The path narrowed as Veros made his way through the snow. After some time, outlines appeared ahead—low wooden rooftops, a stone well, fences half-buried beneath the frost.
A village.
But not a single person moved.
No voices.
No footsteps.
No flicker of life.
Just rows of quiet homes.
Veros adjusted the heavy bundle of wood on his shoulder.
He didn't stop. He walked deeper into the stillness, boots crunching through the snow—the only sound in the entire place.
At the far end of the main path stood a building with a wooden sign hanging above the door:
TRADER'S HOUSE
A crude symbol of stacked crates carved beneath the letters.
Veros stepped inside.
Warmth brushed past him. The shop was lined with shelves holding tools, sacks of grain, ropes, pelts—everything stacked neatly.
Behind the counter stood a man.
Broad shoulders.
Thick brown hair tied into a short knot.
A rough, trimmed beard.
Dark brown eyes that scanned Veros instantly.
"Well," the man said. "Didn't expect a kid carrying half a forest on his back. What can I do for you?"
"I'm here to sell this. The old woman in the eastern woods sent me."
The man's eyebrows lifted.
"Oh, she pointed you this way? She doesn't get many visitors… so if you're coming from her place, I'll take that as a good sign."
He stepped closer and examined the wood, running thick fingers along the clean cuts.
"Solid work," he said. "Straight, clean, even. You chopped this yourself?"
The man grunted approvingly.
"Well done. I'll buy the whole bundle."
He started counting coins onto the counter—but paused to look Veros over once more.
"Tell me something, kid… why are you out here alone? Selling wood at your age? Most boys your age have family looking after them."
The words hit Veros like a blunt strike.
"Maybe I'm not like most boys."
The trader blinked once at the tone, but didn't push further. He shrugged the remark off and finished counting.
"Well, fair enough."
He slid a small pile of coins across the table.
"That's your pay. More than usual—out of respect for her sending you."
Veros took the coins silently, pocketing them.
Then he stepped back out into the cold air, coins tucked inside his coat.
"…Villages don't act like this," he muttered. "Winter slows people down… sure. Makes them quiet… maybe."
He narrowed his eyes at the empty road stretching between snow-covered houses.
"But winter doesn't turn everyone silent."
Further down the path, another sign came into view.
TAVERN
The letters were carved deep into a wooden board, swinging slightly in the wind. A lantern hung beside the door.
Veros felt his throat dry. The walk had drained what little strength he still had. The cold bit deeper now than before.
"…I need a drink," he whispered. "Something warm. Something."
Veros pushed the tavern door open.
Warm air drifted out—mixed with the smell of smoke, damp wool, and old ale.
The room was full.
Dozens of people sat at long wooden tables, shoulders hunched beneath heavy coats. Many wore dark cloaks with deep hoods pulled low over their faces. Candlelight flickered across them, showing just enough to hint at eyes beneath the shadows.
As soon as Veros entered, every head turned toward him.
Dozens of faces shifting at once, their eyes following him.
Then, one by one, they all looked away again.
Deliberately.
Their attention drifted back to their drinks, their tables, their silent conversations that never seemed to reach actual words.
Veros kept walking.
His footsteps echoed faintly against the wooden floorboards as he approached the counter at the far end of the room.
Behind the bar stood the tavern keeper.
He was a tall man with warm brown skin and thick black hair tied back into a short, loose tail. A trimmed beard framed his jaw, and his eyes were a muted hazel—calm, but tired. He wore a dark green tunic under a heavy brown apron, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands were rough, marked with old scratches and burns from years of work.
Right now, he was quietly polishing the lid of a metal tankard.
The tavern keeper set the polished lid aside and rested both hands on the counter. His hazel eyes scanned Veros briefly.
"You looking for something to drink?"
Veros nodded once.
"…Yes. Something warm, please."
The keeper gave a short exhale, half a nod, and reached beneath the counter.
"I've got hot tea. Strong enough to wake you up, but not enough to knock you over."
He set a metal cup on the surface.
Steam drifted from the top in slow curls.
Veros wrapped his hands around it.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The keeper only shrugged.
"No trouble."
Then—
SCRAAAAPE.
A chair beside him dragged harshly across the wooden floor.
Veros froze.
His shoulders locked.
His fingers tightened around the cup.
Slowly—just enough to see without turning—he glanced to the right.
A man sat down.
A gray helmet.
A gray-white fur mantle.
A metal breastplate dusted with travel marks.
A short white beard.
Cold blue eyes.
Gray hair slipping out beneath the helmet.
Veros' eyes widened—sharper, wider, almost shaking.
…No… no, no, no… why is one of them here…?
Why—why in this village…?
Is this… their territory?
If I do anything… I die.
If I react… I die.
If I fight… I never find them.
Stay quiet.
Stay calm.
Don't look at him.
Don't breathe too loud.
The man's gaze slid to Veros' sword.
"You're carrying steel far older than you are," he said. "Why?"
Veros' throat tightened.
His hand trembled on the cup.
"…I… need it,"
The man didn't blink.
"For what?"
"To survive."
A low grunt came from the man.
"You traveling?"
"Y… yeah." Veros swallowed. "Passing through."
The man's jaw shifted as he exhaled through his nose.
"Good. Staying here isn't wise."
Veros' shoulders tensed.
"…Why not?"
The man leaned forward—just slightly, but enough to make Veros' pulse spike.
"Because villages like this stay quiet for a reason," he said.
His voice sank lower.
"And because danger out there is nothing compared to the things people keep buried inside."
Veros' fingers dug into the cup, knuckles white.
"…I… I don't understand."
"You don't have to. Just don't think silence makes you safe."
The barkeep stepped forward.
"That's enough," he said. "Leave him alone. He didn't do anything to you."
The man turned his head mechanically.
"I speak when I want," he said coldly.
"Not in here," the barkeep shot back.
A slow, dangerous smirk crept over the man's face.
"You talk big inside these walls. Shame you never had the spine to do it outside."
The barkeep went still.
"We owe you nothing anymore."
"Can't you… or won't you?"
The room fell silent.
The man leaned in again.
"Breaking a deal breaks more than the deal."
"That's enough," the barkeep repeated, louder.
The man eased back.
"Of course."
He stood, the chair scraping behind him.
Before leaving, he stopped right beside Veros.
"Boy. If you're smart…. you leave this place before it swallows you."
Then he walked out.
A hooded figure rose from a corner table.
Wrapped in a long dark cloak, the hood pulled low, the person's face was nothing but shadow—no eyes, no mouth, no expression visible.
"Boy," he said, "you know what people say around here?"
Veros didn't answer.
He couldn't.
"If Ranar doesn't trust you…"
"…you should run."
The barkeep inhaled. "Go on, boy. Finish your tea."
Veros cleared his throat.
"…Is there anywhere I can stay for the night?" he asked. "A place to sleep?"
The barkeep pointed toward the left side of the tavern, where a wooden staircase climbed into the shadows.
"Up there. A few rooms. Nothing fancy. But they're warm. Costs a few coins, though."
Veros reached into his pocket.
"I can pay. I have enough."
"Good."
The barkeep held out his hand.
Veros placed several coins into his palm.
The man weighed them.
"That's fine. You can head up now."
A small iron key clinked as he set it on the wood.
"Here. Unlock the first door on your left. It's yours for the night."
Veros took the key carefully.
"…Thank you."
"Go on," the barkeep said. "Get some rest."
Veros stood, legs stiff. The tavern remained silent behind him as he walked toward the stairs.
Each step creaked.
At the top, he turned left.
The first door waited in the dim hallway, dust gathered in the corners.
He slid the key into the lock.
A soft click.
He pushed the door open.
The room was small and cold. A thin window. Dust lay across the floor. A simple bed stood against the wall with a thin blanket. A wooden table rested beside it with a candle, unlit, waiting in the darkness.
Veros stepped inside and closed the door.
On the table beside the bed lay a tiny matchbox—old, edges worn.
He picked it up with shaking fingers.
A single match scraped against the box—
Fssshhh—
A small flame bloomed to life.
He touched it to the candle's wick.
Light spread across the room.
Veros sat down on the bed.
"…Wow," he whispered, staring at nothing.
"That's… everything I lived through?"
"This world… it's so much worse than I ever thought…"
His hands covered his face.
The tears came fast—quiet at first, then harder.
"I miss them…"
"I miss them so much… I want them back… I want them back…"
Tears hit the floor, one after another.
He lowered his hands.
His jaw tightened.
"I'm going to find them."
"I don't care how far I have to go. I don't care what stands in my way."
He clenched his fists.
"And those warriors…"
"I'll repay everything they did. I'll become strong enough to face them."
He looked at the candle, its flame steady.
"I won't react like I did today," he said.
"I won't freeze. I won't shake."
"The next time I see them… I'll be stronger."
"…I'm done for today," he muttered. "I'm not doing anything else."
He lay back on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling.
The candle flickered.
Silence filled the room.
Time slid forward in the quiet.
The candle burned lower.
The matchbox remained untouched on the table.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled him down, and his eyes closed.
He woke hours later.
The room was colder now.
The candle had burned halfway.
His breath formed faint clouds as he pushed himself upright.
He walked to the window.
Outside—the world was gone.
A thick fog crawled across the village, pressed against the glass.
No houses, no roads, no sky—just a wall of white mist.
Then—
A scream cut through the silence.
High. Sharp. Close.
Another scream followed—louder, echoing through the mist.
Then a third.
He froze completely.
His shoulders locked.
His hands stiffened at his sides.
His eyes widened, unmoving.
"I… I can't let it happen again. I must stop it. I won't watch it happen twice. Not again. Not to anyone. They all have families… just like I did. I'm not letting this happen."
He pushed off the wall—
and ran.
He tore across the room, grabbed the handle, and ripped the door open. stop. He sprinted down the hallway, then threw himself toward the stairs.
He jumped, landing halfway down.
Another push—
he hit the floor below in one brutal motion.
He spun once, eyes scanning the tavern—
Everything was ruined.
Tables shattered.
Chairs overturned.
Cups broken across the floor.
Dark smears dragged across the boards.
The lanterns flickered weakly, struggling against the fog spilling in under the door.
But Veros didn't slow.
He crashed into the tavern entrance, slammed his shoulder against it—
BANG
The door burst open.
He stumbled into the snow, knees hitting the ground. Cold bit into his skin instantly, but he pushed himself up with both hands.
He ran.
Snow sprayed behind him with every step.
Wind sliced across his face.
White powder stung his eyes, but he didn't wipe it away.
He kept running—
running—
running—
running—
His legs screamed.
His lungs burned.
His vision blurred.
But he forced himself forward, deeper into the fog.
"…Iron,"
His voice trembled.
"It smells like iron."
The smell thickened.
Every step made it stronger—heavy, metallic, sinking into the air. His run slowed to a jog.
The fog pressed forward.
He slowed again.
Then he stopped running entirely.
He walked.
The smell grew so sharp it felt like it coated his tongue.
The fog ahead shifted—
thinned—
peeled apart like curtains being drawn aside.
A mound of bodies.
Dozens.
Stacked.
Collapsed.
Thrown together as if they were nothing.
Limbs twisted at wrong angles.
Torsos cut open.
Faces pale, eyes staring upward without blinking.
Some with deep slashes across their chests, others with crushed ribs, others with frozen, blood-soaked clothing ripped apart.
Blood seeped along the snow in dark, frozen streaks.
It had pooled beneath the pile, turning the ground black-red.
Steam rose weakly from the bodies where the heat had not fully left them.
A severed hand hung over the edge of the mound, fingers stiff, half-buried in the snow.
Cloth torn.
Armor dented.
Boots snapped.
Hair coated in ice.
Skin cracked from the cold.