Victors Quill

I opened my eyes, the light came in slowly—thick, gray, reluctant. Like it had to push its way through the fog to reach me. 

Well, guess that wasn't a dream…

I ached all over, not just bruises, though there were plenty of those. It was that deep, grinding soreness that clung to your bones. The kind that whispered, you lived through something that should've killed you. My ribs felt like someone had played them like drums. My mouth tasted like blood and moss, my whole body dull, soaked with weight.

And somehow she's still just absolutely fine.

Plor stood in the center of what used to be our camp, holding a blackened pot over the newly lit fire, humming to herself. Like she hadn't split a fog-beast in half hours ago. Like her day had started with warm tea, not violence.

"There you are!" She said, looking over.

"How was your nap?"

I groaned and sat up slowly.

"You could've… woken me."

"You looked cozy," she said. "Didn't want to ruin the mud bath."

Steam curled off the pot. She handed me a cup filled with something dark and hot. Soup? Tea? Pond water?

I sniffed it.

Hmm… this smells like forest and salt.

I drank it anyway.

"I think my ribs are broken."

"Well, broken things can be fixed stronger." She said cheerfully. "Drink up."

Never thought about it like that, but I think I'd still rather not have it broken in the first place.

I started drinking. Slowly.

Plor moved with the kind of casual efficiency that said she'd done this a thousand times. She rolled up the bedrolls, kicked dirt over the fire, and clipped her weapon to her belt without ceremony. Her coat was crusted in dried mud. Her boots looked like they'd lost a fight with a swamp.

"Come on. We've got ground to cover."

"Where?" I asked, still holding the half-empty cup.

She jabbed a thumb toward the mist-veiled hills.

"Somewhere interesting."

I'm pretty sure the only thing that interests you is fighting.

The first few hours were just walking. No talking. No fighting. Just footsteps and fog and the occasional quiet grunt when my back reminded me it still hurt.

The trees thinned as we went, slowly at first—like they were reluctant to let us go. Moss gave way to brittle soil and sharp rock, patches of old stone peeking through the ground like ancient bones.

Plor cracked jokes now and then, usually about my limp. But her voice softened as the terrain changed.

Eventually, we crested a low ridge.

At first, it didn't register as much. Just shapes that didn't belong to the wild.

A black road split the landscape. Tilted. Broken. Something boxy and crushed lay beside it, wedged between trees. Nearby, a tall pole stood bent at the top like it had been punched by the sky.

Plor stopped beside me.

"Welcome to the ruins, you're in the old world now."

Is this what Rivire looked like before it was made from ancient skeletons?

We moved forward.

The road was strange underfoot—smoother than stone but cracked and jagged, like it had shattered under its own weight. Grass pushed through every seam. Nature had started eating it long ago.

Buildings followed. Dead ones.

Square shells, crooked windows, walls covered in vines. One had stairs leading to a second floor that no longer existed. Another had collapsed inward completely, the roof caved in like it had given up trying to stand.

I paused beside some strange rusted thing, black rubber torn on its four limbs, a small cabin, and seats inside. It looked like something meant to walk, but it had clearly forgotten how.

"What do you think this was?" I asked.

Plor squinted at it.

"Carriage, or just a strange metal monster maybe."

She grinned, but it didn't feel like a joke.

That makes no sense, how much space would these things need to move around?

We kept going.

More of those rusted shapes lined the road. Some half-swallowed by moss, others cracked in two around trees. One had been flipped upside-down, its ribs caved, frame bent like broken limbs.

I knelt beside one. Ran my hand over the metal. Cold. Flaking.

There was a number on the side. Faded. Blocky.

Are these symbols important? Maybe it was once a name.

The buildings changed as we walked—smaller, tighter together. Dozens of them. Some torn open like cracked shells. Others surprisingly intact.

We passed one that still had four walls and most of a roof. Ivy curled around the stone like it was trying to pull the place back into the dirt.

I stopped.

"Can we check out this one?"

Plor glanced at it.

"Make it quick. Look for anything clean, sharp, or flammable."

The door groaned as I pushed it open.

Inside was… quiet.

Dust coated everything, the air stale and thick. A hallway split into three small rooms, each filled with strange furniture. Torn chairs. A half-collapsed table. A painting of trees on a wall that had long since stopped being a wall.

In the bedroom, a shattered mirror leaned against the floor. I caught my reflection in the cracks.

Mud-streaked face. Pale skin. Tired eyes.

I look younger than I feel.

Something glinted near the collapsed dresser.

I picked it up—a rectangular object, smooth and black, with a cracked glass sheet attached on one side.

What are you?

It didn't answer.

I put it in my satchel.

When I came back out, Plor was sitting on the step chewing some dried meat.

"Find anything fun?"

"Some broken glass," I said. "A haunted mirror. Maybe a ghost or two."

"You leave 'em be. Ghosts need sleep too."

By midday, the ruins began to crowd in.

Houses pressed tighter, roads twisted, roots rose through the concrete like veins.

The city was reclaiming itself.

We passed a strange shelter—half-glass, with a rusted bench inside. A corroded sign hung above it, its lettering faded to scars.

"What's this for?" I asked.

Plor shrugged.

"Place to pray? Maybe cry? Doesn't look that important."

Honestly... could be both.

Farther along, I spotted a pole strung with wires and lights—some still clinging to their hooks.

We found a house with most of its walls, two beds, and a fireplace. No roof. But at least it had shape.

Plor dropped her gear on a mattress without ceremony and stretched. Her chakram stayed within arm's reach.

I paced once through the rooms. Windows shattered. Door barely holding. Nothing living inside.

Still, it was shelter.

I sat near the hearth, sickle at my side.

This place doesn't feel like a city… More like a tombstone.

Every post. Every screen. Every broken, rusted remnant…

They weren't just debris.

They were questions with no one left to answer.

Evening came quietly.

The sky bled orange through broken rooftops. A bird called once, then nothing. The city made no sound of its own.

Plor had drifted into a half-sleep, but her hand stayed close to her weapon.

I stepped outside.

Fog clung low. The air was heavy. The house sat on a corner where four roads met—a cracked intersection overtaken by weeds. A rusted pole stood in the middle. Its top bent downward, as if the sky had broken its neck.

I wandered past it.

More houses. More silence.

One building caught my eye—its door still upright, just barely. I pushed it open and stepped inside.

The floor sagged. Shelves lined the walls. Containers of faded plastic scattered across the ground. Dust blanketed everything.

Was this a shop?

Behind the counter sat a machine, its screen long-dead. A strip of paper hung from its mouth like a tongue.

I tugged it.

Nothing happened.

What did you do? Did people talk to you? Trust you? Trade with you?

I let it go and walked back outside.

I followed a narrow path between buildings and came into a sunken courtyard.

A single tree grew from the center, its roots bursting through brick.

At the far side, a bench.

It looked… different. Less destroyed. More deliberate.

I sat on it.

Just for a moment.

The wind moved through shattered windows and broken beams.

I looked down at my hands.

There was blood here. Once. Laughter, too. And whatever came before all of this. And now… just me.

On the way back, I passed a crooked metal sign—half-eaten by rust. A faded billboard sat above it, colors almost gone.

But not completely.

I could make out the shape of a man—tall, arms folded, head turned slightly toward the sky. His hair curled. His eyes were lost to time.

At the base of the structure, a phrase had been etched deep into the metal.

Not by tools.

By weather. By time.

RELLEM ENDURES.

Who were you?

And what did you leave behind?

Back at the house, Plor hadn't moved.

But her hand had crept closer to her belt.

She wasn't sleeping.

I didn't say anything.

I just sat beside the cracked hearth for a while, watching the last light vanish through broken beams.

The fog hadn't followed us.

But something heavier had.

A grief that remembered what we never knew.