Finley sat cross-legged by the attic window of his home, forehead resting against the glass, the warm afternoon sun painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. Below, kids played in the street—laughing, chasing each other, the world unbothered by the horrors that had unfolded just beyond the city walls.
His mother had tried to fuss over him when he arrived—tears, a feast, hugs that lingered too long—but Finley had excused himself early.
Now he watched quietly.
He didn't flinch when his little sister crept in, barefoot and carrying a blanket.
"Ma said you haven't eaten," she whispered, crawling beside him.
"I'm not hungry," he said, voice scratchy from days of silence.
She frowned but didn't argue. Just wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and leaned against him.
"I had a dream you came back in pieces," she said suddenly, her voice small. "With your arms gone. And your smile missing."
Finley let out a dry laugh through his nose. "Feels about right."
They sat in silence for a while.
"Did you make friends there?"
He blinked. "Yeah. A few."
"Did you lose them?"
"…Yeah."
Her little hand found his.
"I had to stab something," he whispered after a long pause. "A troll. With a rock. My spear broke. I was screaming while I did it. I didn't even realize I was crying."
She didn't say anything. Just held his hand tighter.
"I don't know if I'm the same anymore."
"You don't have to be," she whispered.
His throat tightened.
"I hate that it was us," he said. "Kids. We didn't even have a choice."
She nodded solemnly. "I think… if you made it out, it's 'cause someone needed you to be here. Maybe even me."
Finley swallowed hard.
"I'm scared that I won't be able to laugh again," he said. "That this heaviness… is forever."
"You laughed just now," she whispered, smiling.
"…Did I?"
"A little."
He looked down at her, the girl who used to follow him around asking for bedtime stories. Now comforting him.
He exhaled slowly.
And for the first time in weeks, he didn't feel like the sky was about to fall.
Just for a moment, the world outside the window felt like it could still be kind.
Troy didn't go home right away.
Not because he didn't want to. But because he didn't know how to.
Instead, he spent the first three days at the old watchtower on the edge of town—the one where he and his father used to climb just to watch the storms roll in.
It was empty now.
Dusty. Forgotten. Quiet.
He liked that.
He sat at the top, boots kicked up, axe leaning against the wall beside him. No armor. Just a tattered shirt, dried blood on the cuffs.
He hadn't washed it off.
Not yet.
He stared at the horizon. Every now and then his hand twitched—gripping at nothing.
He saw the screams again.
The boy whose face split open when the troll's fist hit him.
The girl who bled out against Troy's leg, begging him not to leave.
The night he thought Adel had died—silent under a pile of bodies.
Troy had always been the loud one. The smartass. The one who made everyone laugh when things got dark.
But now?
He hadn't said a word since he got back.
Not until his father showed up at the bottom of the tower.
"You planning to rot up there?" the old man shouted. "Or you finally gonna come down and let your mother cry properly?"
Troy didn't respond.
"Boy, I know you hear me."
Troy stared out into the wind. "I watched too many die."
The words came out like gravel—dry, cracked, bitter.
His father was silent for a long time.
Then, with heavy boots, he climbed up—grunting with age until he reached the top and sat beside his son.
They didn't speak for a while.
Just watched the sky.
"I remember my war," his father said eventually. "I came back mean. Broken. Didn't talk to your mother for weeks."
Troy looked at him. "What changed?"
His father smiled faintly. "She slapped me and said, 'If you're gonna break, do it with us. Not alone.'"
Troy laughed once. Just once. Sharp. Dry.
"I'm scared I'll never be who I was."
"You won't," his father said simply. "That boy's gone. Buried with the others. But that doesn't mean what's left ain't worth keeping."
Troy's jaw clenched.
He looked down at his hands.
Calloused. Blood-stained. Shaking.
"I still hear them," he said quietly.
"Then honor them."
"How?"
"Live."
They sat in silence again. Just the wind now.
Eventually, Troy picked up his axe and stood.
"Alright. I'll come down."
His father raised an eyebrow. "You sure?"
Troy gave a small grin.
Not the full one.
Not yet.
But it was a start.
Two months passed.
The warmth of home, the comfort of familiar walls, and the dull ache of silence—it healed some wounds, but not all. Restless dreams still found them. Ghosts still lingered in their periphery.
And now, the call had come.
Return to Silver Spear.
By mid-morning, the gates loomed again. The fortress hadn't changed. Still gray. Still cold. But they had.
Adel arrived first—quiet as always, eyes sharp, movements precise. He walked through the gates without pause.
Finley arrived later, carting a worn pack over his shoulder. He didn't speak at first, just looked up at the towers with the kind of look people give old wounds. His mother had cried when he left again.
Troy came last. No swagger this time. Just tired steps and a heavy coat. He looked older, even if only by months. A hard edge in his eyes, like someone who'd learned the weight of taking lives.
They met again in the courtyard, like they had that first day. But now the air was different.
No greetings.
Just a silent nod from Adel.
A smirk from Troy.
And Finley saying, "Guess we're back in hell, boys."
They were no longer strangers. Not friends, either. Something more… and something less. Bound by fire. Burned, but still walking.
The barracks were quieter now. Fewer beds. Less noise. More eyes that had seen too much.
A parchment was nailed to the main board. A message from command:
"To the survivors of the Black Forest: Welcome home. Your next phase begins soon. Rest. Reforge. Regroup."
Below it were names.
Many crossed out.
Adel traced his finger over one name. Someone he'd buried. He didn't speak.
Finley turned away.
Troy just muttered, "We carry them with us."
That night, the trio sat by the outer wall, watching the stars. The same sky they had bled under.
Silence hung, but it wasn't empty.
It was shared.
They didn't need to say it.
The forest changed them.
The deaths marked them.
But they were still here.
And something was coming next.
Because when fire dies down… embers remain.
And embers can still burn the world.