Vera stood apart from the crowd, a lone figure leaned against the crumbling wall of what used to be an outpost tower.
From there, he could see everything, fires, the laughter, the people dancing under the morning sun like they'd already forgotten what darkness was. They had forgot, another night is coming.
The once-broken city of Durkan was alive again. Hunters and Homans worked together to rebuild walls, clear the debris, plant flags. Hammer strikes, every cheer amazed up with relief. It was supposed to be beautiful — a miracle. But to Vera, it only felt… empty and meaningless.
He crossed his arms, the faint hum of his trident hanging on his back. His expression was calm and bored. "Look at them," he muttered under his breath. "A day ago, they were weeping. Now they're laughing like nothing happened."
His voice lost in the noise. He kicked a small stone, watching it bounce and roll down the path. He remembered the war.
How he continuously went through countless painful deaths every single second....
The countless faces that faded into dust. What were they celebrating, really? Survival? Or the illusion that pain was finally over?
"Fools," he murmured. "Celebrating the break between chaos."
A group of children ran past, chasing each other, giggling. One almost bumped into him but stopped abruptly, bowing slightly before running off again.
Vera watched them go, his gaze softening for a second before turning cold again. He looked toward the sky. Wounded from the aftermath, like a scar that would never heal.
He adjusted his gloves and started walking away from the crowd. His boots made dull thuds on the sand-packed ground.
The scent of roasted meat and smoke followed him, reminding him of the feast, of laughter he didn't belong in. He had fought, bled and almost died for this peace. Yet the noise of joy only made him lonelier.
He stopped by the edge of a half-rebuilt wall, staring out at the dunes. The wind brushed through his silver hair, carrying fragments of voices behind him.
He could hear Rosario shouting commands with his usual energy. They were all healthy while Vera felt detached. He felt himself like a ghost Infront of them, but they were too blind to recognise him.
"What do they gain," he said quietly, "by wasting time chattering, pretending everything's fine?"
He stayed there a long while without any movement but thoughtful ass the sun climbed higher over Durkan.
Then he turned, slipping his trident from his back. The metal glinted sharply in the light.
"If peace is just another illusion," he whispered, "I'll stay awake while they dream. The reason I came here was just for survival."
The people gathered in small clusters near the half-built monument, voices low and venomous.
They were talking about him.
Rosario stood at a distance, hands in his coat pockets, the faint hammering of the workers behind him blending with the muttering crowd.
The statue of Elior towered above them, half-finished, sunlight reflecting off its bronze surface. But no one looked at it with reverence now. They looked at one another, murmuring names and blame, spitting rumors like sparks catching dry hay.
"Can you believe it? After everything.… that monster was among us?!" one man said.
"Pretending to be one of us," another hissed, "while he was the reason whole our kind might have burned."
Rosario exhaled slowly. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Every sentence the people spoke carried the same venom directed at Tom, the one they believed had betrayed them all.
A woman, her voice brittle with anger, said, "He walked beside us.… fought beside us. And now? The truth comes out. That thing wasn't one of us. Never was."
Someone spat on the ground. Someone else cursed under their breath.
Even the children, too young to understand, mimicked the words of their parents:
"Monster."
"Liar."
"Deceiver."
Rosario turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the fire pits flickering near the center of the camp. Faces glowed in that light. Those hard faces, unforgiving. He could see the confusion, the hatred, the relief of finding someone to blame.
He wasn't sure when things had turned like this. After the final battle?
After the plot twist?
He took another drag, watching the smoke drift into the dying sunset. The world always needed villains, he thought. Someone to throw the weight of their grief upon. Someone who could no longer defend themselves.
And though he had his doubts though deep down, something didn't sit right about it. Rosario stayed silent. He didn't defend the name being cursed.
He couldn't help but to watch and hear.
"Good riddance," a soldier muttered beside him. "The world's better without him."
Rosario's hand tightened around his robe. The ember flickered faintly before dying out.
He didn't reply.
He simply turned away from the crowd and walked off. Boots crunched on the sand, the murmurs of hatred following behind him like a low, burning wind.
The statue of Elior loomed over them all bright, noble and significant.
And beneath its shadow, the saviour they cursed still lingered unspoken in the nothingness .
....
The desert wind whispered softly, carrying traces of dust and wilted petals as Grace walked toward the graveyard. Her boots pressed against the dry, cracking earth, each step leaving a faint imprint on the sand-blended soil.
The golden rays slipped through the gaps of scattered ruins, caressing the barren land with fragile hope.
She held a handful of small white flowers. They weren't much, just some desert blossoms she had found near the riverbank but they were beautiful in their simplicity. The kind of beauty Arlong would've liked.
He was only a boy, she thought, too young to carry a blade, too kind to deserve the horrors he saw. Yet, in the chaos, he fought with more courage than most grown men.
Grace knelt by his grave, brushing her fingers across the rough stone. "You were brave." she whispered, her voice trembling softly. "You didn't deserve any of it." She placed the flowers carefully on the mound of sand, adjusting them so the wind wouldn't take them away. She stayed there for a while silently, her eyes glistened.
The wind shifted. Dry blades of grass rustled faintly around her boots. Grace stood up, pulling her coat closer as she walked farther through the field of graves.
It was quiet, peaceful. The occasional creak of a distant metal sign and the chirp of a desert bird somewhere above.
She followed the faint sound of the wind brushing past stones until she reached the far corner, where the single guava tree grew.
Its leaves were pale green, and its trunk bent slightly from age and heat. Grace sat beneath it, the shade wrapping her like a comforting memory.
Beside her, a grave forged of Elior's. There was no body buried beneath, only a name carved into the stone and a small engraving of a hammer and a doll.
Grace's chest tightened. She placed her hand gently on the cold surface of the grave, tracing the name with her fingertips. Her throat burned as memories flooded back.
Elior's calm tone, his sharp humor, the way he always found something wise to say even in panic. She could almost hear his voice again, telling her to keep going, to stay brave.
She leaned her head against the tree trunk, closing her eyes. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing silently on the dry earth. "You should've been here to see it, Elior," she murmured. "We made it through. You'd.… you would probably complain about the statues they're building."
She laughed softly through her tears, the sound was small and trembling. The wind brushed her hair aside gently, like an invisible hand offering comfort.
Grace stayed there a long while alone but not lonely because in that silence, beneath the guava tree, she could still feel him there.
And for the first time since the war ended, she allowed herself to cry.