forest began to clear. A worn path twisted upward into the hills.
"That's where she is," Alistair said. "Beyond that ridge."
Maria didn't reply right away. "Boy only those who forgive themselves can be forgiven ... don't forget that " she firmly said as if to offer her emapthy to Alistair , well her voice and face also had a faint hint of bitternes knowing what's to come