Starless Nights

They walked in silence, snow crunching beneath their boots. A few hundred meters passed before the trees gave way to a ruined clearing.

There it was.

His village.

Or what was left of it.

Burned to ash.

A ghost town.

Some buildings still stood — barely — while others had collapsed entirely, charred bones of what once was a home.

They stopped and stared. The silence was loud.

Then Vael started walking, slowly, toward one of the half-standing ruins.

His house.

The structure was scorched black. The doorframe cracked. But somehow, the walls still held.

He stepped inside and was greeted by silence… and memories.

Of laughter.

Of warmth.

Of a family that used to be.

Of a life that was stolen.

Kiera stood quietly near the entrance of the ruins, understanding that some memories were better mourned in silence. She didn't intrude—just waited, patient and respectful, watching the broken figure of Vael among the ashes of his past.

Eventually, he stepped out of the ruins without a word and began walking, his footsteps heavy, his gaze distant.

She followed him without asking where they were going.

They ascended a narrow mountain path. It wasn't steep, but the weight they carried made each step feel like a climb through time itself. Neither of them spoke. The silence between them was not awkward—it was sacred.

After nearly an hour, they arrived at a small wooden cabin tucked into the mountainside. It stood miraculously intact, untouched by fire, the way memory sometimes preserves places even when the world does not.

Vael didn't speak, but he didn't need to.

She felt the shift in his thoughts. The pain. The blood. The scream. His mother's fall.

This place—this was where it happened.

They reached a small clearing behind the cabin, where a lonely stone stood in frozen soil. Unmarked. Forgotten by the world, but unforgettable to him.

Vael kneeled. He didn't cry. He just sat there, head low, staring at the nameless marker.

After a moment, he reached into his pouch and pulled out one of his knives. His fingers hesitated. They trembled.

Before he could begin, Kiera stepped forward, slowly, gently kneeling beside him. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Let me help," she said softly.

Together, they carved her name into the stone.

Marelina.

The blade etched slowly through the stone, unsteady at first, then firmer, steadier. As the final letter was engraved, Vael sat back, knife still in hand, eyes locked on the name.

"She deserved better," he murmured.

Kiera didn't respond. She simply wrapped her arms around him from the side, resting her head on his shoulder. The contact was light, tentative—but warm.

"She was loved," Kiera finally whispered. "And she was remembered."

They stayed there like that for a long time, as the mountain wind whistled gently through the trees.

And for the first time in a long while, Vael allowed himself to breathe.

Since night was falling, and neither of them was in the mood to set up the tent, they took shelter in the cabin.

Entering it was like walking into a memory. Dust lingered in the air, and the creaking floorboards whispered of the past. Vael practically collapsed into a chair, his body heavy, his thoughts heavier.

That's when it hit him—this was where he left his siblings, after the burial.

As he sank deeper into memory, Kiera quietly slipped the spatial ring from his finger, turned on the fireplace, and began preparing a simple meal. Her movements were practiced, careful not to disturb him.

Vael remembered how he told his brother and sister they'd meet again. That everything would be fine.

He didn't know where they were now. If they were safe. If they were even alive.

Still…

Still.

He had left them behind. And only now did the weight of it settle fully in his chest.

They were ten and twelve. Kids. Just kids.

His last conversation with them played over and over in his mind, like a cruel loop he couldn't escape.

Kiera, attuned to his mind, saw it all. Felt the sorrow. The guilt. The shame.

Without a word, she stopped what she was doing and walked over to him.

Vael sat there, frozen, staring blankly into the firelight. He didn't even notice her approach.

She didn't hesitate. She just wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her warmth.

He didn't react.

So she held him tighter, until his head naturally rested against her shoulder. She leaned in as well, resting her forehead gently against his.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

They stayed like that for a long time—two broken souls offering each other something whole.

Eventually, still wrapped in each other's presence, they both drifted into sleep by the fire.

The following morning, they woke up later than usual.

Even with their awakened bodies—faster, stronger, more resilient than those of ordinary people—there were still limits. And after two months of constant fighting, walking, bleeding, and surviving, they had long since reached theirs.

It was already noon, yet neither of them moved. They stayed there, lying on the makeshift bed in the cabin, warmed by the dying embers of the fire, silent and still.

Not out of laziness, or reluctance to face the day—but because, for once, they had nowhere to be. No beast to fight. No storm to weather.

Just each other.

Vael stared at the ceiling for a long time, lost in thought. Eventually, he spoke, his voice low and steady, almost like a promise:

"I'll kill them all."

Kiera didn't ask who he meant.

She already knew.

And she felt the same.

So she simply nodded, her gaze fixed on the flickering shadows on the wall. Her fingers reached for his hand, and he didn't pull away.