The rain had stopped that morning.
A thin mist hung over the village square, veiling the distance in a pale, milky haze. The air was still cold—like the earth hadn't quite decided to wake up.
Reno stood outside the communal kitchen, draped in Tomas's worn-out cloak. In his hand, a folded sheet of paper—testimonies, not to be read aloud, but whispered at the right moment. Behind him, Yarra's footsteps echoed softly, steady but heavy.
"Will they really come?" she murmured, handing him a cup of warm tea.
Reno nodded once. "Their cart entered the valley last night. Three horses. Slow, on purpose. They want to be seen."
Tomas arrived from the west, dressed plainly but neatly. His face was tense, yet his eyes... no longer confused. They were ready.
"Berond's summoned everyone to the main hall," Tomas said. "Says he wants to 'explain everything before the guests from the capital arrive.'"
Reno allowed himself a faint smile. "Too late. The people's voice doesn't wait for a falling master's permission."
By noon, the cart from the central authority rolled into Ezzera's main square. No grand display. No armed escort. Just a man in a dark blue coat, his hair tied back neatly, and an unreadable look in his eyes. Two women followed behind—one noting every detail in a logbook, the other carrying a small wooden box wrapped in cloth.
His name: Vern Aurelien.
Not a high noble. But Reno knew—he was the ears and tongue of House Aurelien in the western provinces. Including Ezzera.
Just as Reno once said, he wasn't creating anything new. He was merely reconnecting lines that had been deliberately cut.
Vern stood before Berond in the village hall. The old chief wore a robe far too clean for such a muddy morning.
"Welcome to our humble village, Lord Vern," Berond began. "We are most grateful for your visit—"
Vern raised his hand slowly. Silence fell. Then he spoke.
"We heard the old logistics route had been closed. Yet there is no such order from the capital in our records. So we've come... to hear from the people directly."
The air grew colder.
The villagers gathered. No gavels. No high seats. Just a long table and worn wooden benches. Vern sat at the center. Tomas at his side—not as a guard, but as a witness.
Mira stood nearby, nervous, gripping a folded sheet with both hands. And Reno... watched from the shadows at the far end of the hall.
Berond spoke first—defensive.
"We merely followed central orders. Prices rose, yes, but due to new trade routes. The merchant house we now use is faster—"
Reno stepped forward, not even looking at Berond. His voice was directed to Vern.
"Four years ago, Ezzera received medicine from Noctera. The seal—a one-legged crane. Official symbol of V.A. Noctera. Then, suddenly, the route stopped. No disaster. No order from above. Just... silence."
Vern glanced at his aide. She opened the wooden box. Inside: old maps and a red wax seal. Vern laid them on the table.
"This contract is still active. And this village... is still under our route."
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Then a woman stood. Elra—the farmer's wife whose child had nearly died from fake medicine.
"My boy had a fever. The medicine we bought... crumbled to dust before it touched his lips. It was never like that before."
Then a young man stepped forward.
"I once delivered crates to the city. They never made it. Korr... had us reroute them to the storage shed behind the kitchen."
One after another, voices began to rise. Not loud. But heavy. Like pebbles breaking through a weakening dam.
Berond was sweating now. He glanced sideways, searching for Korr. But the guard's chair was empty.
Reno whispered something to Tomas, who nodded, then announced:
"Captain Korr disappeared three nights ago. We found a note in his house—names scribbled all over it. Mira's name was among them."
All eyes turned to Mira. Reno knew—this was the hardest moment. But she held her gaze firm. Then, quietly, she spoke:
"I... am nobody. But I know what it's like to be a victim. And I know this village isn't sick because of prices. It's the hands that steal behind the prices."
Silence. Stillness. And then...
Vern rose slowly. He turned to his aide. She nodded and handed him a sealed scroll.
"In the name of House Aurelien and the Western Logistics Authority, we declare that Chief Berond... is hereby detained for abuse of distribution channels, falsification of reports, and willful neglect of criminal acts within local jurisdiction."
No cheers. No applause.
Just silence... and a long, exhausted exhale.
Two agents from the cart stepped forward, carrying light wooden restraints. Berond didn't resist. His eyes were hollow—emptied of power.
Berond was taken without a word. The old guard had not stirred since yesterday. Now, Tomas stood tall at the entrance to the hall, answering questions from the people.
The trade route flowed once more—this time through Yarra's hands. And Mira—though her hands still trembled—became a face the people began to trust.
Vern stood again in the center of the hall.
"We're not appointing a new leader," he said. "But we choose whom we speak with."
He looked at Mira.
"From this day forward, you are our representative here. We will rebuild the old route—but only if the people's voices are heard."
That evening, two old men sat by the village well, watching from afar.
"Berond's fall… it felt too clean," one muttered.
The other smirked. "Tomas, Mira, Yarra—all moved like clockwork. Then Vern shows up. You think that's chance?"
The first man shook his head. "There's always someone pulling strings behind the curtain. We're just too focused on the stage."
Meanwhile, at the edge of the village, a child stood watching the path that wound into the hills.
In the distance, a lone figure disappeared into the trees, carrying a threadbare satchel.
"Big brother Reno…"
But his mother tugged him gently home, and the name faded into the wind.
Ezzera had chosen its three new paths:
Tomas, the voice of the people.Mira, who stood against her own shadow.Yarra, who guarded the flow from behind the scenes.
But beyond them all, there was one figure who never demanded a direction.Unseen. Unremembered.And yet, without him, the stage would never have stood.
Dusk bled into the winding trail that led out of the village. The mist returned, swallowing the hills and forest edges. Reno walked slowly, without rush.
His steps traced the same stone path he had quietly cleared in past weeks. On his shoulder—a small bag with a few stale loaves, a worn-out book, and a folded note from Mira that read:
"If you leave… may your path still shine, even if you always walk in the shadow."
He tucked the note into his cloak's inner pocket. But he didn't smile.
At the fork near the valley, Reno stopped. He looked back at the village, now fading into night. The communal hearth glowed faintly. Near the hall, Tomas stood tall. In the distance, children's laughter echoed—and among them, Mira's voice, calling names and organizing turns.
Reno said nothing.
He just exhaled—long and deep.
From his other pocket, he pulled out a small flat stone—the first one he picked up the day Tomas found him at the forest edge.
He stared at it for a moment.
Then placed it gently atop a wooden post at the roadside. A quiet marker:
"I was here."
Without turning back, Reno walked on.
The sky grew darker. The fog thickened.And his shadow finally vanished—not because it couldn't be seen,but because he chose not to be seen.