The road through the wilderness was silent and long. An old carriage moved slowly through the dust, its wheels grinding over gravel and withered branches with a low, monotonous rhythm. Thump. Thump. It sounded like a slow heartbeat against the passage of time.
The carriage jolted. Dappled light and shadow flickered through the window, alternating between brightness and gloom.
Inside the carriage. Owen sat cross-legged, his expression one of complete leisure. Opposite him—Gerald lay in a deep, heavy slumber.
However, his "bed" had been unceremoniously converted by Owen into a storage rack. Ropes, dried rations, tattered sacks, spare quivers—layer upon layer was piled atop him. He looked like a small mountain of supplies, teetering on the edge of collapse. Gerald's brow was furrowed, as if wrestling with some phantom in his dreams. His fingers twitched occasionally, yet he remained unable to throw off the crushing weight of Owen's "luggage."
Owen spared him a glance and nodded in quiet satisfaction. He returned to his state of blissful indifference, looking as if the chaos of the world had nothing to do with him.
By the window. Rena leaned against the wooden frame. She watched the receding wilderness, her gaze still and pensive. The wind whistled through the gaps, stirring her hair. She let out a soft sigh. The sound was faint, yet it seemed to carry across a vast distance.
"Stop sighing," Owen said, turning to her with an easy grin. "We're lucky we could even borrow a carriage." He stretched lazily, his tone bordering on a tease. "We're moving much faster than the others now. Who knows? We might even beat them to the Royal City."
"I know," Rena answered softly. Her eyes remained fixed on the landscape outside. "It's just... I'm still worried about Milia."
Owen gave a short huff. "You worry far too much." He shrugged. "It's not the first time she's operated on her own. And besides—" He offered a small smile. "Her combat ability isn't exactly weak."
"Of course she's capable," Rena said slowly, her voice dropping a notch. "It isn't her strength I'm worried about." Her fingers tightened slightly. "It's... she's far too used to having me by her side."
Owen froze. A meaningful, knowing smirk spread across his face. "Oh?" He leaned forward slightly, his tone dancing with amusement. "Then should I be so bold as to ask—are you two actually sisters by blood?"
Owen cocked an eyebrow, his grin widening. "Otherwise, why would the two of you be stuck together like glue?"
Rena turned her head, shooting him a glare. It wasn't a heavy look, but it carried a weight of seriousness that brooked no further joking.
"We share no blood," she said calmly, yet with an ironclad certainty. "But—" She paused for a fleeting second. "We are closer than any kin."
Owen's smile faltered slightly. He looked at her, seemingly realizing the gravity of her words for the first time.
"You two never really talk about the past," he noted, his tone turning more somber. "I only knew that you've known each other since you were kids. So—since then, you've always depended on each other like this?"
Rena's gaze drifted downward, coming to rest on her own palm. It was as if she were staring directly into a distant, faded reflection of the past.
"...Not exactly," she whispered. A trace of irrepressible gloom surfaced in her voice. "That was..." She stopped for a beat. "That was before we met the Boss."
Owen blinked. Then, he let out a short laugh, his tone shifting back to his usual casual ease.
"Well, it's a long road ahead." He leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head. "And we've got nothing but time. Why not tell me the story?"
The interior of the carriage fell into a brief, heavy silence. Only the rhythmic grinding of the wheels against the earth remained—thump, thump—as if urging the memories to finally unfold.
A moment later, Rena gave a small, slow nod. Her voice was low and measured, flowing back into the present from somewhere very, very far away.
"It was... Lunar Year Three. Milia and I..." Her eyes began to lose focus, peering into the void. "We were only nine years old."
The light dimmed, and the shadows stretched. It was as if the pages of time were being turned by a phantom hand.
[Year 3 of the Lunaris Calendar — A fallen town within the Great Empire of Sorellia]
The Empire of that era was already a crumbling ruin. Only jagged fragments of walls and shattered pillars remained, standing in silent testimony against the wind. The derelict houses were like skeletal remains, crookedly embedded in the scorched earth.
The streets were hollow. The wind whistled through the fissures in the stone, letting out low, haunting wails—as if the land itself were still in mourning for its lost glory.
In the heart of the wreckage, the wind carried the scent of ash and rot, swirling in low eddies between the ruins. Jagged eaves thrust into the dirt like spears; the avenues were swallowed by rubble. From somewhere in the distance, a faint, intermittent cry for help drifted through the air—weak, broken, and ready to be swallowed by the absolute silence at any moment.
Within such a desolate city, six silhouettes moved, clinging to the shadows of the crumbling walls.
Two middle-aged men led the way and brought up the rear, shielding the others in the center. Their steps were kept incredibly low, producing almost no sound at all. Their clothes were caked in dust and stained with old blood; their eyes were wary, like beasts stalking along the jagged edge of death.
The man at the front, a burly figure with a thick, unkempt beard, suddenly raised his hand.
"Stop."
The command was barely a whisper, yet it brooked no argument.
The group froze instantly. Even their breathing slowed to a synchronized crawl. He tilted his head, listening intently. Within the howling of the wind, there seemed to be a rhythm—one that did not belong to the ruins.
A moment later, his gaze darkened. "Retreat. We can't go this way."
No one questioned him. No one hesitated. They pivoted immediately, hugging the broken walls as they withdrew into an even narrower alleyway. Soon, a small house with its back door slightly ajar appeared before them. The door was unlocked.
They slipped inside, shut the door, and held their breath.
The interior was dim and the air stifling. Dust motes drifted lazily through the thin streaks of pale light.
The second man spoke, his voice hushed. "Kain—are you certain this route is still viable?" His brow was knitted, his tone laced with suppressed unease. "That intersection just now... it's on the patrol line for the Lunarian soldiers."
Kain leaned against the door, listening for a long moment before finally letting out a slow, weary breath. He closed his eyes.
"I know, Leo," he said, his voice deep and exhausted. He paused, as if weighing the lesser of two evils. "But the wilderness..." He looked up at the ashen sky through the cracked window. "It looks quiet, but once you encounter a magical entity... it's a death sentence."
A heavy silence descended upon the room.
"If it's soldiers..." Kain spoke again, his tone carrying a trace of desperate optimism that was almost painful to hear. "At least... we can try to plead. Offer up some coin. Trade our gold for our lives." He gave a hollow, bitter smile. "That is already... the best possible outcome."
Just then, a small hand gently tugged at a piece of fabric.
"Mama..."
The voice was thin, fragile, and trembling with fear. A young girl with long, tangled hair kept her head low, speaking with agonizing caution. "I... I'm hungry..."
The woman addressed as 'Mother' suddenly darkened with rage. Her brow furrowed, and her voice dropped—not out of tenderness, but out of a seething, uncontrollable resentment.
"Shut up!"
She hissed, glaring at the child with eyes full of venom. "You still have the nerve to say you're hungry?" Her gaze pierced the girl like a blade. "If you hadn't fallen behind... we would have followed the army out of the Empire long ago!"
The little girl flinched violently. Her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped the hem of her shirt, not daring to utter another word.
"Martha..." Another woman stepped forward hurriedly, her voice a hushed plea. "She's only a child..."
"Don't defend her, Elina!" Martha hissed, her eyes burning with a mixture of raw fury and the frantic, shattering weight of her own terror. "If Jack and Thomas were still here..." Her voice suddenly cracked. "...it would be different."
She lowered her head, murmuring to herself: "Who knows if they're even... still alive..."
Inside the small house, silence fell once more—a silence so heavy it felt as if the very air were being squeezed from the room.
Elina said nothing more. She let out a long, weary sigh and walked to the side. There, standing in the shadows, was another young girl.
Short hair. Quiet eyes.
Rena.
Elina glanced at her and gave a small, subtle nod. Rena didn't say a word, but she understood.
Quietly, Rena reached into her tunic and pulled out a small, rock-hard piece of biscuit. Her movements were delicate, as if she were stealing something of immeasurable value from the universe itself. She walked over to Milia's side and gently pressed the scrap of food into her hand.
"Milia." Her voice was soft, yet remarkably steady. "Eat."
Rena offered a tiny smile. "This was my portion from this morning."
Milia froze. She looked down at the biscuit in her palm, then up at Rena. Her eyes were clouded with hesitation and unease. "But..." she whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "This... wasn't this yours?"
"I'm not hungry," Rena replied with a gentle grin—a smile so calm it seemed to melt away a fraction of the surrounding chill. "And besides—" she glanced toward the ashen sky outside the window, "once the soldiers move on, we might find even more to eat."
Milia looked back at the biscuit, her fingertips tightening. "Then... then you take half," she whispered, her tone trembling with uncertainty.
But the moment the words left her mouth—
Grumble...
Her stomach let out an uncooperative, hollow growl. In the oppressive silence of the room, the sound was startlingly clear.
Milia's face flushed a deep crimson instantly. She stood paralyzed, mortified by her own body's betrayal.
Rena couldn't help but let out a soft, melodic chuckle. It was a light sound, devoid of even a hint of mockery.
"See?" Rena said, reaching out to give Milia's hand a playful little nudge. "Eat it, quickly."
She blinked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial, mock-serious whisper. "If your stomach keeps making that 'grumble-grumble' noise... it might be trouble if the bad soldiers hear it."
Milia bit her lip. Finally, she took a small, cautious bite. The rock-hard biscuit crumbled slowly in her mouth, but as she chewed, her eyes began to burn with a sudden, stinging warmth.
"…Thank you, Rena," she whispered.
Rena reached out and gently ruffled Milia's hair. The gesture was as natural as if it had been performed a thousand times before.
"What are you saying?" Rena smiled. "I'm the big sister here. Taking care of you… is simply what I'm supposed to do."
Milia looked up, blinking. She offered a tiny, soft protest: "But… you're only a month older than me…"
Rena froze for a heartbeat, then laughed. She didn't explain. She simply gave Milia's head another affectionate pat.
On the other side of the room, the two men watched the scene unfold. They remained silent, but a complex, irrepressible tide of emotion gradually surfaced in their eyes: exhaustion, shadowed by a profound, aching guilt.
Leo let out a long, heavy breath—a sigh so deep it felt as if he were trying to purge a lifetime of accumulated suffocation from his chest.
Kain reached over and clapped a hand on Leo's shoulder. The grip wasn't heavy, but it carried a steadying comfort.
"Leo," Kain said in a low voice. "Martha… she's just worried about the child. Once she calms down—" He paused. "She'll understand. None of this was Milia's fault."
Leo remained silent, his brow furrowed as if a weight remained anchored to his heart, refusing to be lifted. "I know that," he said, his voice raspy. "But she…" He stopped himself, finally offering only a hollow, bitter smile. "…She just can't let it go."
He lowered his head, his voice dropping to a murmur, as if he were only speaking to himself.
"That day… if Milia hadn't suddenly wandered off… we wouldn't have been forced to leave the main group."
Kain's expression darkened instantly. He leaned against the wall, his gaze turning hollow.
"It's been three days already…" Kain whispered. "I remember—we were camped in the southern mountain forests that day. The army was resting. No one expected…" He closed his eyes briefly. "…that she would run into the woods alone."
"The few of us went in after her," he continued, his voice growing deeper. "And then… the screams and the sounds of slaughter suddenly erupted from the rear."
Inside the room, the air seemed to freeze in an instant.
"That was when we realized," Kain spoke slowly, his words heavy with dread. "The magical creatures… they had ambushed the main army."
Leo nodded, his eyes clouded with a complex swirl of emotions. "The Imperial Army fought as they retreated. We... we couldn't possibly keep up." He offered a hollow, bitter smile. "Our only choice was... to find another way out."
"Yeah..." Kain sighed softly. It was a sound of absolute powerlessness. "The few of us hid in the woods, watching the firelight spread inch by inch. We were right there, yet we could do nothing."
He paused, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You and Martha wanted to find the two girls. I wanted to charge out and catch up with the main army."
He opened his eyes, but they held only a reflection of the ashen gray world. "But the chaos was too much. We couldn't even get close."
He let out a slow breath, finally acknowledging a reality that could not be changed. "All we could do was stay where we were... and watch them with our own eyes... as they retreated South."
Leo spoke, his voice sounding as though it were being crushed, heavy and stifled. "Jack... Thomas..." He murmured the names, as if confirming they still existed somewhere in this world. "That day... they didn't come with us."
He stopped for a heartbeat, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Because... they hadn't joined the search for Milia. They stayed with the army."
The air in the room tightened.
Kain looked at him, then reached out to give Leo's back a steadying pat. "If that's the case—" his tone was firmer than before, "—then it's highly likely they successfully retreated to the South with the main force."
He paused, deliberately reinforcing that sliver of hope. "You have to believe in them. Those two boys have been sharp and sensible since they were small. They won't fall that easily."
Leo pressed his lips into a thin, tight line. He didn't say another word, but he gave a slow, strained nod—forcing himself to buy into the hope he was being offered.
Kain withdrew his hand, his gaze shifting toward the encroaching darkness outside the door.
"Afterward..." he continued, "our original plan was to chase them South all the way." He shook his head, his voice turning leaden. "But the road... it was nothing but the wreckage of a battlefield. Corpses were piled as high as mountains. Monsters and deserting soldiers were roaming everywhere."
He paused again, his voice sinking even lower. "The path was simply impassable."
Silence reigned in the small house.
"That's why I decided..." Kain spoke slowly, each word heavy with the weight of leadership. "...to take the long way around. To seek refuge in the Kingdom of Lunaris."
Leo lifted his head slightly.
"After all—" Kain's gaze was fixed on a point far in the distance, somewhere unseen. "Lunaris won this war. They won't continue a large-scale purge within their own borders."
Leo closed his eyes, appearing to accept this as their solitary option. "…I hope so," he whispered. "I hope this path… actually lets us live."
"Don't overthink it," Kain interrupted quietly. His tone wasn't harsh, but it carried a forced, rigid composure. "We can't move tonight. The Lunarian army is still scouring the nearby area. We have to wait."
He glanced toward the door. "Wait for them to move out tomorrow. Then we go."
Leo nodded, but the shadows in his eyes did not dissipate. "Now," he said in a low voice, "all we can do is pray they don't find us. And that we make it to Lunaris safely." He gave a hollow laugh. "I hope things are… a little better there than they are here."
"They will be," Kain said. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a deliberate, manufactured hope. "Once we cross this city… it's only five more days. Then we're there."
He paused. For the first time, a sliver of light flickered in his eyes. "I still have a few old friends on that side. When the time comes…" he said softly, "perhaps they can take us in."
Leo didn't respond. He simply lowered his head. Silence.
Kain turned and walked to the other side of the room. He spoke in hushed tones to Elina and Martha, informing them of the plan. His voice was pressed so low it was as if he were afraid of startling a ghost.
Afterward, he began to scout the interior, searching for corners that could serve as hiding spots. He reached the door and stopped. Stretching out his hand, he pulled it nearly shut—but did not close it entirely.
He left a razor-thin crack. It was a calculated move: enough to make the house look uninviting, but not so tightly sealed as to arouse suspicion.
Night began to descend, heavy and absolute.
A freezing wind seeped through the shattered window frames, carrying a bone-chilling cold. No one dared to light a fire. No one dared to make a sound. They could only wrap themselves in tattered rags, huddled together in a tight, shivering knot, trying to preserve a meager spark of body heat within the ruins.
Martha sat shriveled in the corner, clutching her shawl tight against her. Her face was a mask of ice, devoid of any warmth.
Suddenly, her gaze swept toward Milia.
It was like a needle. Cold, and sharp.
Milia shivered slightly. She immediately lowered her head, not daring to meet that gaze again.
In the gloom, a faint shimmer of tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. They glistened for a fleeting second but, in the end, refused to fall.
Elina watched the scene in the corner—the cold, piercing stare of Martha and the small, trembling figure hunched over. She let out a soft sigh and looked down at her daughter in her arms.
"Rena..." Her voice was light, as if afraid of shattering the fragile silence of the night. "Go and sleep with Milia, alright?" She tightened her embrace slightly. "She... she must be so cold."
Rena looked up, a momentary hesitation flickering in her eyes. "But... Mama..." She gripped Elina's tunic tightly, her voice carrying a trace of irrepressible longing. "I want you to hold me while I sleep..."
Elina's expression softened. She reached out, stroking Rena's hair with slow, tender movements. "Be a good girl, Rena," she whispered. "You're the big sister. You have to help Mama... take care of Milia."
Rena lowered her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. "But..." she murmured under her breath, "I've been taking care of her for so many days already..."
The voice was tiny—like a leaf in the wind, nearly unheard.
Elina paused for a heartbeat, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss onto Rena's cheek. "I know," she smiled. The warmth in her expression seemed to melt the freezing air. "My little Rena is the most sensible of all."
She paused, injecting a deliberate lightness into her tone. "I promise you. Once we reach the Kingdom of Lunaris... Mama will make you a homemade apple pie." She gave a playful wink. "The kind you love most."
Rena's eyelashes fluttered. She fell silent for a long moment, seemingly reaching a small compromise with the lingering bitterness in her heart.
Finally, she pouted. "...Fine."
"Remember—go to her with a smile," Elina whispered one last time. "If you look sad too..." She sighed softly. "Milia... won't be able to hold on."
Rena took a deep breath and nodded firmly. Then—she forced a smile. It was awkward and strained, but it was earnest.
On tiptoe, she walked across the room, step by cautious step, toward the corner.
"Milia..." she called out softly, her voice as light as a drifting dream. "Let's sleep together, okay?"
Milia froze for a moment. She lifted her head, the remnants of unshed tears still glistening at the corners of her eyes.
She wiped them away with force, nodding silently. The two little girls quickly huddled together, their small bodies pressing tight against one another. They were like two faint yet stubborn sparks of fire, sharing their meager warmth within the freezing night.
The wind howled through the broken windows, a bone-chilling cold that bit into the flesh. Yet, in that one tiny corner, a sliver of warmth seemed to bloom.
On the other side of the room, Elina leaned quietly into Kain's embrace. Her voice was pressed low, as if she were afraid to ask the question aloud.
"Will we..." She hesitated. "Will we truly make it to the Kingdom of Lunaris safely?"
Kain's grip tightened, shielding her within his arms. His knuckles turned a faint, chalky white. "We will," he said, his tone firm to the point of stubborn obsession. "I will get you there. I swear it."
He paused, his voice dropping even further. "Even if it costs me my life."
"Don't."
Elina reached up, her fingers gently pressing against his lips to silence the rest of the words. She shook her head, her eyes filled with a resolute tenderness. "We are going to live. Together. Not one of us left behind."
Kain blinked, looking at her. Then, he smiled. It was a smile etched with exhaustion, yet fueled by a rekindled conviction. "Alright."
In another corner, Leo sat silently beside Martha. He didn't speak; he simply reached out to wipe the tears from her cheeks, then stroked her hair with the gentle, rhythmic motion one might use to soothe a frightened child.
Martha didn't respond, but her shoulders trembled slightly as a single, stifled sob escaped her. Leo's hand stilled for a heartbeat, but he did not pull away.
His gaze drifted toward the two children, who had finally succumbed to a deep sleep.
Rena. Milia.
He watched them for a long time. Then, he turned his head toward the boundless black night outside the window. The darkness was profound, stretching out as if it had no end.
He said nothing, only offering a silent prayer in his heart—praying that tomorrow's path would no longer be strewn with thorns. Praying that his two lost sons were still alive. And praying that the days of the whole family sitting together, their laughter filling the house, would one day... return.
The winter night was long, and the wind never ceased. All they could do was hold tight to those beside them, using their meager body heat to endure the endless dark.
Waiting for the dawn.