When Riven stepped outside, the morning chill brushed against his face.
The village was silent—far too silent.
Even the birds carried an unsettling sense of peace.
"How peaceful…" he said mockingly, his crimson eyes scanning the surroundings.
"A maddening kind of peace."
Behind him, Darel's calm but heavy voice echoed.
"Master Riven…"
Riven didn't turn around. "You feel it too, don't you?"
Darel nodded slowly. "Yes. The air… it's too still. The villagers—something's off about them."
Riven's lips curved slightly. "Let's see what kind of play they've prepared for us."
They walked toward the village square. As they did, shutters closed one by one. Faces vanished from windows, whispers scattered like dust in the wind.
At the center stood the village chief, a bulky man with deep lines of age and suspicion across his face.
"What business brings you here, strangers?" he asked harshly.
Riven's gaze was cold. "This village…" he murmured, "…is where I was born."
The chief frowned, letting out a forced laugh.
"What nonsense. I've been here since this village was founded. There was never anyone named Riven."
Riven took a step closer, boots pressing against the dry earth. "Memory is a fragile thing, old man. Sometimes… it forgets what it fears most."
The villagers behind the chief stirred. Some murmured prayers. Others just stared, eyes trembling.
Darel's voice was low, almost warning. "Riven…"
But Riven didn't stop.
"You remember a woman named Elira, don't you?" he asked, voice sharp as glass.
The chief froze. The name hit him like a ghost.
"That woman… she was executed. Burned for witchcraft."
Riven smiled faintly—cold, joyless.
"I know. I watched the flames myself."
Suddenly the air around him darkened. The wind twisted unnaturally.
A faint whisper echoed in his head—the demon's voice.
'Show them… what they did to you.'
Riven's crimson eyes glowed faintly.
The villagers stepped back, fear spreading like fire.
The chief shouted, "This man is cursed! Seize him!"
But before anyone could move, Riven raised his hand.
The ground trembled. Shadows rippled outward like living smoke.
"On your knees," he commanded.
And they obeyed. One by one, unwillingly, the villagers dropped to the ground.
Their bodies shook, their eyes wide in terror, but none could resist.
Darel clenched his fist. "Riven, stop this!"
Riven turned slightly, his expression unreadable. "They deserve to feel it."
The chief struggled to speak. "You… you're the witch's son…"
Riven's voice turned to a whisper. "And you're the man who lit the fire."
He stretched out his arm. Shadows coiled around the chief like serpents.
The man screamed as the darkness swallowed him whole.
Darel stepped forward, shouting, "Enough!"
For a moment, silence fell. The shadows stopped moving.
Riven stood still, breathing heavily. His eyes flickered—crimson fading to grey for an instant.
Then he lowered his hand. The shadows vanished into mist.
The remaining villagers collapsed to the ground, trembling.
Darel's tone softened, though his face was grim. "You can't change the past by destroying what's left of it."
Riven looked down, his voice distant. "Maybe not. But I can make sure it never repeats."
The wind returned—cold, unfeeling. The silence of the village deepened once more.
And as they walked away, Riven whispered under his breath:
"Peace… is such a lie."
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