The sun broke the horizon, spilling its pale gold light across the shattered land. Its warm rays stretched across the ruins of the once lively village, illuminating the crumbled remains of the headquarters of the holy knights. The air was thick with dust and the acrid sting of smoke lingering from the night's devastation.
Kira, Lily, Francisco, and Clayton lay in a small cleared patch among the rubble and debris. Diomede stood over them, his broad frame marked by deep burns across his back and legs. He breathed slowly, steadying himself against the pain. His clothes hung in tatters, singed and soaked, barely clinging to his frame as the slow healing magic worked beneath his skin.
Francisco stirred first, blinking against the morning glare as he slowly sat up, shielding his eyes. His gaze swept across the ruined village and the charred bones of what had been a home and sanctuary. The weight of the destruction sank into his heart like a stone.
Diomede remained standing, his arms stretched out as if holding an invisible barrier against the ruins around them.
"Was that… what I think it was?" Francisco asked, his voice a trembling whisper.
Diomede nodded slowly. "A lifeforce eruption."
Francisco's hands rose to his head in disbelief, his voice barely audible. "I can't believe I witnessed such a spell… and those innocents… to be used like that. It's… horrible."
His gaze darted around, taking in the ruins, the splintered wood, the scorched earth. "How did you protect us from the blast?"
Diomede shifted, the sharp sting of his burns making him flinch, but his voice was steady. "I cast a shield spell. It lasted long enough to keep you four safe."
"We need to wake them. We have to move." Francisco's urgency was clear as he began rousing Lily, who groaned in discomfort.
Diomede turned away and started walking toward the center of the village ruins.
"Where are you going?" Francisco called out.
"To find the rest of my things… and some clothes," Diomede replied without looking back.
"When they're up, search for any supplies. We leave soon." Francisco's voice carried with grim resolve.
Kira slowly opened her eyes, the dry dust in her nose and throat triggering a cough. As her vision adjusted, she saw the devastation around them. The raw, endless agony of the innocent victims swept through her like a tidal wave—every wound, every piercing pain echoed inside her. She screamed, a guttural cry that tore through the morning stillness.
Clayton woke abruptly, the sound wrenching him from sleep. "What's happening to her?" he shouted.
Francisco swiftly pulled his flute from his bag. "Hold her still, young Clayton. I'll try to ease her pain."
Clayton crawled toward Kira, grasping her arms as she convulsed wildly. Lily moved beside him, helping to hold Kira steady. Francisco's fingers danced over the flute, sending a soft melody into the thick air. Slowly, Kira's body began to relax, the wracking tremors subsiding, pain retreating like a dark storm passing.
Francisco exhaled, relief washing over him. Clayton and Lily exchanged concerned glances. Clayton sat back, dazed, then slowly rose, wandering amidst the wreckage. His mind felt numb, thoughts scattered.
"How…" he muttered under his breath.
Lily and Francisco followed, each weighed down by the crushing loss.
"A few days ago," Clayton said quietly, "I sat right here, listening to Philip spin stories about his hometown out east…"
He clenched his fists at his sides. "How is one person supposed to carry such a tragedy?"
Lily reached out, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "You push forward. You learn to bear the weight."
Clayton's head bowed as tears traced cold paths down his cheeks. "Let these tears be the last you shed," Lily said softly, wiping the last away. "You are a warrior. Bite down and still the grief in your heart."
"Nesfundur!" Lily called out, scanning the ruins. "Where is the large man who was with us?"
Francisco returned his flute to his bag. "He walked into the village—to find clothes and belongings."
Kira sat up slowly, rubbing her forehead. Francisco extended a hand, helping her to her feet.
"Thank you," Kira murmured.
The four moved cautiously through the debris. Clayton's eyes searched every broken stone, every fallen beam, desperate for a sign of life.
A hand nudged his shoulder. It was Francisco.
"Don't, young Clayton," Francisco said quietly. "The spell that caused this… it used the very lifeforce of the victims to create its blast."
Clayton shook his head, unable to comprehend. "What kind of person could wield such a spell?"
Francisco's face darkened. "Only a monster."
Francisco led the group forward. "Our friend also wanted us to look for supplies."
Lily and Kira looked to Clayton for direction. His face was grim, voice low. "There may be something behind that downed door."
He lifted the heavy door, revealing a staircase descending into darkness. The air that wafted up was thick with mold and dust.
Francisco snapped his fingers and a soft light orb floated ahead, illuminating rows of chests and crates. "This is where we keep things taken from unsavory types."
Clayton walked the aisles, scanning for packs and survival gear.
Lily spotted a long handle sticking out from behind a pile of boxes. It was her great axe—the one she had wielded the morning before. Her heart swelled with a bittersweet joy as she hefted it over her shoulder.
Kira caught the joy radiating from Lily and smiled softly. Lily noticed the boarkar's gaze and explained, cheeks flushing, "It belonged to my father."
Kira nodded understandingly.
Francisco rifled through a chest along the wall. Clayton made his way to a door at the back and, with mounting frustration, pounded his fists against it. Each hit fueled the storm inside him.
Kira moved to comfort Clayton, but Lily stepped between them. "Leave him be. He must let out the last of his grief."
Kira's heart clenched in sympathy. She shared his pain, not only through experience but also because his raw emotions pierced her own soul.
The door gave way, collapsing with a crash to the floor.
Inside, dusty shelves held rows of scrolls and books, long forgotten.
Clayton sifted through the ancient tomes, his fingers tracing the spines. Francisco continued his search among the chests, uncovering personal items—journals, trinkets, lockets holding faded portraits of loved ones.
Then Francisco found a cloak. Plain, with no markings. He shrugged it over his shoulders. It felt familiar—light and comforting, like the cloak his father wore in stories from his childhood.
The cloak shimmered, changing to match the image in Francisco's mind.
He leaped with excitement. "I can't believe it! This cloak is magical! It looks just like my father's!"
Lily gave an annoyed sigh at Francisco's exuberance. Kira smiled warmly at the joy shining through Francisco—a rare light amid the shadow.
Clayton emerged from the room behind the broken door, a bag slung across his chest, scrolls peeking out from its folds.
"What has everyone found?" he asked.
Lily and Kira held up blankets, bedrolls, packs, and rope.
Francisco twirled, his new cloak flowing behind him, then noticed the wary eyes on him.
"If this is here… what else could be?" he asked.
Clayton opened more chests, pulling out a carved pipe shaped like an old man, a flat dark-blue rod, and a small metal tub with a button.
"Well, it's better than nothing," Lily said, picking up supplies and heading upstairs.
Francisco packed the items into his magic bag, each fitting perfectly inside.
Clayton stared in confusion. Francisco caught his gaze. "It's a magic bag, my dear friend. Don't overthink it."
Francisco patted Clayton's back as Kira and Lily carried blankets and rope up the stairs. They followed behind.
At the edge of the village, Diomede moved among the ruins until he reached what was left of the "Pinky Toe." The heap reminded him of the heavy rocks he once carried across the Brewer's garden. A pang of nostalgia flickered, but he quickly crushed it.
Suddenly, a ripple of danger crept down his spine.
He stood upright, turning slowly to face Commander Ruffgaurd and several knights, weapons drawn and aimed at him.
Behind them stood the Elite Panagiot, his chest wound healed, eyes cold and calculating.