CHAPTER 41 — The Weight of Night
Zodac finally emerged from the forest by late evening.
The canopy thinned behind him, branches giving way to open sky, and the stars revealed themselves one by one—cold, distant pinpricks of light scattered across the darkness. The moon hung low, pale and watchful, as if silently judging the path he had taken to reach this point. His boots pressed against the dirt road with dull, tired thuds, each step heavier than the last.
He should have arrived much earlier.
The war hog had cost him time—time, blood, strength, and fragments of himself he wasn't sure he could ever recover. Even now, as he walked, his muscles ached in protest, scars pulling beneath his clothes like reminders etched too deeply into flesh. But he was here now. That was all that mattered.
From afar, the faint glow of torchlight marked the outline of a small town. Warm light flickered against wooden walls and stone paths, a fragile barrier against the vast darkness beyond. Civilization. Safety—at least the illusion of it.
Zodac paused for a moment, staring at the town.
Then he pulled his hood over his head.
The fabric shadowed his face, concealing his features, his scars, his identity. He had learned long ago that anonymity was a shield just as important as armor. Perhaps more.
He entered the town quietly.
The streets were mostly deserted, the hour late enough that most people had retreated indoors. A few figures passed him by—a man carrying a sack over his shoulder, a woman walking briskly with her head lowered—but none spared him more than a passing glance. To them, he was just another traveler. Another adventurer. Another soul passing through.
Good.
Zodac kept his pace steady, neither hurried nor slow, until the shape of an inn appeared ahead. A modest building, wooden walls reinforced with stone, its sign swaying gently in the night breeze. Light spilled from the windows, accompanied by muffled voices and the faint clatter of dishes.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Warmth greeted him immediately. The smell of cooked food, stale ale, and burning firewood filled the air. Compared to the forest, it felt almost unreal—too alive, too normal.
Behind the counter stood a young man wearing a lemon-colored shirt. He had brown hair, slightly messy, and an expression that spoke of routine more than curiosity. The counter reached just above his waist, polished smooth by years of use.
The man looked up.
"Oh, an adventurer," he said casually, his voice polite but unremarkable. "How may I help you?"
"A room for the night," Zodac replied.
His voice was calm, flat. Emotionless by design.
The attendant nodded and opened a large book resting on the counter. He flipped through its pages, scanning names and marks by candlelight. After a moment, he closed it and reached for a key hanging among several others on the wall.
"The third room upstairs, left side," he said, handing the key to Zodac. "I can escort you if—"
"No worries," Zodac interrupted gently. "I'll find it."
The man shrugged, unfazed. "Alright then."
Zodac took the key and turned away.
The wooden stairs creaked beneath his boots as he ascended. The inn was quieter upstairs, but not silent.
As he passed the first door, sound bled through the thin wood.
"Ooh—ugh—hah…"
Zodac grimaced.
The noises were unmistakable—low moans, breathless gasps, the rhythmic creak of a bed straining under movement. A man and a woman, lost in each other, uncaring of who might hear.
He moved on quickly, irritation flickering across his face.
Then came the second door.
At first, the sounds were softer—muffled, restrained. A woman's voice, hushed and trembling, clearly trying not to be heard.
Zodac slowed.
Something felt… off.
There was no second voice.
No masculine grunts. No responding breath. Just one voice, strained and uneven.
Realization struck him like a cold splash of water.
His jaw tightened.
He hurried past the door, suddenly uncomfortable in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.
The third door came into view, and he wasted no time. He unlocked it, stepped inside, and closed it behind him with more force than necessary.
Silence.
The room was small but clean. A single bed, a wooden table, a chair, and a wash basin near the corner. A window overlooked the street, curtains half-drawn. It was enough.
More than enough.
Zodac removed his armor piece by piece, placing each carefully against the wall. The metal clinked softly, echoing faintly in the room. When he was done, he wore only the light long-sleeve shirt he'd been given in Sito and black flared trousers. The fabric rested against his skin, brushing over scars both old and new.
He bathed quickly, washing away sweat, blood, and grime. The water stung where it touched healing wounds, but he welcomed it. Pain grounded him.
When he finally lay back on the bed, the mattress dipped beneath his weight. He stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused.
Minutes passed.
Then more.
The room remained quiet, but his mind did not.
"What's the point…" he whispered.
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
"All this fighting. All this killing." His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to keep it steady. "What's the point?"
Images flashed through his thoughts—monsters torn apart, blood staining the ground, screams echoing in caves and forests.
"It doesn't get me anywhere," he continued. "Doesn't heal anything."
His chest tightened.
"I have to stay away from people," he muttered. "I don't know who's waiting to betray me next."
The capital.
The memory surfaced unbidden—cold halls, false smiles, whispered lies.
"Just like they did before," he said bitterly.
He turned his head to the side, staring at the wall.
"My scars…" His hand drifted to his chest, fingers brushing the raised lines of old wounds. "They'll never heal."
His breath hitched.
The more he thought, the heavier everything became. The weight pressed down on him, suffocating. Tears welled up in his eyes before he could stop them, sliding down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow beneath his head.
He clenched his jaw, but it didn't help.
Princess Mira's face surfaced in his mind—her smile, sharp and knowing.
"I still don't know what you gained from setting me up," he whispered.
Then another voice—clear, cruel, unforgettable.
*"Can't control yourself, can't hold a woman. I guess you never learned how to satisfy anyone, did you?"*
Aiden.
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Zodac sucked in a shaky breath as his chest ached painfully. Monsters had torn into his flesh. Blades had cut him open. Poison had burned through his veins.
None of it compared to this.
Humans were worse.
They watched. They listened. They waited. And when they learned your weaknesses, they used them—not to kill you, but to humiliate you. To break something inside you that couldn't be repaired.
The tears came harder now.
"Kerra…" he whispered.
Her name tasted like regret.
"I'll never love again," he said quietly. "Never try again. Never trust again."
He turned onto his side, dragging the pillow against his chest and clutching it tightly, as if it could somehow fill the emptiness clawing at him.
"Love is an illusion," he murmured. "Just like peace."
His voice was soft now. Broken.
The room felt too big. Too empty.
Zodac closed his eyes, tears still slipping free, and let exhaustion claim him—not as rest, but as escape.
As sleep finally took him, the weight of the night pressed down on his soul, heavy and unrelenting, promising that tomorrow would bring more battles… and no answers.