The ruins of Tona stood silent beneath the weight of the night. The air, thick with smoke and the stench of charred wood, pressed down on the remaining villagers as they moved in a slow, broken line.
They had no energy left to grieve.
The warriors worked with efficiency, pulling survivors to their feet, tending to the wounded, but there was no warmth in their movements. They did not comfort, did not soothe. They rescued. Nothing more.
And the villagers knew it.
There was no relief in their eyes, only exhaustion. Only loss.
Then, a cry shattered the silence.
Small. Frantic. Rising into something unbearable.
A child, no older than six, suddenly dropped to his knees. His body shook, his fingers digging into the ash-covered ground as he gasped for air. His little chest heaved, his mind finally catching up to what had happened.
"Mia!"
The name tore from his throat like it had been ripped from his soul. His face twisted, his tiny hands grabbing at nothing, his head snapping from side to side.
"Mia!"
He scrambled forward, his bare feet slipping in the dirt, his tiny body trembling violently. His voice was sharp, shrill, cutting through the night like a blade.
"Where is she?! Where is my sister?!"
No one answered.
The villagers stood frozen, their faces carved from stone. Their hands, empty and limp, did not reach out to him.
Because they all knew.
Because there was no answer that wouldn't break him.
The child sobbed. His little fingers clawed at the arms of the warriors standing closest to him, shaking them, gripping their armor with desperate, useless strength.
"Where is she?! Why—why isn't she here?! She was with me! She—she said she would—!"
His voice cracked.
"MIA!"
Still, no answer came.
A warrior moved, his gloved hand reaching out—not to comfort, but to lift the child away.
The boy slapped it away.
He stumbled back, his face contorting, his breathing ragged.
Then his gaze lifted.
And for the first time, the child truly looked at the warriors.
His small, tear-filled eyes, once filled with confusion, changed.
His lips quivered. His fingers curled into fists.
Then he screamed.
"WHY DIDN'T YOU COME SOONER?!"
The sound struck like thunder.
The villagers flinched.
The warriors did not move.
The boy's entire body trembled, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
"Why—why didn't you stop them?! You—You're strong! You have swords! You—" His voice broke into an agonized sob. "Why did you let them take everything?!"
No answer.
The warriors remained still.
Their faces unreadable.
The child collapsed to his knees again, sobbing into his hands, his tiny shoulders shaking violently.
Ryen's fingers twitched.
His breath hitched for a moment, his body stiffening as he stared at the boy.
He had seen things like this before—heard stories, understood the cruel ways of this continent. He had accepted it, tucked it away in the deepest part of his mind, knowing it was simply how the world worked.
But now, hearing it from the mouth of a child—watching him shatter before his eyes—Ryen felt something inside him crack.
A deep, heavy, unbearable sorrow.
His hands clenched at his sides.
His heart pounded against his ribs, an unfamiliar weight settling in his chest. It wasn't just grief. It was something sharper.
Something darker.
"You did not save us. You only rescued what's left."
He did not say the words aloud.
But he thought them.
And somehow, in that quiet, hollow moment, the villagers felt them.
A slow inhale. A slow exhale.
A woman swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists.
A man's shoulders tensed, his jaw clenching.
Someone let out a breath that sounded almost like a growl.
The child's cries had faded into hiccups, but his small hands were still shaking. His wide, tear-filled eyes locked onto Ryen as if sensing something he couldn't understand.
Then, a villager spoke.
"You let this happen."
The warriors turned their heads.
Another voice, hoarse and broken.
"You let them burn our homes."
More voices.
"You let our people die."
A murmur, low and bitter, rippled through the crowd.
One of the warriors finally spoke, his voice calm, steady.
"We came when we could." Said the warrior in the lower rank tapped on the shoulder by another warrior—not to contribute to the tension.
A sharp bark of laughter. Cold. Hollow.
"No, you came when it was convenient!"
The tension sharpened.
The villagers, the survivors, the ones who had lost everything, were no longer looking at the warriors as saviors.
They were looking at them as executioners with clean hands.
Ryen remained silent.
He had simply thought, let his grief bleed into his mind.
But they had felt it.
A shift in the air.
Something stirring beneath their skin.
And for the first time, the warriors—not the villagers—seemed to feel it too.
They did not falter. They did not defend themselves.
They simply stood, strong and silent, beneath the weight of a thousand unspoken accusations.
Then, as if to seal it into the bones of history itself, the child's voice broke the silence one last time.
"You didn't save us..."
His tiny, shaking hands wiped at his tear-streaked face.
"You only saved what was left."
The night swallowed his words.
And the warriors did not deny them.