There were no flames. That was what was wrong with the first scene. The village was dead… but it had not burned.
The ground was split with black lines, the walls still stood, but the doors were open, the windows without glass.
The man stood at the edge of the narrow street, the pen trembling between his fingers, and he did not write as if the village itself would not allow him to breathe unless he recorded what was demanded.
He was neither a brave journalist nor a coward. He was simply the first to arrive.
He took a single step. Then stopped. A corpse by the well. Not torn apart. Not burned. Eyes open, mouth half-open. Then another corpse. Then a third.
No torrents of blood. No sign of a struggle. Something had taken them, then left the place untouched.
Fear had not yet arrived, but his chest tightened, as if something unseen watched him from between the walls.
He lifted his head. And saw the symbols. Not carved. Not drawn. Remnants… as if the walls remembered a moment then tried to forget it.
He stepped back.
— "Write,"
a voice said behind him.
He turned.
A soldier. Armor dirty, face tauter than it should have been.
— "The world will not wait for your feelings,"
the soldier continued.
"Write what we tell you."
It was not an order. It was a weight placed on his shoulders.
The journalist looked at the village. Then at his pen.
— "And what shall we say?"
The soldier did not hesitate.
— "A Drakhaens attack."
A short silence followed.
— "And the sorcerers?"
— "They intervened just in time."
He said it in a measured tone, as if it had been said before.
The journalist looked at the corpses again. Then asked quietly:
— "And these?"
The soldier clenched his fist.
— "Collateral victims."
The word fell heavier than the corpses themselves. It was not written immediately, but it was recorded.
In the central square, a wooden platform was erected with uncomfortable speed.
Flags.
Seals. Faces that knew how to look reassured.
The priest stood first.
— "The sorcerers saved us from a greater disaster," he said.
"If they had been late… nothing would have remained."
People nodded. Some wept. Some prayed.
Then stepped forward the sorcerer Tsukishiro Ren. One of the masters at the Sorcerers' Academy, rank of Archmage. But the badge on his chest was enough.
— "The attack was organized," he said.
"From the Drakhaens Kingdom. The energy pattern is clear. But the sorcerers intervened to protect you and ensure your safety."
The people began to clap. It was not joy, but a collective attempt to convince themselves that all was well.
It did not lie about the truth. It just… trimmed it enough to be applauded.
A woman at the back whispered:
— "But… we didn't see any dragons."
Her husband silenced her.
— "Demons do not always come with wings."
A soft laugh. Relief.
This is how questions are buried, and with them, hearts that knew something had broken and would not mend.
In a corner of the square, a young man named Yui Hina stood alone. A novice sorcerer, not invited to speak. He saw the symbols on the walls.
He recognized them. He took a step. Then stopped. The eye he had seen in battle… was not here. He said to himself:
— "This is not an attack…"
The words lodged in his chest. Speaking them aloud would have been easier than bearing the consequences.
Then he fell silent. Because the truth, when it finds no place, becomes a danger.
In the evening, the report was published.
Copied.
Signed.
Sent.
The headlines were ready:
— "Sorcerers Repel Attack from the Drakhaens Kingdom"
— "Village Sacrificed to Save the Region"
People read. They breathed. They slept. The truth was not denied. It was buried.
_
The day did not begin with real light.
The only window in the office was half-closed, dust hanging in the air as if it were furniture.
Files tied with threads cut and retied. A man sat behind the desk, as if he had not risen in ages.
Kagiri Shin.
A regional police officer. Not famous. Not liked.
He sprawled on the chair, feet on the table, hat tilted as if protesting its owner. He held a small cloth doll, without eyes and mended a thread with his teeth. He spoke without lifting his head:
— "If you come in with bad news… let it at least be new news."
A voice hesitated at the door. Then it opened. A young officer entered, carrying a newspaper folded with exaggerated care.
— "Sir…" he said, hesitantly.
— "The morning news."
He extended the paper.
Shin did not take it immediately. He tightened the last thread on the doll, blew on it, and placed it aside between two broken files.
He took the newspaper. Opened it. The headline was large, clear, and… far too comforting:
— "Drakhaens Attack on Border Village - Sorcerers Intervene and Save the Day."
Shin smiled. A small, lazy smile. Completely inappropriate for the content.
— "Huh…" he said, reading.
— "The Drakhaens, again."
He turned the page. His tone did not change.
— "Same timing, same scenario, same line: No survivors."
He finally raised his eyes to the young man.
— "Have the Drakhaens started cleaning up after themselves now?"
The young man froze.
— "Sir?"
Shin folded the newspaper with one hand and tossed it onto the table.
— "No witnesses, no remains, no errors in the statement."
He leaned back.
— "This is not an attack."
He said it not because he was certain, but because his mind refused to believe the ease of it.
Silent for a moment, he added lightly:
— "It's a well-crafted statement."
The young man stepped forward.
— "The orders say..."
Shin raised his hand. Not to silence him, but to adjust the hat on his head.
— "Orders always say something," he said calmly.
— "But the truth… rarely obeys."
He stood. The office made a faint protesting creak. He took his coat from the chair, paused at the doll, looked at it, then slipped it into his pocket.
He turned to the young man.
— "Tell them I'm taking a short leave."
He smiled.
— "A leave to a village where no one remains."
The young man hesitated.
— "Without official permission?"
Shin opened the door.
— "Exactly."
Then he said as he stepped out:
— "The things you are allowed… are rarely important."
The door closed.
The newspaper remained on the table, open on a story agreed upon before it was even written.
_
In the Drakhaens Kingdom, Kaelina was still asleep after her injury. Her breaths uneven, her body stiff, as if it had not yet accepted the pain.
She opened her eyes slowly. Then lifted her head. And turned.
There, a short distance away, Mirei stood. She did not move. Did not raise a weapon. Did not speak. She only looked at her. Her gaze steady, calmer than it should have been.
Kaelina paused. Then their eyes met. Mirei smiled. A faint smile, without malice… or mercy.
_
Elsewhere,
where truth is not healed but hunted,
Shin, on his way into the Human Kingdom, stopped at an abandoned checkpoint. No one was there. The fence leaned, the gate open, as if it had forgotten its purpose.
On the ground, a black mirror, unlike any other. As if it remembered a moment then tried to forget it.
Shin approached. He touched the mirror. A coldness slipped into his bones.
He muttered softly:
— "…This is not from the Drakhaens."
At that moment, the doll in his pocket trembled. A light shiver, as if it had seen something before him.
That night, a second version of the report was published. One line was missing from the first version. A small line, buried at the bottom of the page:
— "One witness was found."
And in the margin, only one name:
*****… the sole survivor.
A name that should never have appeared in an official report.
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© 2026 Lobna. All rights reserved.
-To be continued...-