As they made their way through the streets of Rahl, the sounds of the festival wrapped around them. Lanterns were being strung across alleyways with vendors shouting over and over about discounted fruits, spices, cloth, and trinkets.
Ryu walked with his hands behind his head, taking long, relaxed strides. Meanwhile, Iyu kept pace but scanned their surroundings more actively, eyes darting from decorations to the crowd.
"It's really lively here," Iyu said, watching a group of dancers rehearse near a fountain. "Nothing like the other towers we've visited before."
"Yeah, festivals do that," Ryu replied, tilting his head back to watch a banner being pulled across a rooftop. "People forget their problems when there's noise, food, and light. And just for a moment, all their problems fade away."
Iyu hummed. "Think we'll have time to look around later? Or is Father just going to keep us inside again?" Ryu shrugged, a half-smirk tugging at his mouth. "If he's still chasing Warhound, probably the latter. You know how he is."
The name made Iyu glance over. "You keep saying his name like you know the man. Who even is Warhound really?" Ryu was quiet for a few steps, the air thickening for a moment. "I was younger when I met him," he began, voice low.
"But I still remember. He was definitely intense. Strong. The kind of person who didn't need to say anything to make a room shut up." He paused. "But he didn't… No. He wasn't the kind of person who'd kidnap our sister."
Iyu scoffed sharply. "That's because you're messed up in the head, it's called Stockholm syndrome." Ryu rolled his eyes. "You didn't see him the way I did."
"I don't need to," Iyu shot back. "You hear the way Father talks about him? The man's dangerous. Built like he could break someone in half if he got bored." They passed by a stand selling dried fish and ornamental knives.
Ryu clicked his tongue. "Dangerous, yeah. But just because he can doesn't mean he will."
"Father thinks he's here," Iyu said, eyes sharp now. "I overheard him earlier this morning, talking with that scout from the barracks." Ryu didn't look surprised. "Then he'll find him. It's about time too."
Iyu narrowed his eyes at a man standing near a spice shop. "What about that guy over there? Looks shady to me. He could be someone working under Warhound, gathering supplies for the future."
Ryu barely glanced. "He's holding three baskets of turmeric in one hand and a baby in another. Maybe try again." Iyu pointed at someone leaning against a post near a bakery. "How about him? That guy's too still. Probably waiting to signal someone–"
"He's sleeping. Genius."
Iyu clicked his tongue. They walked a bit further before Iyu suddenly pointed again, voice dropping. "What about that one?" He gestured to the hooded figure from earlier, the one carrying multiple bags.
"Covered head, no attention to surroundings. That's how bombers act." Just then, the hooded figure adjusted his grip. One of the bags slipped and fell to the ground, a shower of carrots rolling across the dirt as it landed.
Ryu stopped, blinked once, then burst into laughter. "Yeah, real terrifying. What next? You think he's gonna strangle people with celery?" Iyu glared at him. "Carrots could hide something–"
"Do wolves eat carrots now?" Ryu cut in, amused. Iyu's fist met Ryu's arm in a sharp, heavy punch. The impact was strong enough to thump, but Ryu barely flinched, only raising a brow.
"Touchy," he muttered. Iyu cracked his knuckles once, then kept walking without looking at him. The noise of the village swallowed them again. Their pace stayed in sync, even if their tempers didn't.
The hooded figure Iyu pointed at passed through the marketplace, the cloaked man slipping through an old alley before disappearing behind a rusted fence gate. He moved with purpose, each step quiet yet steady.
The path led to a shaft-like elevator that wheezed and creaked as it lifted him up, the dim bulb inside flickering against his hood. At the top was an old safehouse, forgotten by most, but not by him.
The walls bore the scars of the past. Bullet dents, patched holes, and a dusty smell of metal and age. It was one of the few sanctuaries he'd prepared long ago, in case the worst ever came to pass.
He walked further in, boots scraping against the concrete floor. Then, a small voice, trembling, broke the silence. A child, barely out of her toddler years, stood at the end of the corridor.
She was holding a flashlight, her little hand shaking as she shone it on him. "Go away!" she cried, repeating it like a mantra. "Go away, go away!" Each flash of the light stung his eyes, but the man didn't flinch.
Instead, he sighed softly and raised one hand, palm open in peace. "Easy now," he said, his voice rough but calm. "It's me." He pulled back his hood, and the girl's fearful eyes widened. Recognition instantly replaced her panic.
"Warhound!" she exclaimed, relief washing over her.
The man, older now, with a scar running down his right cheek that hadn't been there before, allowed himself a small smile.
"Hey, Pin," he greeted.
Pin ran up to him, clutching his leg. She was bright-eyed, far too aware for her age, and yet still carried that untainted innocence that Warhound had long since lost. "You came back," she said softly.
"Had to," he replied, lifting the bag of carrots. "Couldn't let these go to waste." He placed the bag on a half-collapsed counter, rummaging through the broken cookware scattered across it.
A dented pot, a rusted pan, half a burner that hissed faintly when he turned the knob. It was barely functional, but he made do. He washed the carrots in a small basin of stale water, peeling them with a chipped knife.
His movements were clumsy, clearly not used to cooking, but careful, like he was afraid to make noise. Pin watched him with fascination, legs swinging as she sat on a crate nearby.
"Why do we always move around?" she asked suddenly.
Warhound paused mid-cut, his blade pressing down slowly. "Because it's safer that way."
"Safer from what?"
"From people who don't like us?"
"Why don't they like us?"
He hesitated, then let the knife resume its rhythm. "They just have different thoughts about life. Sometimes people can have really bad misunderstandings."
Pin tilted her head, thinking. "Like how I was scared of you before?" Warhound glanced at her, then gave a short nod. "Yeah. Like that."
The pot began to boil, the faint scent of burnt metal mixing with the sweetness of carrots. Pin giggled as he poked the pot with the knife's tip, unsure if what he was making was soup or stew.
"You're not a very good cook," she teased.
He smirked. "Didn't say I was."
For a few quiet moments, the safehouse felt almost like a home, the dim light casting a warm hue over the concrete walls. But then, as all children eventually do, Pin asked the question that broke the illusion.
"Warhound," she began, her voice softer now, "do you think my family's still looking for me?"
Warhound froze again. The water's bubbling seemed louder now. He stared at the pot for a long while before answering, his tone even yet almost detached. "Eat first," he said. "We'll talk later."
Pin frowned, sensing the deflection, but said nothing more. She simply watched him as he stirred the pot in silence, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between them. Warhound ladled the contents of the pot into a dented metal bowl and placed it in front of Pin.
The "dish" was… something. A murky stew of unevenly chopped carrots, burned edges, and strange lumps that might've been boiled too long. Steam rose in lazy curls, carrying a scent that wasn't exactly unpleasant, just confusing.
Pin blinked at it, her head tilting slightly. "What… is it?" Warhound folded his arms, staring at it as if the answer would appear. "Dinner."
"Oh," she said, nodding politely. She clasped her hands together. "Thank you for the food!" Then, with the courage of a soldier twice her size, she scooped up a bite and popped it into her mouth.
Her face twitched, a mix of confusion and bravery, but she forced a smile anyway. "It's… warm!" she said, voice bright and hopeful. Warhound couldn't help but let out a low chuckle. "That's one way to put it."
She smiled at him again, and for a brief second, something in his chest softened. That little grin, small, trusting, genuine… It reminded him of what all this running was for.
As Pin continued to eat, Warhound leaned back against the wall. The concrete was cold against his back, but he welcomed it. His body ached, ribs sore from a fall two nights ago, his arm still bandaged from a graze.
The life of a fugitive wasn't meant for rest, and yet, tonight felt like the first in a long time where he could breathe. He glanced around the safehouse, making sure that there was nothing wrong before dropping his guard.
Ever since the time he had escaped the camp, the time he got Pin, he'd been living like this. Moving from one forgotten place to another, staying just long enough to not get caught.
The organization never stopped hunting. He could almost feel their reach even here, like a shadow stretching over the world. But as long as Pin was with him, he couldn't afford to stop.
He had to keep her alive, had to let her group up far from that darkness that kept pursuing her life. Pin was a child that deserved to live something close to normal, to experience laughter, a warm meal, even if it tasted like metal and overcooked carrots.
He shifted, lowering himself to the floor. The moment his back met the ground, a jolt of pain ran through his shoulder. He winced quietly, eyes staring up at the cracked ceiling. His breath slowed.
"It really does take two to raise a kid," he muttered under his breath, "must really suck for single parents." He began to rest, with Pin happily chewing beside him, humming an off-key but peaceful tune to herself.
Hopefully this time we'll stay for longer.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Pheo strolled through the market, the air thick with the smell of roasted meat, sweat, and the faint sweetness of fruit. He wandered between the stalls, past the hanging cuts of meat glistening under the sun, baskets of herbs, and rough laughter of butchers showing off their best cuts.
He eventually wandered into the fruit aisle, where he was surrounded by crates of color. There, he stood in front of two options that now demanded serious thought.
An apple and an orange.
He held both in his hands, turning them over as if he were studying some kind of ancient relic. "The apple's crunchier," he muttered to himself. "But the orange's sweeter… juicier."
It wasn't really a decision that mattered, yet somehow, it felt like it did. He frowned, switching them between his hands, weighing them as though the answer would appear on their skin.
After a moment of silent debate, he shrugged.
"Nothing stopping me from having both."
He paid the merchant and walked a short distance away, sitting on the edge of a low stone wall beneath a patch of shade. The festival preparations were still ongoing, the rhythmic sound of drums echoing faintly from somewhere deeper in the village.
He took a bite from the apple first, a crisp, refreshing feeling came before he looked around, wondering where to even begin looking for the elder of the villager mentioned earlier.
Then, his eyes caught movement across the plaza. Someone stood there, roughly his age, weaving through a small crowd gathered in a circle. At first, Pheo thought it was a street performance, but the way that person moved made him pause.
There was precision in every motion. A practiced turn of the wrist, the firm stance of someone who understood their balance down to instinct. Their strikes weren't flashy, but sharp and deliberate.
Each movement carried a rhythm that could only come from years of training. Even without seeing their face clearly, Pheo could tell, this wasn't someone fighting for show. This was muscle memory, honed and sharpened. He leaned forward, the orange forgotten in another hand.
They're a fighter.
He thought. The way their body shifted was foreign to him, an aggressive style that used momentum and speed. It reminded him of Elysia's aggressive style, sharp, unyielding, and driven by a kind of fire that burned brighter the longer the fight dragged on.
Pheo was still fixated on the fighter across the plaza, his gaze following each movement as if studying a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. There was precision in every step, no wasted motion, no hesitation.
Whoever that was, they weren't just performing for the crowd. They were training, refining something within themselves. He was so focused that he barely noticed when someone sat down beside him.
It wasn't until the stranger spoke that he realized he wasn't alone. "You seem rather fascinated," the voice said, deep and calm, like a steady current of water cutting through noise.
Pheo turned sharply, startled to see an older man seated next to him. Ages, yes, but far from frail. His posture was upright and still, his presence commanding without effort. He wore simple robes of earth tones that blended with the dusty hues of the market, yet there was an undeniable air of authority about him.
His hair was streaked with gray, framing a weathered face marked not by weakness but by wisdom hard-earned. His eyes were calm and steady, observant of everything happening around him.
"I… didn't hear you sit down," Pheo admitted, a little embarrassed. The old man smiled faintly, a small curve of the lips. "That's because I didn't want you to." There was a slight pause, one that made Pheo feel like the man was studying him.
Then, the old man continued, "I heard you're interested. About the hero."
Pheo blinked. "You… know?"
"I tend to know when someone's looking for me," the elder replied, eyes shifting to the square where the fighter continued his drills. "And people don't come asking about old legends unless they're searching for something deeper than stories."
Pheo hesitated, unsure what to say. The old man's tone wasn't accusatory but merely observant, patient. After a while, he nodded. "Everyone I asked didn't seem to know much. It seemed odd that barely anyone knew when you're preparing this much for the festival."
The elder chuckled quietly, the sound more like a sigh than laughter. "Stories have a way of becoming legends, and legends have a way of turning into myths. Truth tends to fade somewhere along that path."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze distant as if watching something only he could see. "It began during a time of fear. When this place, Rahl, was nothing more than a few dozen families trying to survive the desert winds."
"There were barely anyone passing by to trade, the wells were drying up, and the few guards that we had were barely enough to fend off thieves. So when word came that a great bandit horde, amounting to hundreds, maybe more, were coming to destroy the village…"
He paused, letting the words hang heavy in the air. The sounds of the market carried faintly between them. The laughter of the children playing nearby and chatter of merchants could be heard faintly.
"That was when he arrived," the elder continued. "A stranger. A man who came with his family, weary from travel, seeking a home, a place to start anew." Pheo leaned in slightly. "And the villagers let him in?"
The elder shook his head. "No. They turned him away. The people were terrified. Not just of the bandits, but of anything unfamiliar. They thought he would be another burden, another problem to feed when there was already too little to go around."
His gaze hardened, not in anger, but in quiet reflection. "But the man didn't leave. He stood before the village chief and made them an offer. If he could him some time, just a little, then he would solve their problem. He would stop the bandits."
Pheo frowned. "Did he have anything with him? At least a gun to fight off hundreds of them?" The elder smiled slightly. "He had brought nothing but his family with him. He didn't speak of power or weapons. He only asked for time."
He turned his head toward Pheo, his eyes narrowing slightly, sharp and knowing. "And the village, desperate and with what little choice they had, gave it to him. They didn't trust him, not really. But when you've run out of options, even a stranger's promise can sound like salvation."
"The elder told him that he could stay, but not among them. They told him to live in the abandoned part of Rahl, to a narrow path that led to the top of a sand dune, where no one had lived for years."
Pheo pictured it. A long, winding tail climbing through the dunes, the wind carrying dust like smoke, and a lone figure making the journey upward with determination. "He agreed," the elder continued, nodding slightly as though he still admired the memory.
"Didn't argue, didn't plead. Just thanked them, gathered what little he had, and went up there to build his home. From time to time, he'd come down. Buy supplies, offer to work in the fields, repair tools and fix roofs."
The elder's voice softened, carrying the weight of years. "He never asked for much in return. The people watched him carefully, suspicious at first. But when they say how tirelessly he worked, their fears began to soften."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with memory. "Even so, they never quite knew what he was doing up there. He would bring up metal scraps, wires, sometimes strangely shaped stones no one recognized."
"The curious tried to follow him once, but he sent them back, saying it wasn't ready yet. The villagers called him strange, even mad, but they let him be. Perhaps because deep down, they wanted to believe in his promise."
Pheo spoke quietly, almost without realizing it. "The promise to protect them." The elder gave a slow nod. "Aye. He said he'd stop the bandits. And when the time came, he did."
He paused for a long moment before continuing, his gaze still distant. "When the bandits came, they came like a wave, hundreds of them. The villagers gathered what they could, prepared to die with whatever dignity remained."
"But before the first arrow could be fired, the earth trembled. A shimmer of blue light surrounded the village. Not fire, not magic, but something else entirely. A barrier that no weapon could pierce."
Pheo's eyes widened slightly, his breath caught. "Then," the elder said softly. "The sky darkened. A swarm rose over the dunes. Not birds, not insects, but something in between."
"Armored fliers, small and sharp, their wings catching the sunlight like blades. They descended upon the bandits, cutting through armor and flesh alike. Screams filled the air, the sane turned red, and by the time the sun set, nothing moved beyond the walls of that blue light."
He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. "The villagers never saw him fight. They only saw the aftermath. The silence that followed, the smell of iron, the dunes painted with red crimson."
The elder's voice grew softer. "When they went up the next morning to thank him, the man was gone. His home stood empty. Only his tools and the faint glow of that same blue light remained."
"Some said he'd vanished into the sands. Others believed he'd gone somewhere far beyond, to build another home where he was needed." He turned to Pheo, his gaze calm but searching.
"That's why we celebrate the hero. Not because of what he did, but because of what he stood for. A stranger who came in a time of despair… and left behind a hope the village still clings to."
The elder's tone dimmed, his voice rougher now. The flicker of the nearby lantern cast uneven shadows across his face, and for the first time, Pheo sensed a heaviness behind his words.
"The village let him stay, of course," the elder said quietly. "After what he did for us, how could they not? The people built their home stronger, the routes started being used again by traders, and for the first time in years, they slept without fear."
He paused, staring at the sand between his feet as though it might shift and reveal some buried truth. "But our savior… he seemed to have other problems that plagued him." Pheo tilted his head slightly, listening.
"At first, he was the same as before. Came down every few weeks to buy grain, cloth, or tools. Sometimes he'd speak to the merchants, or help repair something that had broken. But soon, people noticed the change."
The elder gestured faintly, his hand trembling. "He spoke less. Smiled less. The way he carried himself, it was no longer that of a man providing for his family, but of someone who had lost it."
"He started buying bottles. Strong liquor, cheap and bitter. At first, people thought it was nothing, that maybe he just needed to forget the blood he'd spilled. But it grew worse. His visits became erratic, his eyes hollow. He looked like a man being eaten away by something only he could see."
The wind stirred, scattering the sand near their feet. The elder's gaze drifted toward the horizon. "No one dared to help," he continued softly. "Even those who wanted to couldn't bring themselves to climb that dune."
"They remembered what he'd done. The flies, the light, the massacre. Fear of the strong does not fade easily. They'd nod politely when he passed, then avert their eyes. And when he stumbled through the streets with a bottle in hand, they'd whisper from their windows, pretending not to see."
He let out a slow sigh. "I was one of them. I knew he was falling apart. I saw it. The way he looked at the horizon, like he was waiting for something that would never return. But I did nothing to help. None of us did."
His hands curled into his lap. "We told ourselves that he wanted to be left alone. That a man like him didn't need anyone. But the truth is simpler, we were afraid. We'd rather watch him fade than risk facing his wrath like the bandits did."
Pheo felt something tighten in his chest, a mix of anger and pity. "So you just… let him destroy himself?" The elder nodded slowly, not as defense, but as confession. "We did. And in doing so, we destroyed what was left of him."
The silence that followed hung like a weight between them. After a long while, Pheo asked quietly. "What happened to him after that?" The elder looked up, eyes distant, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"That," he said, "is where the legend truly begins."
Pheo waited, expecting the story to continue, but the elder didn't go on. Instead, the man's hand brushed the wooden table in front of him, fingers tracing its edge as if confirming its shape.
It was then that Pheo noticed, the elder's gaze wasn't focused on him. His eyes, though open, were clouded, unmoving. "I wouldn't know how it ended," the elder admitted after a long pause.
"What I've told you… it's only what I've heard. I was there, but I couldn't see what the others had." He gave a faint chuckle, dry and weary. "Haven't seen anything for years, truth be told."
The weight of that admission settled between them. The market's sounds seemed to fade, replaced by the soft rustle of the wind dragging sand across stone. "I'm sorry," Pheo said quietly.
"There's no need to be," the elder replied. "Stories travel. They change with every tongue that speaks them, but their roots stay the same." He stood slowly, leaning on a worm cane that had seen for many years.
Then, before turning away, he added, "If you still yearn to know more, boy… that man still lives up there." He pointed somewhere past the rooftops, toward the distant dunes where the wind howled like whispers from another time. And with that, the elder walked off, his steps slow but steady, leaving Pheo behind.