Night crept over Olsmere. Two-thirds of the town still lay in scorch and ruin, but in the quarter of the town that had survived, lights flickered against the dark. Survivors gathered around what stood, tents patched with scraps of metal and leather, steam hissed from makeshift pumps that drew water from the wells into hand-cranked faucets beside communal washing and cooking lines set up for the remaining survivours of olsmere.
In the middle of the surviving olsmere square, a massive copper cauldron sat over a gigantic flaming stove, as females dished from it placing soups in bowls to feed hungry children, women and men.
Stacks of crates had been repurposed into small arrangements, each containing herbs and vegetables.
Carts and pulleys clanked as they ferried water, food, and salvaged supplies between the tents.
The whole town was gaining life, throbbing and surviving, showing people could still thrive even after faced with great threats.
Inside olsmeres council meeting hall, men argued over the future of the town, their voices heated, echoing through the stone walls, while outside, some children ran barefoot through the dirt, laughing, chasing one another trying to forget the horror that had scarred them.
Some women lingered in an open field, folding sheets that had dried along the clotheslines, wind blowing nice and calm through the open field. Mira moved slowly as she joined them shortly, her left hand still wrapped in bandages.
She gathered a bag full of folded cloth and started back toward the tents.
That was when she heard
A soft whistle.
Her eyes darted to the side, spotting a man that stood in the shadows of a ruined stall, waving at her. His face half-hidden in the dark.
Mira froze, her fingers tightening over her bandaged hand. Instinct told her to turn away. She stepped back carefully, walking faster with a racing pulse.
The sound of the whistle cut through the air again, this time, laughter accompanying it, as the male figure started pacing towards mira with haste.
Fear spiked within Mira as she turned, quickening her steps, her heart hammering as she looked back over her shoulder repeatedly, ignoring her steps and what lies ahead of her, because of fright she faced.
She immediately stumbles straight into someone's body, as strong hands steadied her, her eyes quickly fell on the figure who grabbed her, her heart pounding almost out of her chest, and suddenly a familiar voice calls out to her.
"Oh hello, young lady."
It was lord Keith the low noble and mrs trinkets husband, he gradually adjusted himself after the bump, his expression shifting when he saw her face pale with fear. "Are you alright?" His eyes narrowed, noticing how her body trembled, how her steps had been frantic.
He stretched his neck, peering into the dark behind her, checking to see what she was running from, then mira spoke.
"Someone called out to me," she whispered, voice shaking. "I think he was following me, and i am sure he was after me."
Keith's brow furrowed. Without a word, he took the bag of folded cloths from her arms and clasped her right hand firmly in his. "Stay close," he said, his tone quiet but urgent as he guided her quickly toward the tents where everyone gathered, scanning the shadows with every step, but fortunately no was spotted.
"Did you see his face?" Keith asked as they walked gently now.
Mira shook her head in disagreemnet. "It was too dark. But… he came out from that damaged stall." She said, pointing toward the ruin stall.
Keith's gaze lingered on the blackened wood and broken stone stall. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He kept walking, his pace now swift, until the noise of the central gathering reached them.
Men still argued loudly within the council hall, voices rising in debate about supplies and defenses.
"These are dangerous times," Keith said at last, adjusting his glasses, his face slug and old like a man in his 60s, hi expression serious. "This town is vulnerable at this time, and men will try to take advantage of that. Walk with someone from now on. Never be alone."
he finalized as he starred around looking to see if he could still spot any signs.
Mira looked up at him, her breath slowing, though her body still trembled slightly. Her eyes fixed on him for a short while as though she had only just realized something, something she could not yet put into words.
Then suddenly her pupils widened, reflecting realisation.
Mira hesitated, then asked softly, "You're Mr. Keith, right? Mrs. Trinket's husband?"
Keith chuckled and nodded. "Yes, I am, and you must be mira" he says while adjusting his misalligned shirt. Mira nods in response with a warm smile.
"Though we've never properly met" keith continued. "I had hoped to meet you, after I returned from lord Eryndor's trial in Calensport, but as you can see…" He gestured at the ruined tents, and the council hall where men argued angrily "Matters of this town have kept me busy."
"Thank you, sir, for saving me from the flames" Mira said, her voice small but full of sincerity. "I owe you."
Keith shook his head, waving the words away. "Nonsense. We were all victims of the attack, we do our duties as people to help one another. I was simply in the right place." He says as he continued walking beside her, his steps steady, carrying the bag of folded sheets.
"Tell me, how are you feeling mira?"
"In general?" Mira glanced up at the night sky, her voice tinged with quiet gratitude. "I'm… grateful."
"You look well," Keith replied gently. "Better than ever."
She smiled faintly. "Mrs. Trinket has been wonderful. She always wants the best for me"
Keith's expression softened, warmed by the mention of his wife. "Yes. That's true. Empathy is her nature. Caring for others is her way of living." He smiled at the thought, as though travelling through thoughts.
The two of them continued walking quietly between the tents, the murmur of voices and the glow of lanterns guiding their path.
At last, Keith stopped in front of Mira's tent. He handed her the sheets gently. "Now that you're safe, move about more cautiously. And don't let fear weigh too heavy, remember, you are not alone here. I'll raise this matter with the town's council. Rest well, Mira."
He offered her a gentle wave and turned away into the night. Mira lingered, smiling faintly with relief, before slipping into her tent with a long, quiet sigh.
Far to the north, preparations stirred.
Liora and her companions gathered beneath the watchtower, their thick garments and leather coats worn tightly in preparation for the bitter cold ahead of them.
Gear wagons sputtered to life as its engines rumbled, with steam puffing from its exhausts, while people held lanterns that glowed against the cold dark. One by one, travelers climbed into the wagons, their boots thudding on the metal steps.
Master Yeru and lioar stood side by side a few paces away, scrolls tucked beneath yerus arm, his old weathered face lined with sorrow, while lioras countenance lit with braveness.
Yeru extended a hand to Liora with softening eyes.
"May your days be long and fruitful, child. Guard yourself well, against the cold, and against what lies beyond it." His lips curved faintly with a smile, though the sadness never left his gaze.
Liora clasped his hand firmly. "We'll be fine, Master Yeru. And besides, we have you. The great Yeru of the north. I haven't forgotten your glory days, nor how bravely you fought for Asterra."
The old master yeru chuckled, shaking his head. "Gone are those days. I am old now. My battles are with the dust of scrolls, i have no children to carry my name, no wife to warm my bed. The tower is my companion, nothing more."
Liora laughed softly. "You're still full of life. There's time yet for a woman to love you, to clean for you, to cook for you."
Yeru blushed faintly, waving her teasing aside. "Eh… pleasures of life are for the young now. My service is all I have left to give."
"Don't punish yourself for the past, master yeru" she said, in an instant her words were cut short by a scream.
High-pitched. Sharp. Bursting from behind the wagons.
Liora spun to action immediately, rifle already in clenched in her hands, cork pulled back with a snap as she sprinted toward the gathered companions, with Yeru hurrying behind her.
Torches lit the dark. Lioras companions clustered around the wagon that had the dead laying in it, as they pointed towards it, some holding themselves as though they had seen a ghost. The adults' faces were etched with shock, their expressions frozen in a mixture of fear and revulsion.
Liora slowed her steps, steady and measured, her rifle raised. Her breath misted in the cold as her eyes narrowed, aligning with the scope ready to shoot.
Then immediately, she froze.
Her grip loosened slowly.
There, at the back of the wagon filled with dead people sat a boy. His clothes still scorched, his face pale, but his chest rose and fell with life. He had been among the six dead. Now, impossibly, he was alive.
"What in Asterra's hell ?" Liora breathed.
Master Yeru arrived at her side, his own eyes widening, disbelief breaking his aged composure.
The boy's gaze darted frantically between the torches pointed at him, squinting against the blinding light. He pressed himself to the edge of the wagon, trembling, cornered like prey.
Liora lowered her rifle, her voice steady though her heart raced. She extended a hand.
"Take my hand, boy. You're safe now."
Others hesitated, their fear still raw, but when Liora moved forward boldly, the men followed, reaching up to pull the boy down from the wagon.
And the night held its breath.