Chapter 22 — The Fire Between Shadows
(Lysander POV)
The stars that night were the color of wet steel.
The smoke from the burnt houses had thinned but never faded—the scent of it clung to everything, sour and heavy. The village slept uneasily; every creak of the rafters carried a tremor of memory.
Elira hadn't spoken much since the attack two nights before. She baked by habit and silence. I helped by fetching water and stacking wood. We shared looks instead of words, each one saying: it isn't over yet, but pretend it is.
I thought of peace as fragile pottery—beautiful only in stillness, doomed when handled by trembling hands.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat behind the bakery. The wind moaned faintly through the well's pulley. Somewhere across the fields, a sheep bleated—a tiny, frightened sound that didn't belong in calm.
Then, a reply. Not a sheep's voice.
Something rougher. Longer. Echoing wrong.
My eyes opened fully to the dark.
I moved to the ridge quietly, coat brushing against barley stalks still black with soot. The moon sat half-hidden behind mist, turning the night silver-gray.
From there I saw them.
Five figures moving low along the tree line—too short to be men, their outlines shivering in awkward rhythm. Their eyes gleamed briefly when they crossed where moonlight touched.
Goblins again. But smarter this time—scouts.
I watched them pause, whisper, sniff the ground. One pointed toward the village. The rest nodded, teeth flashing in the dark.
Something in my chest tightened—not fear, but weariness. The thought of more ruin, more small graves—that quiet made of loss—clawed at me.
I could end them here. One movement, half a breath of strength, and nothing would remain but the sound of wind on leaves.
Yet each time I remembered fire, I remembered the boy I'd carried from the well, how his pulse trembled against my arms. Mercy needed limits, but violence always overstepped.
So I waited and watched.
It was Garren's dog that finally broke the stillness, barking once, then again, frantic.
The nearest goblin froze; another hissed, motioning to scatter. But panic had already stolen their stealth.
A door opened. A lantern swung wide, light piercing darkness just enough to find one of them crawling near the fence.
A shout. The same shout the night before last, but harsher now, born from memory's anger.
"GOBLINS!"
The village boiled awake instantly. Men grabbed hoes, pitchforks; women pulled children close, screaming.
Elira met me at the bakery's threshold, hair unbraided, lamp trembling in her hand. "Not again."
I took the lamp gently from her. "Bar the doors. Stay inside."
"Lysander—"
"I will not let them burn us twice."
She looked at me long enough to see that argument was useless. Then she pressed her palm to my sleeve—a gesture, not permission—and stepped back.
I turned toward the fields as dawn began its crawl from below the hills.
The first wave came clumsily—six, maybe seven goblins charging haphazard through the ditches, blades glowing faintly blue with poison oil. Their language broke into laughter that wasn't joy.
I moved to meet them alone, steps light on the frost-hardened grass.
The first swing cut air where I had been an instant before. My body moved on memory—centuries of combat distilled into reflex disguised as grace. My hand struck the goblin's chest; the impact folded its ribcage inward. It fell gently, like fabric collapsing.
The others slowed. They could smell what strength had done.
But instinct overran fear; they lunged together.
I sidestepped, caught a wrist, twisted. A blade clattered to dirt. Another leap met my elbow, the creature's throat finding it faster than planned.
When the third wave of them appeared—their true band, nearly two dozen strong—I finally stepped back. Even my endurance had no right to stand so far against exhaustion without revealing what I was.
So I retreated toward the old granary, drawing them away from the homes.
Their leader was larger, scarred, the hilt of his axe wrapped in red leather. He pointed it at me and barked something guttural—probably a curse.
The horde answered with a shriek, charging.
I dodged through the splintered doors of the granary, ducked beneath its low beams. The smell of old straw filled the air, sweet and dry. Too dry.
The mistake wasn't mine. A torch slipped from one goblin's hand, spinning, landing against the straw. The dull red expanded into orange in seconds.
Fire blossomed up the wall. Heat swept outward, turning the sentry calls into chaos again. Goblins screamed and stumbled, half-blind.
I moved among them like shadow between flames. For each that lunged, I redirected—never more than necessary. Bone cracked softly, like twigs breaking underfoot.
When the rafters split from heat, I leapt through the side window. The field grass bowing in wind became cool compared to the inferno rising behind me.
The granary burned alone, isolated from other buildings—a sacrifice of one to save the many.
For a long while afterward, nothing moved but embers.
The goblins that could crawl fled into the western woods. The others lay where silence claimed them.
My hands shook—not from fatigue, but from restraint.
Every muscle screamed to finish what had started. Every instinct urged efficiency, finality. But mercy has a sound too—the heartbeat that keeps you from becoming what you destroy.
I stood still until dawn's edge became sunlight.
Then came the villagers: cautious, fearful, armed still with tools.
They looked between the burning granary and my untouched frame. Eyes widened, lips parted. Questions trembled that no one wanted to ask.
Garren spoke first, voice low. "You did this alone?"
"I guided the fire away. The wind did the rest."
He nodded slowly. He didn't believe but wanted to. They needed comfort, not miracles.
Someone began to weep behind him—half grief, half relief.
By afternoon the smoke curled into pale sheets against the sky, gentle now. The goblin trail vanished into forest shadow.
The bakery had survived again. Inside, Elira moved quietly between rebuilding and care. I entered covered in soot and silence. She turned before I could speak.
Her eyes searched mine, finding the weariness buried deep where strength hid. "You're hurt?"
"No."
"Lysander."
"…No," I said again, and this time even I wasn't sure if it was true.
She reached for my knuckles, brushing soot away like wiping dust from a relic. "I hate that peace seems to need you bruised."
I smiled faintly. "Then I'll heal faster next time."
"There shouldn't be a next time."
Her voice broke on the word shouldn't. We both knew the world didn't honor shoulds.
Outside, children collected stones that still glowed faint from heat, pretending they were treasure. Maybe they were. Everything survived feels holy when you've watched it nearly end.
That evening, after the dead were buried and fields resown with prayer instead of seed, the villagers gathered outside what remained of the square.
Someone roasted two sheep in thanks; another passed cider around. No celebration, just survival shared mouth to mouth.
I sat apart, near the well. Elira came and pressed a wooden cup into my hands. "Eat something," she said, tone soft but certain.
The mutton's scent was rich, earthy—a smell the void never taught me. I ate slowly, aware of every fiber, every grain of flame that kissed skin into flavor. It grounded me again in mortality.
Across the square, the children laughed—not because fear was gone, but because laughter was rebellion against silence.
Elira watched them too. "When peace comes," she murmured, "it never comes quiet, does it?"
"Quiet things are fragile," I said. "They shatter at first touch. Noise keeps them alive."
She leaned her shoulder lightly against mine, saying nothing. The warmth stayed longer than it should have.
Hours passed until only the dying fire lit the square. Villagers drifted home, one by one. Garren stayed last, nodding once toward me before leaving his own tools stacked by the wall—respect unspoken but real.
When everyone else was gone, I stared into the embers. Each spark fell upward like a reversed snowfall of flame. The rising winds carried faint ash toward the mountains, the air bare of screams now.
I thought again of how easy it would be to stop all of this—to end threat before it began. Strength allows that illusion. But endings bought by power don't build peace; they only hollow it.
Somewhere deep within, I felt the echo of the Button that no longer existed, pulsing like phantom heartbeat. The temptation to press it—to pause time again, to win without struggle—still existed as memory. I let it fade.
The living must live their pace, not mine.
Dawn came blue and quiet. Smoke curled lazy from chimneys rebuilt in the night. Villagers moved like ghosts of fatigue, yet each one carried purpose again.
I stood outside the bakery as Elira opened shutters. Warm bread aroma filled the air—fresh, unburnt, clean.
"Another day," she said simply.
"Another beginning."
Her smile, faint but real, felt like sunrise itself.
Behind us, the granary ruins smoldered faintly still, sending up the last sigh of midnight's war. In that smoke drifted the shape of tomorrow.
I breathed it in deeply—ash, yeast, and early wind—and finally let myself believe the day could stay gentle, at least for an hour.