Teclos woke to the sound of muffled sobbing.
At first, he thought he was dreaming.
The world swayed beneath him, rocking gently with each step, and for a few heartbeats he couldn't tell whether he was lying down or falling. His body felt distant—heavy, numb—until a sharp jolt of pain surged through his chest and arms, dragging him fully awake.
He sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it.
Agony flared through his ribs, his lungs burning as if glass had been driven into them. His hands throbbed with every heartbeat, wrapped tight in bandages already stiff with dried blood.
Memories followed the pain vividly.
He remembered him slamming into the tree
The claws.
The foul-smelling breath from its mouth, smelling of death and rotten teeth.
The ghoul.
Teclos clenched his jaw and forced the thoughts away. He'd already relived that fight countless times before losing consciousness—every mistake, every arrogant assumption. Every time he closed his eyes now, he saw that exact scene.
When he looked ahead, he was stunned for a second.
It was Kolma.
The village was shrouded in mist—thick, rolling waves of it, as if a storm cloud had sunk down and swallowed the village whole. It churned unnaturally, swirling with visible tension, and along its outer edges frost clung to rooftops and fences, ice creeping across wood and stone alike.
The mist somehow felt… angry.
Teclos didn't know how he knew that.
But he knew who was causing it.
Mother.
They were barely five minutes from the gates.
Around him, the survivors trudged forward in silence. Children cried openly, clinging to parents or staring blankly ahead. Some adults whispered comfort they didn't fully believe themselves. Others walked with hollow eyes, too drained to speak.
Teclos realized he was being carried.
One man only—because there weren't enough left for two.
He shifted weakly, and the man grunted but didn't complain.
A few seconds later they reached the village. Kolma's gates opened as guards spotted them.
Inside the village, Brahm was doing his absolute best not to die.
"Saldia, please," he said, voice calm but strained, palms raised carefully. "I'm sure the hunters sent him back already. They must've noticed him and—"
Water lashed the air.
Her hair floated as if submerged, strands turned stark white, her eyes glowing a glassy blue. Mana pressure radiated from her in waves so intense that villagers were forced to retreat.
Water jets swirled around her, spinning wildly and fast, almost like a cocoon made of icy water.
Furious.
Brahm gulped.
The fury of a mother was terrifying enough.
The fury of a powerful mage mother?
That was something else entirely.
"You either shut up," Saldia said slowly, her voice shaking with barely restrained violence, "or you prove to me that he's okay."
She stepped closer.
"If not, I will rip your beard off and feed it to you."
A pause.
"…Respectfully, Chief."
Brahm took a full step back.
Then Elira stepped forward.
"Saldia," she said gently.
The pressure shifted.
Elira's mana rose—not violently, or forcefully—but vast and steady, like an immovable mountain. The mist recoiled slightly, trembling.
"I know how it feels not knowing if your close ones are alright, believe me," Elira continued. "But standing here threatening everyone will not bring your son back faster."
Saldia's jaw trembled.
"What you can do," Elira said, firm now, "is prepare properly. Go home. Calm yourself. Then come to me. I still have my old hunting gear—you may borrow it."
"But—"
"No buts."
Elira met her gaze without flinching.
"I won't stop you by force. But at least do me the courtesy of preparing correctly. And you will not go alone."
For a long moment, the village held its breath.
Then—
The mist thinned, the swirling water jets threatening to rip someone's arm out by getting close also died off slowly.
Saldia's hair settled. Its color returned. The glow faded from her eyes.
"…Okay," she said quietly. "I'll follow your words, teacher."
She turned and began walking toward her home.
Brahm collapsed to his knees the moment she was gone, exhaling shakily.
"Phew… I thought she'd kill me."
He looked up to thank Elira—
Only to find her staring at him with pure disappointment.
"Wimp," she said flatly, and walked away.
"Hey! Don't say that!" Brahm scrambled after her.
"People! Ahead!"
The shout snapped everyone to attention.
The two guards rushed to the gates, weapons raised—then slowly lowered them as figures emerged from the fog.
Exhausted.
Bloodied.
But alive.
Ragla's survivors.
As they approached, the mist parted around them, receding almost politely. Some of them glanced around nervously.
"What's with the fog?" someone muttered.
Teclos swallowed.
"It's… friendly mist," he said weakly. "Mostly. Just—troublesome for me."
The Ragla villagers didn't question it.
Their faces lit up when they saw Kolma's people—real people, not monsters. Relief crashed over them, and many simply collapsed where they stood.
Brahm stepped forward, greeting them warmly.
Kartall spoke for the group, exhaustion etched deep into his features. Words were exchanged, gratitude shared, grief acknowledged.
Then—
Saldia returned.
She went straight for Kartall.
"Do you know anything about my son?" she demanded.
Kartall blinked, then broke into a wide grin.
"Oh! So you're the boy's mother. No wonder he's got such dashing looks." He laughed. "Yes, we've seen him—and more than that, we brought him with us."
The temperature dropped instantly.
Mana surged again.
Kartall paled as the full weight of Saldia's presence pressed down on him.
"Where," she asked.
Just one word.
Said as calmly as possible.
Kartall stumbled back and pointed.
"There."
Teclos froze.
She marched toward him, fury in every step. Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Kartall hurried after her. "Wait! He saved us! Don't hurt him—he's badly injured!"
That word was enough to stop Saldia in her tracks.
Her eyes locked onto Teclos—his pale face, his trembling body, the way he couldn't even stand.
The fury shattered, replaced by worry.
She reached him in an instant, her hands gentle beyond belief as water mana lifted him effortlessly into her arms.
She scolded him—harshly, fiercely—but her touch never hurt one bit. She carried him straight toward the church, where one exhausted priest still remained.
No one dared stop her.
—
Afterward, Brahm turned back to the survivors.
"You're welcome to stay," he said. "Guild hall. Tavern. Wherever you want. Warm beds and a proper meal will be prepared for all of you. It's on me."
They stared at him, stunned.
Elira smiled quietly behind his back.
And though she'd called him a wimp only moments before, it was Brahm's warm heart that made her walk just a little closer to him that night.
—
Saldia reached the church in moments.
Water gathered beneath her feet, lifting and carrying her forward in a smooth, controlled glide. Teclos barely shifted in her arms.
The chapel doors burst open.
Inside, a single priest knelt before a towering painting that dominated the far wall.
Praying.
To the Father of Dawn.
The High Sun King Aurelion.
He was depicted as a broad, muscular man, long blond hair flowing down his back, a toga wrapped loosely around his waist. In one hand, he held a radiant sun, its light spilling across the canvas. In the other, a book—symbol of law, order, and judgment.
The priest turned sharply.
"Priest Declaf!" Saldia called.
He took one look at the boy in her arms and was on his feet instantly.
"To the back room."
They moved quickly through the chapel, past shelves of candles and prayer scrolls, until Declaf threw open a door and gestured toward a sturdy wooden table.
"Lay him here. As gently as possible."
Saldia obeyed, lowering Teclos as if he were made of glass.
"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, her voice barely holding together.
Declaf met her eyes, calm and steady.
"He will live. That much I can promise."
Her shoulders sagged, just a fraction.
"I have light mana affinity," Declaf continued, already preparing bottles and tools, "so I'll need potions to do most of the work. You're a herbalist—help me."
She hesitated, then nodded.
He knew what he was doing. Giving her something to focus on. Keeping her hands busy so her mind wouldn't spiral.
The last thing he needed was an anxious mother breathing down his neck.
They worked in practiced silence.
Brewing up the concoction made up of somewhat rare materials. Moon bloom resins, sunroot shavings, even the dangerous crimson marrow leaf.
They made no mistakes in the formula.
The potion shimmered faintly when finished—thick, pearlescent, almost alive.
Declaf nodded. "Lift him."
Saldia summoned water again, cradling Teclos just enough to tilt him upright.
Declaf poured the potion into his mouth while pressing a glowing hand to his chest, light mana flowing into him in steady pulses.
At first, the mana moved freely.
Then—
It recoiled.
Darkness surged instinctively from Teclos's core, rejecting the intrusion like a living thing.
Declaf grimaced. "Teclos," he said firmly. "Can you pull your mana away from this area?"
Teclos groaned faintly, but nodded.
With effort—slow, painful effort—the darkness receded. The absence of mana hurt immediately, but light rushed in to replace it, knitting bone, sealing fractures, mending what it could.
The potion did the rest.
Declaf exhaled in relief.
As the glow faded, he glanced at Saldia with a tired smile.
"Like father, like son," he said softly. "Both reckless, it seems."
She snorted, wiping her eyes.
"Tell me about it. Once they recover, they'll receive my anger in full."
Then her voice softened.
"But for now… I just want my baby to heal."
Declaf chuckled quietly. "I assume I should expect your husband soon?"
She stiffened.
"Gods, no. I hope not."
Then she frowned.
"…Though knowing him, it might happen anyway."
Her chest tightened again.
Why did the men in her life have such suicidal tendencies?
—
Brahm took command the moment the gates of Kolma opened.
"Alright, listen up!" his voice rang out, firm but not harsh. "Injured to the left—anyone bleeding, broken, or unable to walk properly. The rest of you, to the right. You'll be fed and given beds at the guild hall."
There was authority in his voice.
People obeyed him instinctively.
The injured were guided toward the church, some supported by guards, others carried on improvised stretchers. The less wounded—shaken, exhausted, but mobile—were ushered deeper into the village, where Kolma's residents were already clearing space and laying down blankets.
"Easy now," Brahm said, crouching beside a trembling man with a torn sleeve. "You're safe here. Eat soup first, then rest."
He rose and turned again, never still.
"Elira," he called, already thinking ahead. "Take one of the herbalists with you. Focus on the heavy cases—stabilize them. I'll ask Declaf to check on them once he's finished in the back room."
Elira nodded without question.
She moved immediately, gathering herbs, bandages, and tools as she went. Another herbalist from Kolma fell in beside her, mirroring her pace.
At the gates, Brahm knelt in front of a cluster of refugee children—mud-streaked, wide-eyed, clinging to one another.
"You're alright now," he said gently. "You can stay here as long as you need."
A small voice trembled. "Are...our parents coming here? Where are they?"
Brahm's mood instantly soured, knowing some of them had lost their parents already but still held on to hope.
He forced a smile, his expression softening.
"Don't worry children, we'll take care of you," he said. "We'll build a new home for you guys if we have to, so that you one day may laugh again."
The children stared at him, disbelief, grief, sorrow. He knew just words weren't enough, but he would do his damn best to make sure those words came true.
Behind him, Elira paused just long enough to watch.
A subtle smile touched her lips—brief, careful, unseen.
This was why she loved him.
She turned away before he could notice and led the wounded into the church.
Inside, the air filled quickly with murmured prayers and the scent of crushed herbs. Elira directed people into side rooms, assigning beds, calming people. She and the other herbalist began working methodically—brewing stabilizing draughts, mixing ointments, applying bandages infused with mild restorative magic.
No time was wasted.
By the time Brahm finally stepped into the church, the chaos had changed into controlled urgency.
He found Elira in the herbal room, grinding ingredients with practiced hands.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek.
"Where do you need me?" he asked quietly.
She glanced up at him, eyes tired—but steady.
"Start with carrying supplies," she said. "Then help hold patients still. Some of them are in a lot of pain."
He smiled faintly.
"Got it."
And without another word, the chief of Kolma rolled up his sleeves and went to work beside his wife.
—
The bells at the gate rang again a few hours later.
Two sharp strikes.
Not an alarm—but urgent.
One of the guards on watch stiffened, peering into the thinning mist beyond the road. Faint silhouettes moved in the distance. Armed. Exhausted.
"Stay here!" he barked to his fellow guard, already turning.
He sprinted through the village, boots splashing through puddles and mud, straight for the church. He nearly collided with a pair of villagers at the entrance before pushing inside.
"Chief!" he called out. "Another group is approaching—armed and bearing Ragla's colors!"
Brahm looked up at once.
"Did you make sure?" he demanded.
The guard swallowed. "Yes, they are Ragla's warriors. And yes, they're alive."
Brahm made haste.
Minutes later, the gates of Kolma opened once more.
Torchlight spilled outward as battered figures emerged from the road—men and women leaning on spears, axes, and each other. Armor cracked. Faces pale. But alive.
At their center walked Talmir.
Supported.
Still standing, but pale as a ghost.
A murmur rippled through the village—relief, disbelief, quiet awe.
Brahm stopped at the edge of the road, staring for a long moment.
Then he let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"By the gods…" he muttered, voice low but heavy with feeling.
"At least some luck finally shined on us."
The gates closed behind them.
And under Kolma's watchful fires, all of the survivors were now safe.