The day had tired itself out and finally relinquished its hold on the sky. The sun withdrew without ceremony, leaving behind a bruised horizon—amber fading into blue, blue sinking toward indigo. Evening arrived not as a moment, but as a slow agreement between light and shadow.
By the time Victoria and I reached the base of the hill, the worst of the rubble had been cleared away. Broken stone had been stacked into uneven piles, and damaged carts pushed aside as if shamefaced. The town was still wounded, but no longer bleeding. Lanterns had been strung up along the streets—paper and glass glowing softly, their light uneven yet earnest, casting warm halos that softened jagged edges and made the world feel briefly forgiving.
We followed the flow of people toward what appeared to be the market square, now repurposed as a place of distribution. Members of the Church moved among the townsfolk in orderly lines, handing out provisions: wrapped cuts of fish, portions of lamb, bundles of vegetables tied with twine. No sermons, no raised voices—just measured efficiency and quiet reassurance.
Dongzhi had asked us to purchase ingredients for dinner. The request itself had felt oddly domestic after everything else, as though insisting on normalcy were an act of quiet resistance.
"The Church is… interesting," Victoria said as we walked past one of the distribution tables.
Her tone was neutral, observational. Not praise, not suspicion—something held carefully between.
"I suppose they are," I replied, adjusting the bundles in my arms as they threatened to slip. The smell of food—hot pot, spices, simmering broth—hung in the air, rich and comforting, doing its best to coax spirits upward. Hunger made itself known, sudden and sharp, as if my body had only just remembered it was allowed to want things again.
Soldiers still patrolled the streets, their silhouettes cutting through lantern-light. They moved in pairs, alert but no longer frantic. Watching them stirred an uneasy curiosity in me—where was my brother is now? What had he seen while we walked beneath lanterns and shared idle thoughts?
"Were the enemy reinforcements really that dangerous?" Victoria asked, her gaze lingering on a small group of soldiers resting near a shuttered shop, helmets set aside, cups in hand.
"I don't know," I admitted, letting out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "Enough to make everyone cautious. Enough that no one wants to pretend it's over."
She hummed softly, then glanced sideways at me. "Hey. What exactly is a cleric like?"
The question came casually, but not idly.
"I don't know much myself," I said after a moment. "But like Dongzhi… their abilities are granted. Not cultivated in the same way."
"So… saints?" she murmured, more to herself than to me.
I didn't answer. The word sat strangely in the air—heavy, imprecise. It didn't feel like a question that wanted resolving.
We continued walking, passing another group of church members speaking quietly with townsfolk. Their expressions were gentle but unreadable, trained perhaps by long habit. As we passed, a familiar voice called out.
"Good evening, Victoria! It's so good to see you."
A woman with soft brown hair and unmistakable rabbit ears waved enthusiastically. Her smile was bright, genuine, the kind that belonged to a life only recently interrupted. Victoria returned the greeting with equal warmth, stopping to exchange a few words—nothing urgent, nothing heavy. Just proof that some threads of the old world still held.
"She's one of my coworkers," Victoria explained as we resumed walking. "From the restaurant I worked at before all this."
"I see," I said.
I wasn't sure what else to say. The idea of before felt distant, like a story overheard rather than lived. I tilted my head upward, searching the sky as if it might offer clarity.
Above us, the moon had risen—pale and resolute. It wore shades of blue and indigo, its edges traced faintly with silver, as though painted carefully into place. The stars were few but sharp, pricking the darkness with quiet insistence.
"Let's head back," Victoria said gently, taking some of the bags from my arms without waiting for protest.
We turned away from the market, lantern-light receding behind us. The town murmured softly at our backs—voices, footsteps, the clink of bowls and ladles. Life, resuming not because it was safe, but because it had no other choice.
Under the watchful moon, we walked home—carrying dinner, carrying questions, carrying a fragile peace that had yet to decide whether it would last.