The route to Aurestedge unfurled like a painting, golden wheat swaying in a gentle breeze on both sides of the path. Farmers squatted low on earth, tending crops with precision. In the distance, a woman guided a pair of oxens as they pulled a heavy plow tilling the ground, her face streaked with sweat and soil. The air was filled with the scent of tilled earth, mingled with hay drying in the sun, and the faint aroma of the blossoming flowers.
Aurestedge is a village settled near the border of Aquindor and Sylrin. It is a village with harmony, blending Aquindorian pragmatism and Sylrin's refined touch. Houses are built of stone and wood and stand sturdy. Their design is functional yet sculpted with Sylrin's artistry—delicate carvings of nature can be seen on the doorframes, vines engraved into the eaves. Pale cloth curtains hung across the windows, dyed in delicate greens and blues to resemble the elves' homeland.
As he continued further, the village situated at the forest's edge soon came to view. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and the market square bustled with activity—villagers hauling sacks of grain, merchants haggling over wares, and children playing near the square's fountain. The fountain is a mark of Sylrin's influence—its centrepiece a carved stone tree, water flowing gently from its outstretched branches. As he entered, his presence didn't go unnoticed.
People paused their work, their gazes fixed on him—curious, yet cautious. The group of children playing near the fountain froze mid-laughter, their bright eyes trailing after the stranger. A middle-aged man carrying firewood on his head hesitated for a second, glancing at the figure before hurrying on. Everyone was curious and also aware of the stranger.
He wore a long, black coat that reached down to his ankles, its high collar covering his neck. The coat fit neatly around his upper body and flared slightly at the bottom, with subtle patterns decorating its edges. Under the coat, he wore dark trousers and sturdy knee-high leather boots that looked both practical and durable. A deep hood covered most of his face, leaving only his jawline visible, giving him a plain yet mysterious appearance to anyone who saw him.
A baker working outside her shop noticed the stranger walking through the market and finally broke the silence, calling him out with a warm smile. "Traveller, you look weary. Are you looking for a place to rest? Or perhaps you need some bread for your journey ahead?"
He approached the shop and accepted the loaf she offered. When he reached for his coin pouch to pay, she waved it off. "No need keep it, save it for the journey ahead. Travellers always speak about its length."
He said, "Thank you" his voice low but sincere. The baker smiled again but hesitated before returning to her work with a flicker of unease in her eyes.
As he walked through the village, the hum of life around him became a stark contrast to the ghosts in his mind. The laughter of children and the lives of people felt so distant from the days of bloodshed and chaos. He observed other touches of Sylrin culture mingling with Aquindorian practicality. A boy is carving intricate patterns on a wooden staff while his father is polishing armor meant for trade. Their voices weaving Sylrin songs with Aquindor tales. Yet, beneath the surface, he could feel the wariness of the villagers. He caught the cautious gazes exchanged between the villagers. The forest edge seemed to hold something, as elders were averting their gazes from it. Despite the warmth, an unease lingered, veiled but palpable.
He passed through the village square, where the warmth of the village could no longer mask the unease that lingered in hushed conversations. A group of elderly women had gathered beneath a great oak tree, their faces pale and voices low as they murmured to each other. "First the missing livestock, and now this..." one murmured, wringing her hands. "They found her too late" another said grimly, her voice heavy with sorrow. "Barely a mile from the ruins. No tracks, no sign of struggle. Just... gone." Her words hung in the air like a curse, drawing uneasy glances toward the treeline. The village head had posted a request to the Adventurers' Guild. "Let's hope someone answers" one of the women muttered, her voice laced with a quiet but desperate hope. He briefly glanced in their direction but continued on.
Soon the sounds of laughter and excited shouts caught his attention. A faint smile emerged on his lips as he watched a group of teenagers engrossed in a lively game, chasing after a ball. Their faces gleamed with youthful energy, their voices full of carefree joy. For a brief moment, he felt something in his heart—a warmth he had long forgotten, as though a part of him that had been buried deep has awakened. But the smile quickly faded as his gaze shifted to one boy, slightly older than the rest. His exuberance stirred memories of the battlefield long ago. Darian.
The name surged into his mind like a wound reopening. He remembered a battlefield filled with smoke and chaos. Darian, barely sixteen, had fought by his side with a courage that rivalled even the seasoned warriors. His spear, comically oversized for his slight frame, had seemed almost out of place. Yet he wielded it with determination that defied his age.
The memory deepened, and the sound of the teenagers playing faded, replaced by the echoes of screams and clashing steel. He could see Darian's face streaked with dirt and blood, his eyes fierce as the tip of his spear, his laughter defying the terror of battle. The enemies surrounding him faltered, unwilling to make a move, their eyes wide with fear. Despite his youth, Darian's skill and ferocity were unmatched. Each strike pierced his foes with deadly precision, and his mere presence was enough to send even the bravest soldiers retreating in fear. They knew that to face him was to court certain death.
But the memory soon turned bitter, pulling at his heart with a sharp pain, as if a blade had struck his chest.
The sight of Darian's lifeless body appeared on the blood-soaked battlefield, pierced with arrows and marked by the cruel scars of enemy blades. His legs were folded beneath him (seiza), his hands touching the ground, the backs of his fingers brushing the earth with a stillness. His head was tilted back, facing the sky, and his face carried a faint smile—an expression of defiance as if refusing to bow down even in death. His eyes were closed, adding an eerie serenity to the scene. Beside him, his spear—Dawn Breaker, was thrust into the ground beside him, its tip pointing toward the sky, as though even in death, he still reached for the heavens.
With a sharp breath, he opened his eyes, pulling himself back to the present. Quickened gasps filled the air as the weight of the memory crushed down on him. His hands trembled as tears formed in his eyes. They didn't fall. He wouldn't let them.
Darian's lifeless body was a reminder of what he couldn't save. He had failed his comrades in ways he couldn't even begin to understand. And yet, in the depths of his heart, he knew the journey was never over. He had to find some way—to atone for the price they had paid.
He exhaled slowly. The teenager's carefree joy was a reminder of what had been sacrificed. When he opened his eyes, the boy playing with the ball fell. He moved almost instinctively, helping him to stand. The teenager's eyes met his, full of gratitude and youthful energy. "Thank you, sir!" he said before running back to his friends.
He clenched his hands and remained still. These kids, full of life and innocence, would never understand the sacrifices made to secure the peace. They would grow up hearing stories of valor, but the truth—the raw, unvarnished reality—would remain buried beneath layers of time and myth.
He continued his aimless journey, wandering into the wilderness.