The autumn sky above Ezzera stretched out like embers on the verge of dying—ashen clouds coiled between gnarled branches stripped of their leaves. No wind stirred. Just a heavy silence, as if the world were holding its breath over a village slowly decaying, waiting for something... to catch fire.
Along a cracked dirt path, a young mother carried a basket of dewy yams on her back.
"The eastern footpath collapsed again, Tomas. Two kids twisted their ankles last night," she said, her voice weary, like she was reciting a curse that refused to lift.
Tomas kept his head down, fingers still clutching a list of food supplies—numbers that worsened by the day. In his eyes, ruin never arrived as a storm. It came as the difference of one crate, one sack, one child who fell.
By the rotting storage shed, Mira stood frozen. Her gaze pierced the empty granaries, as if trying to fill the void with sheer will.
"The third harvest should've been enough..." she murmured.
But reality never cared about should have.
"Three crates of corn. Two sacks of sorghum. Gone again?" Her voice was low, like a prayer that couldn't reach the heavens.
Tomas nodded, eyes still fixed on the dirt.
"Jarek says the northern yield was delivered whole. But once it got here... same as always. Always the same."
Heavy footsteps approached, carrying the scent of burnt herbs and damp earth. From behind the back kitchen door, Mother Yarra appeared, holding a steaming clay bowl.
"We're out of stomach medicine," she said flatly. "Two children vomited blood last night. But the merchant's charging triple the price... for the same brew."
Mira clenched her jaw. Tomas's fists tightened. But their anger wasn't for each other. It was aimed at something unseen—like rotting threads stretching from the shadows, slowly strangling the village.
And Reno?
Reno wasn't with them.
He was in a crumbling house on the village's edge. Half the roof had collapsed, and the walls were coated in moss and spiderwebs. It wasn't a home—it was a remnant. But it was in those remnants that Reno felt most alive. Among ruins. Among the forgotten.
On a decaying wooden table, he wrote:
Missing harvests: Last 4 shipments — estimated 28% lossLogistics: escorted by Korr's menMedicine prices: controlled via merchant entry permits (issuer: Berond)
Thick ink dots dried slowly, like old blood on soil.
He wrote a name next, slowly, like a spell:
Borlan.
The oldest field overseer. Quiet. Never took sides. But he saw everything.
And beneath that, etched deep:
"The purest fire is born from forgotten wood."
Three days later, in a frostbitten field tinged by early winter winds, the farmers gathered. Winter seeds were weighed on old cloth, and not even birds dared to perch nearby.
Tomas approached Borlan, voice low as fog.
"Do you think... the harvest losses are just bad luck?"
Borlan didn't answer right away. He just stared. The stare of an old man who had buried too much anger. The stare of dry timber waiting for a spark.
"You just lit a fire, boy," he said. "And I've been silent too long."
The sky above Ezzera turned black without rain. In front of the main granary, a crowd was forming. There were no official announcements. But rumors moved faster than church bells—of missing crops, overpriced medicine, roads collapsing despite rising taxes.
Mira stood before them. She wasn't a leader. But she was a voice that had chosen not to stay silent.
"How many of you lost part of your harvest?" she asked.
Four hands rose. Hesitant. Slow.
"How many paid double for the same medicine?"
Five more hands. Quicker this time.
"And how many feel... this village is losing its way?"
This time, every hand went up. Even the old ones usually too busy gripping their hoes.
From behind a broken gap in the warehouse, Reno watched. His face was calm. His eyes, like a frozen river—still, cold, but moving beneath the surface.
He saw Borlan step forward, offering to audit the harvest. Tomas took notes—his lips stiff, but his heart trembling. Mira stood as a bridge—not a ruler, but a bond. And Mother Yarra, quietly, handed out her own homemade brews. No price. No conditions.
The villagers smiled. Just a little. But a smile in a night like this... cut sharper than light.
"Haven't seen the village breathe in a long time," Reno whispered.
Beneath dry soil and dead grass, embers began to grow. Not enough to ignite—yet. But enough to warm trust. And enough to burn... if he gave it the slightest breath.
That night, they gathered in the village kitchen. The tea was too bitter—Mira was still learning how to brew. Silence kept them company.
Reno spoke softly.
"The wound medicine you buy—where's it from?"
"Simun. A traveling herbalist. Expensive. But... Korr doesn't let us touch the village store," Yarra replied, barely louder than a whisper.
She continued, her voice like the first drizzle in a long dark season.
"Back then... our trade route was steady. Tomas's father handled it. Goods came from the city, prices were fair. Then Berond changed the route. Said central taxes went up. But after that... the goods got worse. More expensive. Now we depend on merchants Berond knows. We've got no choice."
"Their emblem?" Reno asked.
"Red wax seal. A limping crane."
Reno fell silent. His thoughts spun like spider threads.
That night, while the others slept, Reno returned to his sanctuary. He opened an old cloth pouch—bartered in secret from a passing trader. Inside were scorched journal scraps and weathered travel notes from the north.
In one corner, nearly illegible, faint ink read:
"…logistical oversight entrusted entirely to an external entity — unidentified engineer, signature: V.A. Noctera."
Reno stared at the name for a long time. Not because he recognized it. But because his instincts whispered—this wasn't an ordinary name. This wasn't an ordinary person.
Who is V.A. Noctera?
Reno didn't know yet. But he knew one thing: something had been deliberately buried. And it was time to dig it back up.
He looked at the flickering flame beside him. Silent.
Then wrote a single line:
"V.A. Noctera: A secret waiting to be unearthed."