The marble floor of Jarustam's city hall gleamed beneath the light of golden chandeliers, their soft glow casting long, flickering shadows across the high-arched walls. Rich tapestries of deep crimson and royal blue hung in proud display, bearing the city's sigil—a silver tower crowned by a rising sun. The scent of polished wood, ink, and parchment filled the room, heavy with the aroma of bureaucracy and old wealth.
At the far end of the hall, behind a grand oak desk carved with ornate vines, sat the mayor of Jarustam.
Short, tanned, and round about the belly, Mayor Rannold looked every bit the seasoned merchant he once was. His fine green robe trimmed with golden thread strained at the seams as he shifted in his high-backed chair. A deep burgundy merchant's hat perched slightly askew on his head, barely containing his thick salt-and-pepper curls. His most prominent features, however, were the voluminous mustache and curled beard that framed his face like a lion's mane. They twitched slightly as he frowned, tapping his ringed fingers on the desk with an impatient rhythm.
Before him stood Captain Boros—broad-shouldered, dust still clinging to the edges of his armor from the journey back. His stern face bore the weight of command, lined not with age, but with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much and still chose to bear more. Despite the hall's warmth, his posture remained rigid, respectful but unbending.
To the captain's right stood a boy—no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. He had jet-black hair that fell loosely over his brow, shadowing a thin scar etched down his left cheek, still faintly red from healing. He wore a simple tunic and cloak, but there was a quiet sharpness in his stance. His eyes, alert, scanned the hall with a mixture of youthful curiosity and restrained wariness.
Mayor Rannold let out a long, theatrical sigh and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.
Behind them, the freed prisoners stood in a tight cluster, eyes weary but alive. Armed guards flanked them on all sides—more precaution than necessity now, though no one dared lower their guard completely. The tension had faded, but not vanished.
Mayor Rannold absently stroked his thick mustache, eyes narrowing slightly as he addressed the captain. "What did you find?"
Captain Boros kept his tone steady. "We engaged in a hard fight with a bandit group," he said, then glanced over his shoulder toward the freed captives. "Fortunately, we managed to save a good number of people… and didn't lose many of our own."
Mayor Rannold gave a satisfied nod, his fingers still toying with the ends of his mustache. "You've done great work, Captain. This calls for more than just thanks—you'll be awarded a medal of honor, and I'll see to it that your pay and rank are adjusted accordingly."
Boros frowned slightly, shifting his weight. "With respect, Mayor… I barely did anything. We lost good men out there—"
But Rannold waved a hand, already rising from his chair with effort. "You did your best, and it paid off. That's what matters."
The mayor's eyes then drifted toward the young man standing beside the captain. He squinted, as if recalling something. "And this boy… I remember you practically begging me to send a force into the forest. Just because of a boy?"
Boros nodded, resting a hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. "This is him. The same one."
Mayor Rannold stepped forward with a wide smile, his ornate merchant robes swaying as he looked the boy up and down. "So you're the one," he said, voice rich and theatrical. "You could've turned your back, gone on with your life—but instead, you chose to help. That's not something everyone would've done. Many would've just run or hidden away. But you… you made sure others got a second chance."
The boy shifted uneasily under the mayor's praise, eyes lowering. "I didn't really do much," he said quietly. "I just told the guards. That's all."
Captain Boros shook his head and stepped in before the mayor could respond. "He didn't just tell the guards," Boros said firmly. "He chased me down yesterday, pleaded with me to listen. Kept insisting something was wrong. I almost brushed him off, but he didn't let up. If it weren't for how persistent he was—if he hadn't convinced me—it's likely I wouldn't have pushed to involve you, Mayor."
Rannold nodded thoughtfully, now looking at the boy with a bit more seriousness beneath the warmth. "Then perhaps this city owes you more than we realized."
Mayor Rannold chuckled warmly, brushing his fingers over his thick mustache. "It's settled. You'll receive a medal of honor as well," he declared, giving the boy an approving nod. "And not just that—you'll be given a place to stay, a stable job under the city's protection. A young man like you, with a heart like that, deserves a future worth building."
A quiet murmur spread through the group of freed prisoners gathered near the back of the hall. Some of them exchanged glances—one or two with tight expressions, unable to fully swallow the flicker of jealousy that came with the boy's sudden elevation. But most of them nodded, some even smiling faintly. Whatever their thoughts, the truth was plain: without the boy, many of them might still be shackled in the dark—or worse. Their freedom was, at least in part, thanks to him.
A small figure in the crowd caught Mayor Rannold's eye—a green-haired girl, barely more than a child. She stood quietly among the others, her posture timid, shoulders hunched as if bracing for something unseen. Her gaze wasn't fixed on anything in the room, but somewhere far off, as if she wasn't truly present. There was something unsettling about the way her body seemed to shift slightly, subtly—unstable, anxious. The sight tugged at something in the mayor's chest, a flicker of sympathy stirring within him. But he blinked it away and turned his attention back to Captain Boros.
"And the bandits?" he asked, his tone returning to business.
Captain Boros straightened. "Majority of them fell in battle," he reported. "We brought back a few—stuffed in cages, no less. Fitting, eh?" He gave a dry chuckle. "The ones doing the caging ended up caged themselves."
The mayor gave a snort of amusement.
"But," Boros continued with a grim note, "some managed to get away. One of them was called Scarface—nasty piece of work. Rank 2 bandit. Apparently one of their leaders, and he's got a bounty on his head."
Mayor Rannold remained standing, his arms crossed as he listened. The joke from Boros earned a faint chuckle, but as soon as the escaped bandits were mentioned—especially Scarface—his smile began to fade. His fingers stroked his mustache thoughtfully, the jovial energy from earlier slowly replaced by a heavier mood.
"Evil like that roaming free…" he muttered, voice low. "It doesn't sit right with me. But I understand—you and your men did what you could."
He let out a sigh, his eyes now focused somewhere distant, as if calculating the cost of everything that had happened. "Make sure the fallen are given proper burials. And bring me the files of every guard who died out there—I'll see to it their families are compensated accordingly."
Captain Boros gave a firm nod, his expression steady. "Yes, sir."
The mayor's gaze shifted to the group of prisoners, his voice steady but carrying. "Do any of you speak for the rest? I'd like a word."
The freed captives exchanged uncertain looks, murmuring softly. Silence hung for a breath, until a bald, middle-aged man in torn clothing stepped forward. His posture was worn but proud, a quiet strength beneath the ragged layers of suffering.
Mayor Rannold took a step forward, folding his hands behind his back as he addressed the freed prisoners with a practiced but genuine tone. "You've all been through a lot," he began, eyes sweeping across their worn faces. "And though we can't restore what you've lost, we can offer you the chance to rebuild."
He gestured toward Captain Boros. "We'll clear out one of the old city warehouses—near the southern edge. It's not a palace, but it's space, and it's yours to use for now."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some exchanged doubtful glances. One man whispered, "One warehouse for all of us…?"
Before the unease could grow louder, Boros stepped forward, his voice cutting through the room with calm authority. "It's not much. But it's far more than any other city would've offered you." He looked around at them, his expression firm. "You're not being thrown out onto the streets. You're being given a roof, and work. That's more than many get."
The grumbling stilled—not from satisfaction, but from a shared frustration none dared aim at the ones offering aid. Instead, the tension turned inward, a simmering heat directed toward the true source of their suffering. A few fists clenched. Eyes darkened. A young woman wiped away angry tears.
"They took everything…" someone muttered.
"Our homes. Our names," another said.
"Our lives," added a third.
The bald man who had stepped forward earlier raised his hand, calling for calm. "We've lost a lot," he said, voice rough with emotion, "but we're still here. We're alive. That's something." His eyes glistened, but he didn't let them fall. "We've been caged, beaten, sold from one master to another… but today, we're free."
The weight of his words settled over them like a blanket. A few nodded. Others looked down, breathing deep.
"We'll start from nothing," he continued. "But at least now, we're the ones choosing how to begin again."
There was silence. Then, one by one, heads turned toward the mayor. A chorus of quiet, heartfelt thanks followed. It wasn't joy, but it was gratitude—raw and real.
Mayor Rannold gave a respectful nod before adding, "As for the children—those of you who still have kin will keep them close. If your families can be found, we'll help make that happen. And if not… they'll be given shelter in the city orphanage. We won't abandon them."
The prisoners murmured again, this time with more warmth than worry. For the first time in a long while, a small ember of hope flickered in their chests.
The mayor gave one final glance over the group, then turned to the guards with a small wave of his hand. "Escort them out," he said. "See to it they're fed and guided properly. They've earned at least that much."
One of the guards stepped forward and called out firmly, "Everyone, follow me. We'll take you to the warehouse."
A slow shuffle began as the former prisoners moved as one, weary but obedient. Their chains may have been removed, but the weight of their past still clung heavily to their shoulders.
As they passed, Mayor Rannold's eyes flicked through the crowd until they landed on the one he had noticed before—her small form nearly swallowed by the others around her. The green-haired girl. That distant, haunted look in her eyes… it lingered with him. A pain he couldn't quite place tugged again at his chest.
"Captain Boros," he said quietly, his voice softer now.
Boros turned with a subtle arch of his brow. "Sir?"
"That girl," Rannold nodded subtly toward Elena, "the green-haired one... Bring her to me. I want to speak with her."
Boros didn't question it. He simply nodded.
"And the boy too," Rannold added, glancing toward the dark-haired youth still standing silently to the side. "The one who begged you to act. He stays."
Boros gave a sharp nod. "Understood."
As the rest of the group filed out, led by the guard, only four remained behind in the vast hall— the mayor, the captain, the green-haired girl with shadows behind her eyes, and the boy whose quiet persistence had saved them all.
...
Elena stood inside the hall, but her mind drifted far beyond its walls. The warm safety promised by Varian's last words felt distant now—the guard who had sworn to protect her had already left. Maybe that had been the promise all along: just to get her here, to this hall, to this moment. Safe, technically. Surrounded by others. Yet completely alone.
She hated it.
She stood among strangers, feeling like a ghost passing through their chatter and glances. The mayor's presence meant nothing to her. The grandeur of the city hall—its high ceilings, polished floors, and banners bearing Jarustam's sigil—couldn't shake the emptiness gnawing at her heart.
They said she might be sent to the orphanage.
Or maybe… maybe she could try to find Lance.
Her brother. Her last piece of family.
But even that hope felt flimsy. What would she tell them? "My brother's name is Lance"? That name was common across Al-Bark. And she didn't even know their family name—her mother had never spoken it, and Lance hated it so much he refused to use it.
How would they ever find him in a kingdom overflowing with green-haired men?
And even if they did… would she even be able to face him?
Every time she thought of his name now, her mother's lifeless body flashed before her eyes. Killed by an air lance. Killed by that Black Tower bastard who smiled as he murdered her—because he learned her brother's name.
Lance.
Elena clenched her jaw, her small fists trembling. That name was supposed to mean safety. Family. But now it only brought death.
She shook her head sharply, chasing the thoughts away.
When her eyes refocused, she realized the prisoners had begun to move. The guards were leading them out of the hall. Silently, she fell into step with them, her head low, heart heavy, and that old, aching loneliness curling tighter in her chest.
As she walked among the other prisoners, feet dragging with quiet reluctance, a voice called out behind her.
"Young green-haired girl!"
She stopped and turned around, a small furrow between her brows. A middle-aged man was approaching—broad-shouldered, with a gruff face and kind eyes. The captain of the guards, if she remembered correctly.
He offered her a gentle smile as he neared. "The mayor wants to speak with you."
Her?
Of all the prisoners here, the mayor wanted to talk to her?
Confusion flickered across her face. She was just a girl. Young, alone, barely old enough to understand everything that had happened, let alone offer anything of worth. What could the mayor possibly want from her?
But she didn't have the strength—or the right—to refuse. So, she gave a small nod, her expression guarded, and followed the captain as he gently turned to lead the way.
They retraced her steps, moving past the group she had just left. As they neared the front of the hall, her eyes landed on the young boy waiting ahead—the same boy she had helped back at the camp, distracting that cruel bandit just long enough for him to break free from his cage.
Funny. She hadn't expected to see him again. And yet, here they both were. Chosen, apparently, for something.
Elena raised her head and found herself staring at the mayor. He was tanned, short, and a little on the chubby side. His large black mustache and beard made his face appear rounder, giving him a jovial look. The merchant's hat perched on his head was a little askew, and his green robes were rich yet practical—fit for a merchant, not someone of high status.
She thought for a moment, trying to place him. If she wasn't mistaken, there was a city known as the Merchant City on another continent, Pantos. It was a place solely for merchants. But no—this man didn't fit the image of the grand, wealthy traders she had heard about. Something about him seemed more down-to-earth.
Elena stayed silent, swallowing her nerves as she waited for him to speak.
The mayor's expression softened into a slight smile, his tone warm. "Don't worry, I'm not a bad guy," he said reassuringly. "But I'm sure you're wondering... why do I look so different, right? Why am I tanned? Why don't I have green hair like most of you? And, well, why am I dressed like this?"
She remained quiet, uncertain how to respond. What was he getting at?
Surprisingly, it wasn't her who broke the silence, but the young boy who stood nearby. His voice was small but clear, "Are you a merchant from Pantos?" His curiosity hung in the air.
The mayor chuckled lightly at the boy's directness, casting a quick glance toward Captain Boros, who stood silently in the background, watching the exchange with quiet amusement.
The mayor nodded thoughtfully, a glint of nostalgia in his eyes. "Yes, you're right," he said, his voice warm but matter-of-fact. "I'm not from the continent of Rosendar. I come from Pantos, more specifically, Market City."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, as if the mere mention of his homeland brought a sense of pride. "It's one of the biggest cities in the world, rivaling even the Great Empire's Capital or the Kalvan Republic's Major District. Some people refer to it as the Merchant's City, but its real name is Market—just like a market," he added with a chuckle, as if amused by the simplicity of it.
He paused for a moment, letting the information sink in before continuing. "Pantos is mostly a desert continent," he explained, his voice taking on a more reflective tone. "The sun shines brighter there than anywhere else in the world. It's incredibly hot, and most people are either tanned or have fully black skin. Very different from Rosendar, where the weather is more temperate and people have a lighter complexion." He gave a small shrug, as if the differences were just another part of the world that didn't concern him much.
"Anyway," he said, shaking off the heavy nostalgia, "I came here a few years back on a business trip and ended up settling in Jarustam, in the Kingdom of Al-Bark. Bit by bit, I became more well-known, and two years ago, I ran for mayor. Much to my surprise, I was elected." He smiled, the hint of a humble chuckle escaping him. "I guess the people of this city have a soft spot for merchants like me."
The lightheartedness in his tone made it clear that while his journey to this position had been unorthodox, he had embraced it wholeheartedly.
For a moment, Elena found herself captivated by the mayor's story. The mention of distant lands and unfamiliar places filled her with a fascination she hadn't felt in some time. Tales of places she'd never seen, of people she'd never met, sparked a longing in her chest to explore the world. She remembered how, whenever Lance used to tell her about his adventures in the Kingdom of Al-Bark, she'd get so excited, particularly when he'd mention people from other lands.
His stories of meeting a Half-Wolf, or a Dwarf, or even a Half-Elf had always intrigued her. The very idea of beings so different from the humans she knew—the only people she'd ever encountered—seemed almost magical to her, strange and enchanting.
But as the thoughts of Lance crept in, that familiar warmth that used to flood her chest whenever she thought of him was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a cold bitterness that replaced it. Why? Why couldn't she think of her brother without that ache, that resentment? Why couldn't she feel the love she once had for him? It felt as though her brother's name had been tarnished forever, and with it, the joy she used to feel at the very thought of him.
She clenched her fists, a deep, simmering frustration building within her. Why did Eric have to ruin everything? Why did that bastard have to tarnish her brother's name by tying it to the murder of their mother? The air lance—the weapon that had ended her mother's life—was the cruelest reminder, and it hurt more than anything. Why? She thought desperately. Why did it have to be Lance's name that was used to kill her?
Her heart twisted, and a surge of anger and confusion swirled within her. It wasn't her brother she hated, not really. It was the pain—the sickening reminder of her mother's death, of how the Black Tower and Eric had stolen everything from her, even the good memories. She didn't want to hate him, she didn't want to feel this unbearable distance from the person she had once looked up to. But every time she thought of him, all she could think of was the brutality that had shattered her world.
Elena's gaze dropped, her chest tightening with a mix of confusion, guilt, and helplessness. How could she ever feel close to him again when the very mention of his name brought back that image of her mother's lifeless body? How could she even think of her brother without that pain? The thought was suffocating, and she felt helpless to push it away.
The mayor noticed Elena's mood shift, her face falling as she seemed to retreat inward once more. It confused him, as when he'd started telling his story, it had seemed to ease some of the tension in her. Yet now, she looked down, distant and anxious once again. His heart ached watching her like this—so young, so burdened. It wasn't the kind of sadness that came from being defeated; it was the kind that came from something deeper, something unresolved. He sighed quietly, wishing there was something more he could do.
Shaking his head slightly, the mayor spoke again, hoping to break the tension. "What's your name, young one?" he asked gently. "I'm Rannold Ibn Messaoud."
Before Elena could respond, the young boy at her side cut in, his curiosity piqued. "What does Ibn mean?" he asked eagerly. "Is it from some other language? Or is Ibn Messaoud your last name?"
The mayor chuckled warmly, the sound filling the space. "No, Ibn means 'son of.' So, my name is Rannold, son of Messaoud. In my culture, we don't use last names the way you do here. Instead, we identify ourselves through the name of our father."
The boy's eyes lit up in interest. "That's fascinating!" he exclaimed, clearly intrigued by the concept.
Elena, meanwhile, had her head lowered, hands folded in front of her. When the mayor's attention turned back to her, she spoke quietly, "Elena," she said, and then added softly, almost to herself, "I don't know my last name." Her voice trembled ever so slightly, as though saying it aloud made her realize just how much she had lost.
Rannold's gaze softened as he heard her, his heart twinging with empathy. He wanted to offer her something more, but all he could do was nod, as if acknowledging the weight of her loss, hoping she knew that even without a last name, she was still seen, still important.
Elena paused for a moment, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. She knew the truth—her father's name was something she could recall in her mind, but saying it out loud, associating herself with him, felt like a betrayal to everything she had left. She could feel the stirring discomfort inside, the bitterness that rose whenever she thought of him. Her mother had been hurt by his hands. She didn't want to be reminded of him, not now, not ever.
Outside, however, Elena steeled herself. "Can I use my brother's name instead?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost uncertain.
The mayor gave her a soft, understanding look, though his brow furrowed slightly in contemplation. "That's not exactly how we do it," he said gently, "but... I don't mind. If it means something to you, then yes, you may."
Elena exhaled, relieved but still feeling the sting of her mother's memory. She took a deep breath and said, "Elena, sister of Lance."
The mayor smiled, the corners of his lips curling up warmly as he repeated, "Elena, Aukht Lance."
The young boy, his curiosity piqued, immediately asked, "Is Aukht... sister of?"
The mayor nodded, a chuckle escaping his lips. "Yes, exactly. Aukht means 'sister of' in my culture. It's how we refer to family."
Then, the mayor's gaze shifted back to the boy. "It seems our young friend here hasn't introduced himself yet."
The boy flushed crimson, clearly caught off guard. He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed by the attention. "Ah, uh..." he stammered before straightening his posture, trying to hide his blush. "My name is Aaron Ronsak," he said, his voice a little shy but clear.
The mayor nodded approvingly, a smile tugging at his lips as he observed the boy's awkwardness. "Aaron Ronsak, it's a pleasure," he said warmly, clearly pleased with the introduction.
Elena, hearing his name, felt a slight curiosity bubble up in her chest. She had no idea why.
The mayor turned back to Elena and offered a gentle smile, the kind one gives when speaking to someone far too young to carry the weight they do.
He recalled how the girl had looked uneasy earlier, her small face clouding over when she mentioned her older brother. For a moment, Rannold hesitated. Then, in a softer tone, he asked, "Do you have anyone still out there, child?"
His gaze remained steady, voice warm with a practiced kindness. "I'll do everything in my power to bring you back to your family," he promised.
Elena didn't respond right away. She stared at him for a long second, then slowly lowered her gaze to the ground. Her small fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her clothing, uncertainty gripping her chest like cold mist.
But then, quietly, almost like she was unsure if she should speak at all, she raised her head. Her green eyes met his.
"Lance is still alive," she said. "Or… I think he is."
Rannold gave a small nod, absorbing her words. "He's your older brother, the one you spoke of earlier... right?"
Elena nodded.
Rannold gently leaned forward, his voice still calm but now lined with purpose. "Could you describe him for me? If I know what he looks like, I might be able to help find him."
Elena nodded slowly, her voice soft but steady. "He's twenty-two," she began. "He has green hair like me. And green eyes. He's… handsome. And tall."
There was a small pause as her gaze drifted off to the side, her expression flickering. Then she added, "He works as a guard… in a city close to…"
Her voice trailed off.
The flames. The screaming. Her mother's eyes. The sound of the Air Lance.
She swallowed hard and blinked quickly, then forced the words out. "...He worked as a guard in a city close to my village."
Rannold gave a slow nod. "I see. And… could you tell me more about your village?"
Elena stiffened. Her small frame stopped moving entirely, like a doll wound too tight and suddenly let go.
Rannold didn't press. He waited in respectful silence. Behind him, Captain Boros—his ever-watchful second, clad in light steel and silence—remained still as a statue.
The seconds dragged.
Finally, Elena whispered, "My village is no more."
Her voice cracked, but she didn't cry. She seemed too far past crying now.
"It was attacked… two days ago. By the Black Tower."
The mayor froze, all trace of his polite demeanor dropping for a heartbeat. His eyes widened slightly.
He remembered the reports.
He'd received them just yesterday: eight villages. Burned. Butchered. Wiped out in one night.
They called it the Black Fire.
Rannold took a deep breath, his eyes resting on the small girl standing before him. For a long second, he said nothing. What could he say? What could anyone say?
She had lost her village—her entire world—to the cruelty of Black Tower Arts Users. And then, before the smoke even cleared from that horror, she was captured by bandits. Thrown in a cage like some animal. For a child her age... it was unthinkable.
It was too much.
He hesitated, his mind torn between duty and emotion, but only for a moment.
Then, without a word, he stood up, and crouched down to her level. The movement was sudden enough to make Elena blink, unsure of what was happening.
And then he hugged her.
Tightly.
The warmth of it stunned her.
She didn't fight it. She didn't flinch. She simply stood there, rigid, eyes wide, arms limp at her sides—like her body hadn't caught up to what was happening.
Then she heard his voice, low and steady, by her ear.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that."
His grip tightened just a little more.
"But you're safe now. No one will hurt you again. I'll protect you."
Elena's gaze lifted over his shoulder, past the mayor, and locked with Captain Boros standing silently in the back.
Something inside her trembled.
Those words. That warmth. That promise...
It was everything she'd wanted to hear.
Everything she didn't think anyone would ever say to her again.
And because of that—because of exactly that—tears welled in her eyes.
And Elena began to cry.
...
After a few long minutes, the sound of Elena's crying softened, then faded entirely. Her small frame grew still in Rannold's arms, the storm of emotion ebbing into quiet exhaustion.
Gently, the mayor released her from his embrace and leaned back, still crouched to meet her at eye level. He reached out and patted her head with a tenderness that didn't quite match his merchant's garb or his station.
"We'll find Lance," he promised again, his voice firm but kind. "And I'll make sure nothing ever harms you again."
Elena didn't look up. Her eyes were still red, and her cheeks were damp. But she gave a tiny nod.
"...Thank you," she whispered.
Rannold smiled—soft and fatherly, no performance in it. Just a man who couldn't bear to see a child suffer.
Then he asked, "Would you like to stay here for the meantime? Just until we find your brother?"
Elena blinked and raised her head, surprise flashing across her face.
"...You mean it?"
The mayor laughed warmly.
"Of course I do! I'll make sure you feel like the little princess you are before Lance comes for you."
For the first time since she had stepped foot in the city hall, Elena's face brightened. A flush of color returned to her cheeks, and a flicker of hope sparked behind her eyes.
It was a cute sight to behold.
Even Captain Boros, stoic as ever in the background, allowed a faint smile to tug at the corner of his lips.
Aaron spoke up from behind her. "Do you think… I could visit you?" His voice was tentative, as if he wasn't sure whether he was overstepping.
The mayor's brows raised, a thoughtful smile forming on his face. "Of course," he said, his tone light but sincere. "You can visit anytime you like. It'll be good for Elena to have someone around."
Elena, startled by the question, turned to look at Aaron. He seemed so genuine in his curiosity, but she couldn't understand why he would want to visit her. She'd only helped him once—distracting the bandit so he could escape his cage. That was all. They hadn't even spoken beyond that. Why would he want to visit her?
Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation. Maybe he was just trying to be kind, but it still felt strange. She didn't even know this boy. Still, the offer to visit, to not be completely alone... that sounded better than being alone. It was a comforting thought.
She hesitated before answering, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't know why you'd want to, but... I guess you can. I don't mind."
Aaron gave her a small, shy smile, which made her feel oddly less alone. He didn't seem to expect anything in return. It was as if his offer was out of sheer kindness, and for the first time since she'd arrived in Jarustum, Elena felt a flicker of warmth in her chest.
Elena took a deep breath, her thoughts racing as she considered the mayor's offer once more. She raised her head, locking her gaze with the mayor's eyes for a moment, as though trying to search for any hidden intentions behind his warm smile. His sincerity was clear, but the weight of her decision pressed heavily on her. Finally, after a brief silence, she nodded.
"Okay," she said quietly, her voice steady but still carrying a hint of uncertainty.
The mayor's smile widened, a look of relief and genuine happiness crossing his face. "Welcome to my house, Elena. You'll be treated as one of our own," he said, his words warm and reassuring.
Beside her, Aaron smiled brightly, his expression full of youthful enthusiasm. It was a simple gesture, but it made her feel a little more at ease. Even Captain Boros, standing silently behind them, gave her a small, approving nod. It wasn't much, but it was enough to convey his silent support.
Elena couldn't help but feel the smallest spark of hope, a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, things could be different now.
—End of Chapter.