Dawn had barely begun to rise over the village.
A pale, hesitant light slipped between the thatched rooftops still lost in sleep, as if even the sun itself was unsure whether it should appear. Morning mist clung to the ground, crawling between houses, wrapping around pillars and fences like something alive. The air was cold, biting, and every breath felt like a reminder that the world kept moving forward, no matter what.
Everything seemed calm.
Too calm.
The kind of silence that does not soothe. A silence that watches. That waits.
Eran walked steadily along the main road.
As he did every morning.
He was making his round.
The lantern in his hand was unlit. It always was at this hour. He carried it out of habit, almost as an inheritance, more symbol than tool. The sun was already touching the horizon, stretching long shadows across the ground. With every step, his boots softly pressed into the damp earth.
He passed by closed doors, noting details without thinking.
A hinge that had been creaking for weeks.
A cracked shutter that needed fixing before the rainy season.
A house where an old woman lived, one who always refused help even when she clearly needed it.
He knew everything.
Because that was his role.
Village chief.
A role he had never truly wanted. A role he had accepted without ceremony, without celebration, without choice. He was there, and someone had to be.
So he became it.
This habit, this silent walk before the village awoke, he had inherited from his father.
Every morning, long before the first rooster cried, his father walked these same streets. He used to say that a village must be seen before it is heard. That to understand a place, you had to walk through it when no one was watching, when walls had no reason to lie.
Eran remembered those mornings perfectly.
He had been eight or nine. It was always cold. Too cold for him. He complained, dragged his feet, wrapped in a coat far too big for his small frame.
"Why do we wake up so early?"
"Because problems don't sleep," his father replied, smiling.
His father always walked straight ahead. His back slightly bent by age, but never by exhaustion. He moved like someone who knew exactly where he was going, even without a destination. He greeted houses like old friends. He knew every crack, every weakened beam, every family, every quiet conflict.
"Being chief isn't about giving orders, Eran."
"Then what is it?"
"It's being there before anyone has to call you."
Those words still echoed in Eran's mind.
Clear.
Intact.
Unforgiving.
As if they had been spoken yesterday.
He stopped near the central well.
The stone was cold beneath his palm. Rough. Real. He rested his hand against it, grounding himself, and took a deep breath. The air burned faintly in his lungs.
Deep inside him, one thought kept returning.
A thought he had been trying to silence for two days.
They'll come back.
He clung to it with almost ridiculous stubbornness. The adventurers had gone to find his father. Skilled adventurers. Experienced ones. The guild didn't send just anyone on missions like this.
They'll come back with good news.
They have to.
News that would finally ease his mother's heart.
She couldn't take it anymore.
She tried to hide it, but Eran saw everything. The sleepless nights spent sitting at the table, staring at a cup of tea gone cold. The meals cooked mechanically, without appetite, without taste. Her eyes always fixed on the road, as if her husband might appear at any moment.
Sometimes, she still said, in a voice far too calm,
"He'll be home late today."
As if time could still fix things.
Eran resumed his walk.
And that was when he saw them.
In the distance.
At the entrance of the village.
Figures emerged from the mist. A group slowly advancing along the dirt road. There were several of them. More than he had expected. His heart began to race.
He narrowed his eyes.
It wasn't an illusion.
It was them.
The adventurers.
They had returned.
A sudden, almost violent hope surged through him. He stepped forward without realizing it, drawn by a force he could no longer control. His gaze searched the group desperately, already looking for one figure in particular. A familiar way of walking. A build he knew by heart.
He counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
His breath caught.
He counted again.
He examined every face. Every shadow. Every movement. He searched for someone walking behind the others. Someone injured. Someone being supported.
But the closer they came, the clearer the truth became. Sharp. Cruel. Impossible to deny.
No middle-aged man walked among them.
No one who looked like his father.
At first, his mind refused to accept what his eyes were showing him. Maybe he was behind them. Maybe he had taken another path. Maybe he was resting somewhere farther back.
But when they stopped a few meters away, Eran knew.
No one spoke.
Not a word.
There was no need.
Selena's gaze was heavy, burdened with something she didn't know how to lay down. Blanek avoided his eyes, just slightly, as if afraid of finding accusation there. Even Ryo, usually so harsh, so closed off, remained silent, his expression rigid.
Eran understood.
It wasn't a violent shock.
No scream.
No immediate tears.
No anger.
It was worse.
A void.
A silent abyss opening beneath his feet, swallowing everything.
Memories flooded in mercilessly.
His father teaching him how to hold an axe, laughing openly when Eran missed his target.
His father repairing a fence in the rain, stubbornly refusing help.
His father sitting by the fire, telling how he had almost died young, and how he learned that living meant protecting what mattered.
"If one day I'm not here anymore, what will you do?" his father had asked once, half-joking.
"You'll always be here," Eran had replied without hesitation.
"Maybe. But if I'm not… you'll keep moving forward."
At that precise moment, Eran knew.
He was no longer a son.
He had become an orphan.
And without ceremony, without choice, without any chance of turning back, he had become the true chief of this village.
He took a deep breath.
Then he bowed.
A slow, respectful, dignified bow.
"Thank you."
It wasn't for the adventurers.
It was for his father.
For the man he would never see again.
When Eran straightened, his gaze had changed.
The grief was there. Vast. Burning.
But it did not break him.
It forged him