Five days of travel.
Five nights of dense silence.
The trees thinned, the road turned to dust and stone, and the distant smell of smoke announced that life existed there — a fragile life, hanging on the edge of war.
When they finally saw the small village: crooked wooden houses, patched roofs, something was… wrong.
There were no children in sight.
No loose animals.
And even the smoke from the chimneys looked too thin — as if the families were rationing even how much warmth they were allowed to have.
Éon raised his hand, ordering everyone to stop.
"Something isn't right," Karna said, low.
Éon dismounted first, eyes analyzing every corner before his feet even touched the ground.
He looked at Karna, who was already assessing escape routes with instinctive precision.
"I and Prince Éon will go first," Karna said, firm. "Secure the perimeter. Eyes sharp."
"Yes, sir!" the soldiers answered, dispersing with trained silence.
Karna and Éon walked toward the village entrance.
As they approached, the environment reacted before the people did.
Doors shut in a rush, bolting from the inside.
A window slammed.
Another was covered with cloth.
A man, hidden behind a narrow gap, watched them with short breaths — he held something metallic in his hand: a simple kitchen knife, used more to cut bread than to defend his own life.
But here… it was all he had.
"Doors shut… windows covered…" Karna muttered, scanning the line of impoverished houses. "This isn't common fear."
Éon walked a few steps ahead, his gaze cold, heavy, absorbing the pattern of the silence, the shadows, the marks in the dirt.
He did not judge fear.
He dissected it.
"No," he said at last, crouching to touch the dry mud near the entrance. "This is taught fear."
When he lifted his gaze, there was more information in his eyes than in any words.
A faint crack behind them.
Almost imperceptible.
But enough.
Karna turned his body before Éon even raised his chin — pure reflex, the instinct of someone who has survived too many times.
A man stepped out of the shadows between two houses, gripping a piece of wood reinforced with metal at the tip — not a weapon, but improvisation, desperation turned into a tool.
He charged with a short, trembling shout — more fear than fury.
Karna intercepted him on the first step.
A sharp movement.
A twist of the wrist.
The wooden piece hit the ground before the man even understood he had let it go.
In a second, Karna had him pinned against the crooked wall of a house, his forearm pressing the man's chest with steady force — not breaking anything, not hurting more than necessary.
The man, frantic, tried to shove him away, but he had no chance.
"Let go!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "What else do you want?!"
The door behind him trembled, as if someone inside had recoiled in fear.
The man struggled, but it was useless.
Karna held him effortlessly, expression neutral.
"Didn't you already take this month's quota?!" the villager continued, spitting the words between angry sobs. "Why do you keep sending soldiers?! Why?!"
His eyes were red, exhausted, desperate.
"What did we do?!" he yelled, his voice breaking for good. "What the hell did we do?! Do the gods hate us that much?!"
The street stayed silent.
Only the echo of his pain spread through it.
Éon approached slowly, without haste, without threat — yet his presence made the air even heavier.
The man froze when he saw him.
Not out of recognition.
But because something in him instinctively understood that this was not a common soldier.
Not someone to argue with.
The villager's breath faltered.
Karna kept the hold but waited for Éon's word.
Éon remained upright, the shadow of his hood sharpening the serious lines of his face.
"Sir, could you explain what happened here?" Éon asked, voice firm, with no need to raise the tone. "Six days of travel… and this is the first village. But even from afar it was clear something was wrong."
Éon stepped lightly forward, gaze still fixed on the man.
"Tell us what happened, and we will help you."
The man laughed — not with humor, but with exhaustion.
A short, broken sound that did nothing to hide his fear.
"Funny…" he murmured bitterly, eyes wide. "The woman who was here two days ago said the same thing. Said she would help us."
Éon narrowed his gaze slightly.
Karna didn't move.
"Go on," Éon ordered, voice low, controlled.
The man swallowed hard, hands shaking.
"She… she said we'd been forgotten by the kingdom. That she would protect our children. That nothing would happen to them." His voice faltered, desperation climbing his throat. "But when the monsters from the Eastern Kingdom came… she did nothing. She just stood there. Just watched."
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to tear the memory out of his skull.
"They took our children," he whispered, voice shattering. "Every one of them. Took them like sacks of grain. And that woman? The woman who said she would save us?"
The man lifted his face toward Éon — not with courage, but with a pain so deep it no longer fit inside silence.
"She let them. She just let them. And said that…" his voice failed, and Karna loosened the pressure so he could breathe "...said they would return safely. That it was necessary. That it was 'a settlement.'"
For a moment, only the wind was heard passing through the empty houses.
Éon lowered his gaze to the ground — more out of analysis than empathy.
"And where is this woman now?" he asked, voice cold as stone.
The villager breathed deeply, his body trembling.
"She vanished," he said. "Disappeared the moment their soldiers left. Vanished… after saying they'd bring our children back."
As soon as he finished the sentence, a distant sound tore through the air:
FOOOOORN—
A deep horn blast.
Not a common warning.
A military signal.
Karna lifted his head instantly.
"The perimeter," he said, voice turning cold in a heartbeat.
Éon didn't hesitate.
"Move."
They began running — boots slicing through dry dust as the houses blurred into gray shapes around them.
The villager, still shaking, watched them disappear between the narrow paths.
Another horn blast echoed:
FOOOOORN— FOOOOORN—
Two signals.
Red alert.
Karna sped up, but Éon placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Karna," he said, firm. "It won't be fast enough."
Éon did not answer with words.
Karna's eyes narrowed, understanding in the same instant.
"Reversum," Éon whispered.
The air around them vibrated, as if reality itself had cracked.
The world became a smear.
The marked blade of one of the guards — placed there earlier by Éon before they even entered the village — flashed for less than a blink.
And then—
TROOOM—
They appeared exactly where it was.
The guard, who had been holding the fallen sword beside an overturned cart, turned pale as Éon materialized as if he had torn through the air itself.
The soldier froze, eyes wide, unable to understand how Éon and Karna had appeared beside him.
"What happened?" Éon asked, straight to the point.
The soldier swallowed thickly.
"T-they… vanished in the blink of an eye…"
Karna frowned.
"I don't feel anything in the air. But Zeph's perception is absurd. If even he got caught… then our enemy cannot be underestimated."
Before Éon could reply, a faint shift of leaves high up in one of the trees drew both their eyes.
Karna already had an arrow in hand.
Éon touched the tip of the dart, activating the seal.
"We know nothing about the enemy," Karna murmured, without looking away. "Don't slip."
Karna released the arrow.
At the same moment, Éon whispered:
"Reversum."
His body vanished, exchanging places with the marked arrow.
He emerged above the hidden figure, sword already descending in a brutal arc, aiming for a fatal strike—
But the figure reacted.
With a precise, almost danced movement, it spun the body, raising the rapier and deflecting Éon's blade by mere centimeters.
It hit the ground rolling, absorbing the impact, and rose to its feet in a single fluid motion.
Now it stood still, fixed, staring at Éon with calculated coldness.
The silence that followed was heavy — as if the forest itself had held its breath.
The figure attacked first — a low, fast advance, straight toward his abdomen.
Éon shifted his hip a single centimeter to the side.
The rapier flashed past.
He answered with a short, clean strike aimed at her shoulder.
She lifted her blade to deflect, but the impact pushed her half a step back.
The rhythm began.
She spun her body, thrusting three times in sequence — neck, chest, thigh.
Precise, aggressive, trained movements.
Éon dodged all three with minimal adjustments of posture.
A tilt of the head.
A turn of the heel.
An almost imperceptible pullback.
When she attempted the fourth strike, he caught her wrist with his free hand, pushing it aside and breaking the rhythm.
The rapier scraped the ground.
She reacted fast, pivoting and trying to slash at Éon's flank.
The katana rose as if it had been waiting, blocking with a sharp crack.
The impact made her rapier vibrate.
Her eyes widened — for an instant.
Éon was already coming with the counterattack.
A short, precise sequence:
Cut — high.
Cut — low.
Cut — diagonal.
She dodged the first two, but the third struck the side of her light armor, knocking her off balance.
She stumbled.
Recovered with a quick jump back, sliding over the dirt, returning to guard.
Breath rapid.
Éon simply advanced.
Not running.
Not rushing.
As if he had already won — and was now just confirming it.
She attacked again, trying to catch his timing.
A low thrust — fast.
He stopped it with the katana angled, pushing her blade upward.
She twisted her forearm, trying to regain the angle.
Éon twisted with her.
She retreated.
Éon closed the distance in a silent step, far too fast.
She tried a surprise strike — a lateral slash.
He slid under it, turning his body, and the katana's tip sliced the air beside her face.
She froze for half a second.
Enough.
Éon placed the blade against her neck.
Fast.
Simple.
Final.
The figure only stared — chest heaving.
The air between them felt dense, heavy, loaded with contained threat.
No sound but her rapid breathing broke the silence.
Éon remained still, the katana still pointed, but without hurry.
There was no more battle there.
Time stretched, each second weighted, making it clear that this moment would be remembered for a long time.