Bianca stood frozen, her throat tight, words stuck like a knot she couldn't untangle.
She wanted to say something — anything — but no sound escaped. Her eyes were fixed on Alan, her mind racing, desperate to find the right thing to say, but all that came out was silence.
Her chest tightened, a suffocating pressure building within her as the realization settled in: Alan wasn't the same person he had been.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came.
She had so many questions — so many emotions swirling inside of her — but they all seemed meaningless in the face of what she was seeing.
The man she had ventured into the dungeon with was gone. Standing before her was a stranger. His silver hair and crimson eyes marked him as something different, something changed.
He wasn't just a survivor anymore; he had become someone else, someone far more dangerous.
Before Bianca could find her voice, a new presence interrupted. A guard stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching against the earth, his green vest setting him apart from the rest.
His face was etched with years of experience — lines of hardship and battle carved into his features.
His eyes hardened as he glanced briefly at Bianca, who still stood there, unable to speak. Then his gaze shifted to Alan, and for just a moment, the coldness in his expression softened.
"After Miss Bianca escaped from the dungeon," the guard began, his voice rough but controlled, "she searched desperately for help. She was determined to find the guards and bring them to assist you and your fellow Tamers in the dungeon."
Bianca lowered her gaze. The weight of her failure settled on her shoulders. She had escaped, yes, but it had been a selfish kind of escape.
She hadn't stayed to fight; she had run. Her eyes closed briefly, but the pain in her chest was too sharp to ignore.
She had wanted to help, wanted to save her friends, but by the time she returned, it was already too late.
The guard glanced at her then, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes — a silent acknowledgment of her presence — but he didn't linger.
His attention was now fully on Alan, the man standing in front of him, holding the body of his fallen comrade.
"But it seems we came too late," the guard continued, his voice lowering with regret. "I'm... sorry."
Alan didn't react at first. His face remained stoic, his grip tight on William's body.
There was nothing to apologize for, nothing the guard could do. The past was behind them. He nodded once, the motion small and almost imperceptible.
"There's nothing to apologize for," Alan said quietly, his voice tinged with something that sounded like acceptance — or perhaps indifference.
He turned his gaze away from the guard, his expression hardening once again.
The silence that followed was thick, as if the world itself had stilled for a moment.
The guard seemed hesitant, unsure whether to speak again, but then he asked, his voice shifting to something more clinical, more focused on the task at hand.
"Did any of the beasts survive?" The guard's tone was devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on Alan with the intensity of someone who only cared about results — about the beasts' combat value.
In this world, that was all that mattered.
Alan's eyes flickered for a moment, his lips tightening. The question seemed almost out of place in the midst of the tragedy, yet it was one he had expected.
He took a slow breath, the weight of the moment bearing down on him, but his voice was steady when he answered.
"Unfortunately, the goblins killed them all." His gaze drifted to the Nighthound, who was patiently standing beside him, its ethereal silver fur gleaming even in the dim light.
The beast had been a force to be reckoned with, but even it hadn't been enough to save the others.
Alan's heart twisted as he looked at the creature — his only companion now.
The guard didn't say anything in response, but Alan could feel the shift in the air. The unspoken disappointment was palpable, but he didn't care.
He didn't care about the guard's opinion, or anyone else's. His only focus now was honoring the dead, making sure that the sacrifices made weren't forgotten.
With a single nod, Alan turned and began walking away, his boots crunching over the broken earth.
The Nighthound followed behind him, its glowing form casting an eerie light in the growing darkness. Alan's steps were slow, deliberate, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
But it was more than that.
Bianca watched him walk away, her heart sinking in her chest. The sight of him — the way he carried himself, the way he seemed so distant, so hardened — made her blood run cold.
Her hands trembled at her sides, her heart aching as she stood there, helpless.
She wanted to call out to him, to reach out, to tell him that she was sorry — that she wished she had done more, that she had been stronger — but the words never came.
She couldn't find them, not with the weight of her failure pressing down on her.
As Alan disappeared into the distance, Bianca's gaze lingered on his retreating figure, her lips quivering with unspoken emotions.
'Damn it,' she thought, her chest tightening with a mix of grief and anger. 'Damn it all.'
The words burned in her mind, but she didn't speak them aloud. She didn't have the strength.
Her friends were gone, her party was dead, and now Alan…
Her hands balled into fists, the frustration and pain welling up inside her until it felt like she might shatter. But she didn't let herself break. Not yet.
But as Alan's figure grew smaller, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.
And no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, she knew that whatever had happened in that dungeon had changed them both. They were no longer the same people who had entered it.
And maybe that was the hardest part to accept.