Xin didn't bother with his boots. His bare feet slapped against the cold wooden floor as he shoved through the doorway, weaving through the narrow walkways between crowded shelters. The morning air bit at his skin, sharp and unrelenting, but he barely registered the chill. People were already stirring, slipping from their bedrolls, their whispers low and urgent, laced with a tension that hung heavy in the settlement. A current pulled them all toward the same direction, a silent force drawing them forward like moths to a flame.
The sounds of shuffling feet and hushed speculation blended into a dull roar in his ears. Exhaustion fogged his mind, every muscle screaming from days without rest. Four nights. Four nights of sleepless vigilance, of hollows shrieking in the darkness, their claws scraping at the settlement's fragile defenses. Four nights of blood, of shallow graves dug in haste, of loss that left a hollow ache in his chest. His body teetered on the edge of collapse, but something in those whispers sliced through the haze, sharp and insistent, urging him forward.
He rounded the corner into the square and stopped dead.
Shun stood there.
Silver hair gleamed faintly in the dawn's pale light, catching glints along the curve of his horns. His figure was still, almost unnaturally calm, as if the last few days hadn't been a relentless war, as if he'd merely stepped out for a moment and returned unscathed. But the air around him felt wrong, heavy with a presence that made Xin's skin prickle. Shadows clung to Shun's form, darker than they should have been, pooling at his feet like spilled ink.
Xin's breath caught, his chest tightening until it ached. His throat locked, refusing to let air pass. His mind struggled to reconcile the sight before him with the reality he'd endured. The weight of the past four days, the funerals, the screams that tore through silent nights, the endless watch, crashed down on him with suffocating force. Shun was here. Alive. Or so he appeared.
The crowd reacted before Xin could move. A wave of joy erupted, raw and desperate.
"Shun!" someone cried, their voice breaking under the weight of relief.
Another person sobbed, pushing through the throng to grasp Shun's hand, their own trembling violently. Others reached out, fingers brushing his sleeves as if to confirm he was real, as if touching him could banish the nightmare that had gripped the settlement. But Xin noticed something they didn't. The hands that touched Shun seemed to hesitate, pulling back too quickly, as if his skin was colder than it should be.
Shun's lips curved into a faint smile, but Xin saw through it. His friend's eyes were shadowed, sunken, holding a weariness that mirrored Xin's own but carried something deeper, something wrong. Those eyes didn't reflect the dawn's light; they seemed to absorb it, pulling it into a void. The air around him tasted of iron and decay, subtle but undeniable, like a wound left to fester.
Xin's legs moved before his mind caught up, carrying him through the press of bodies until he stood before Shun. The crowd's warmth felt distant, smothered by the cold radiating from his friend.
"You're back," Xin said, his voice low, unsteady.
Shun heard him. His head tilted slightly, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them. The distant howls of hollows, the gnawing hunger in Xin's belly, the shallow graves beyond the settlement's walls, none of it existed. It was only them, standing in the square, breathing the same air. Or were they? Xin's gaze flicked to Shun's chest, searching for the rise and fall of breath, but the motion was too slight, too deliberate.
Xin had always believed Shun would return. He had clung to that belief through every sleepless night, every hollow attack, every body they buried. But each passing day had worn that hope thin, until it felt like a frayed thread stretched to breaking. Now, seeing Shun before him, that thread burned bright in his chest, fierce and overwhelming, yet tinged with unease. Something about Shun's presence felt off, like a note played wrong in a familiar song.
His hands shook, whether from exhaustion or the flood of emotions crashing through him, he couldn't tell. The settlement buzzed with relief, voices rising in a chaotic blend of laughter and tears, but Xin couldn't shake the growing dread curling in his gut. The air felt too thick, the shadows around Shun too deep.
"You really came back," Xin said, aiming for a teasing tone, but his voice cracked, betraying him.
Shun's smile deepened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I know," he said, his voice soft, almost too smooth, like the whisper of wind through dead leaves.
Xin looked away, the sting behind his eyes growing sharper. He didn't want to cry, not here, not now, but the weight of the past four days pressed down on him. He had fought hollows until his arms burned, their claws glinting in the moonlight, their screams echoing in his skull. He had buried the dead until his fingers bled, the dirt clinging to his skin like a second layer of grief. He had skipped meals to ensure the children ate, their small faces gaunt and haunted. He had stood beside Raven, night after night, holding the line, counting the fallen. One person lost each night, sometimes more. Ten in four days. The worst losses since he'd taken up the defense of this place.
And yet, Shun stood before him.
"I thought," Xin started, but his voice caught, the words tangling in his throat. He couldn't say it. Couldn't admit how close he'd come to believing Shun was gone forever, another name to carve into the wooden markers beyond the walls.
The settlement's relief was palpable, a warmth that clashed with the cold knot in Xin's chest. People smiled through their tears, their voices bright with hope. Children stared at Shun, wide-eyed, as if he were a hero from a tale told around the fire. Even Raven, usually a mask of stoicism, stood at the edge of the square, her expression softer, though her eyes lingered on Shun with a flicker of something Xin couldn't read. Suspicion, perhaps.
Shun's hand rested on Xin's shoulder, the touch firm but unnaturally cold, seeping through his thin shirt like frost. "You've held things together," Shun said, his voice low, almost too calm.
Xin let out a sound, half-laugh, half-sob. "Barely."
"You did enough," Shun said, the words steady, sinking into Xin like a blade. Enough. He didn't know if he believed it. Ten dead in four days. Ten faces he'd never see again, ten voices silenced. And still, Shun looked at him as if his efforts mattered, as if trying had been enough.
But the voice in Xin's mind, the one that sounded like him but carried a sharper edge, whispered: You've killed more people than our dead best friend, Bel. The words twisted in his gut, cold and accusing, dragging up memories of Bel's final moments, of blood soaking into the earth, of Xin's failure to save him.
He pushed the thought down, focusing on Shun's presence, on the weight of his hand, even if it felt wrong. The crowd pressed closer, their voices a chaotic hum, but Xin's world narrowed to the man before him. The tears came before he could stop them, hot streaks cutting through the dirt on his face, leaving trails in the grime.
He didn't remember moving, but suddenly he was holding Shun, arms tight, almost desperate. Shun's hand rested on his back, steadying him, but the coldness of his touch sent a shiver down Xin's spine. Something was wrong. The texture of Shun's skin felt too smooth, too unyielding, like polished stone rather than flesh.
"You're really here," Xin whispered, as if saying it aloud could make it true, could banish the creeping dread.
"I'm here," Shun replied, but his voice carried an echo, a faint distortion that made Xin's heart stutter.
For the first time in four nights, Xin tried to breathe without fear, to let the relief wash over him. But his body, pushed beyond its limits, had other plans. The adrenaline that had kept him upright began to fade, and with it went his strength. The world tilted, the edges blurring, the crowd's voices fading into a distant murmur, like waves lapping at a far-off shore. He wanted to stay, to hold onto this moment, to believe Shun was real, but his knees buckled.
Shun's voice was the last thing he heard, sharp and urgent, cutting through the fog.
"Xin!"