The way ahead was familiar enough. Sure, the forest around had lost some of its trees as the road had been expanded, but the snakelike shape it had worn for so long remained the same. Step after another, he went along the gentle slope, and soon his gaze was met with another sight: Farmhouses built in the middle of fields. The large Jenkse estate, shared with multiple families who had surely cultivated the land for over a decade now.
Bringing those many families from further south had been one of the great things that Kanrel had done. It was something he had somewhat pushed for; not only with just Dar and the arrival of people he had known for long, among them his future wife, but also the ones that came long after the survey of the village, now town.
Indeed, he had helped make Jersten what it was now. In good and bad.
He already saw what was once Rant Jenkse's house. It was the very first contact he had with anyone who would call themselves a person from Jersten. A house that had a much more complicated history, to him and to Jersten in general.
It would be his second-to-last stop before beginning his long journey to Lo'Gran, or perhaps Atarkan, depending on which road seemed the safest.
The old house had gone through major changes. Certainly Isbit's handiwork. The once wooden cabin had turned into a proper house built from a mix of brick and wood. Some of the elements remained similar to before. There still was a terrace that he had to walk up to reach the front door, and there still was the window which once had been his guiding star in a wintry sea of darkness. Now, that star was dead. There were no calling lights as the sun had already begun to set.
Without much thought, Kanrel knocked on the door. He stood idle for a moment, waiting for an answer, anything, but there was nothing. Without further ado, he tried the door. It wasn't locked, and it opened for him without a creak. The hinges must've been recently oiled.
Inside was a dim space. He could make out that there was a large table as well as some chairs. Shelves and bookcases stood against the walls, filled with books and chunks of something.
Kanrel produced a code. Light flashed into existence; in an instant, he could see what those chunks were: rocks. They were of different types and colors.
A large collection which Isbit displayed rather proudly. Or had his sons now taken over it? Kanrel wondered as he stepped inside.
On a rack, beside the door, there were a few pairs of shoes of different sizes, and the wooden floors were covered with colorful carpets. There were no clothes thrown around. A sign that he figured to be good.
On the other side of the room was a large stove and a kitchen area. The stove was placed in a way that it would warm the whole house when used. There were two more rooms on the first floor, which he went through. They were both bedrooms, though one of them had been turned into a storage room where there happened to be a bed.
Just in case, Kanrel looked under both of the beds and paid extra attention to the carpets. He wondered if Isbit had blocked out the secret basement, and it seemed like he had.
The rooms seemed like they had been recently emptied out. The Jenkses must have managed to leave as well.
Kanrel reached the stairway and climbed them; each step was followed by the creaking of the wooden boards. On the second floor, there were two extra rooms, and what was probably the master bedroom, one had a large loom where it seemed that a piece of woven cloth was in the making. There were different colors of thread neatly stacked on shelves, as well as a few finished bundles of cloth.
The second extra room was a study, one that Isbit probably used for his work. There were shelves of books and papers filled with both writing and drawings of what seemed like ground plans for new houses. Kanrel didn't look around any further and instead tried to open the door to the master bedroom.
It was stuck, even though the door had no lock. He had to push with all his strength before it would budge; then, suddenly, something gave way on the other side, and the door was flung open, crashing against the wall.
Kanrel found himself hanging from the handle, on his knees. Disoriented, he got up and looked around.
There was a wardrobe that lay on its side, blocking his view. Past it was a large bed; on either side were windows that might've overlooked the fields outside, though now curtains had been pulled over them for some reason. The floor before him was a mess... His heart dropped.
There was a carpet, but on it were multiple pieces of clothing. And he couldn't be certain if they had been there before the wardrobe fell over or not. But why else had there been a piece of furniture blocking his way?
He tried to swallow the lump that refused to go down. He should go through the clothes, see if there were things among them, like keys and such... But he could not.
He didn't want to know. He felt sick and stumbled out of the room. He ran downstairs and almost tripped. He ran out the door, reached over the terrace fences as his disgust flew in an arch and mixed with the dead flowers below.
Kanrel stood against the fence for a while, breathing in and out. Tears burned in his eyes; it had been painful. But it would be more painful to know for certain.
His legs felt wobbly, but despite them, he managed down the steps; he left the terrace behind, and before each step, he tried to lull himself into falsely believing that the clothes had not been anyone's. That whoever had moved the wardrobe to block the door had found another way out. He had to believe in his own lies, lest he wonder who had died.
He struggled his way back on the road; his skin prickled and shivered. The lump in his throat still refused to go down or out. His disgust refused to subside; soon, he would find himself by a ditch, on his knees, with more tears pained out of him.
He kept walking despite everything, and he knew which way to go. And all that was behind him was left to his shadow—yet the shadows loomed behind him, like figures drifting closer and closer.
He passed a section of the fields in a daze and stopped only when the road offered a diversion for a path. If he went on, he would never have to see for himself if a similar sight might exist in Dar's home.
He wallowed in his own fears for a while, but he managed to push through them, produced a new code, conjuring water before him which he instantly swallowed. The earlier disgust was switched to another form of it, and with it, he stepped onto the new path as his false light lit his way.
Ahead, he could already see Dar's house; for a backdrop, it had the forest for itself, and surrounding it from left and right were more fields which Dar had cultivated ever since he had moved in.
It had never been a large house, and it certainly wasn't enough for him, his wife, and children. But they probably managed. They had to.
Back when Kanrel had still lived in Jersten, Dar had toiled spring, summer, and the fall to keep himself fed, and in the winter, he had worked whatever odd jobs were offered. Sometimes he found himself in construction, helping Isbit and the other masons in building new houses. At times, he was a lumberjack or a hunter. Back then, the man must have worked in every possible job that little Jersten had to offer.
Kanrel could hardly imagine just how many more jobs he had now worked in during the winter.
As he scanned the view ahead, he saw a couple of scarecrows. They looked mean, and if not for the light, he would've falsely readied multiple codes and approached them to find out who they were and why they were hanging around in a field so far apart from each other.
It did not take long for him to reach the house. Again, there were no lights that shone from within. The windows were dark and only reflected his own reflection and the light he had brought with him.
The door was old and heavy as it creaked open, protesting every inch it had to. On the other side was a pitch-black room soon illuminated by his light. The inside was familiar; the first room was just a kitchen with a large table on which Kanrel once had dinner as well. Perhaps even the two long benches were the same. They looked like they were, and on them were multiple carvings.
Kanrel looked closer. There were crude faces and letters as well as numbers. They seemed to be made by a child. He could imagine one of Dar's children, knelt over, something sharp in hand, marking faces and even letters just learned etched onto that once clean, pristine surface. Perhaps Amer had then walked in and frowned at the sight of her child making a mess, but found no reason to get angry, and instead allowed a memory to be engraved into wood.
Other than that, there wasn't much. The family lived in near poverty. At most, they lived modestly. He stepped through the kitchen and grabbed the handle of the door to the bedroom.
He found that his hand was shaking. He did not want to open this door and have his heart broken. The lump in his throat was ever-present, and he could feel the fear returning. Shivers ran through him as he pulled the handle down and pushed the door open.
Three beds beside one another, and a piece of thick cloth that sectioned the room in two. A large wardrobe and shelves filled with things; toys that lay on the floor, discarded, near a carpet that sprawled across the whole floor of the room.
On the wall across from him was painted with images of flowers, five people, and the sky lit by a yellow ball as a presentation of the sun. All clearly painted by whoever slept in these smaller beds. Below each painted person was a name, clearly painted by an adult.
From left to right, the first depiction was of Amer, with her blonde hair and brown dress. Beside her, a frame of what looked like a boy, standing not quite the height of Amer, was Bren with his brown hair. Beside him was what looked like a girl with brown hair as well, though much longer and in a braid; her name was Amele. Then there was the smallest of them, a boy with black hair, named Kanrel, standing beside Dar.
He blinked. They had named one of their own after him. He stepped closer until he could touch the wall and the paintings on it. Gently, he felt each of them. He studied the names for a while, hammering them into his mind, trying to make them something he would remember if ever he came across them again.
With despair and fear, he made them people he owed something to. And not wanting to depart from them, he stepped away from the wall and walked around the heavy cloth that divided the room. On the other side of it was a large bed which Dar and Amer used, another wardrobe, as well as a table on which a note lay.
Kanrel grabbed it and read through it:
'This house belongs to a family of five, the father and husband, Dar, the mother and wife, Amer, as well as their three children. Two boys and a daughter. Their names are Bren, Amele, and Kanrel. Dar works as a farmer, and so does Amer. Bren and Amele are already old enough to help as well, but little Kanrel still mostly plays with toys. Our family works, or rather worked, in Isbit Jenkse's lands, and we've done so for well over a decade now.
But sadly, we have found ourselves having to leave our home behind. For when the last days of autumn came, so did a great shadow that would not go away. And then, people started to disappear. First, only a few, then families, and then one day many who had gone to the market.
Roslyn, our priest, has commanded all of the townsfolk to get their things and depart. Not all are willing, but I believe that we must. And with great sadness, I will quote what my father once wrote:
The sea of autumn gold brushed against me as I went by; the wind would surely remind me of this years to come.
A grand feast of memories, entwined with regrets, O so I behold for a new morrow as such, O let this sorrow go by me; let us dance in yesteryears and this fool's gold.
It is sad to see that we are so blind, and so the wind sweeps o'er us, carries away our autumn gold.'
'So we depart, saddened that we have to. We once hoped that here we would gain a name for ourselves. So on this letter, perhaps never read by another, I will proclaim a suitable name for my family and me. We toil and cultivate the earth, we feed the town and its people. So we might as well be the Millers.'
Kanrel placed the note where it had been. It had been good that he had decided to walk the path to Dar's home. That he had won against his fears and opened the door to their home as well as their bedroom. Without it, he had never known. Without it, they might as well have been dead.
He left the room and closed the door behind him. There had been no scattered clothes or left behind pairs of shoes; there weren't even extra ones for the 'Millers' never had the extra coin to buy some that could be left idle.
He stepped outside and gently closed the old, heavy door as well. He hoped that this would also remain as it was, awaiting the day its family would return and make it into a home again.
He turned and took a few steps, then halted at the sight ahead of him.
A figure stood at the midway point of the path. It was no scarecrow, and its black clothes moved as if the wind brushed past it. But there was no wind. There was no sound. There was just silence. It has no face, even his light touched it.
Dreaming. He must have been dreaming. All of this had been a nightmare. None of it had happened. Joor did not lie in his grave. The shoes in the market weren't an open mass grave. Vien had not left her tavern unattended. Isbit and his family weren't potentially dead. And Dar, Amer, and their children had never left, for they never had a reason to leave. It was just a nightmare, and nothing else.
A howling screech filled the air. It was pained and thoroughly tormented, as if belonging to a woman burning to death.
Kanrel took a step back. The screaming did not stop, and the dark figure lunged at him at the speed of the wind. Kanrel backed up another step and formed multiple codes without much thought.
Long spikes of ice manifested into the air and lunged toward the approaching shadow, but they flew past it. Then fireballs exploded on top of it, yet it still approached. It was close, just a step or two. Now against the door, the final code activated, and bright, white flames burst toward the shadow as disgust crawled through Kanrel and forced him onto his knees.
The white flame came in contact with the shadow, and they clashed for a moment; the screaming became harrowing, a choir of many, but the shadow burned away. Nothing was left of it. Nothing at all. Yet it smelled like ash that it had never shed.
Kanrel collapsed against the door. He could not control his breathing. But he couldn't stay still and find his breath, for what he felt were shivers running through him. His skin prickled. He looked around and saw multiple shadowy figures standing in the fields, among the scarecrows. They stood still. And they stared.
He climbed back to his feet and began to run down the path, toward the road, all the while he glanced around, at the figures that slowly turned their heads, following him with their gazes as he ran past them.
Kanrel prepared multiple codes. Many that would lunge the unholy fire at the shadows, and one that would form a shield that would surround him with said fire. He kept running and reached the road.
Cold sweat covered his body, and he felt the hairs on his back and neck standing. The Veil was here, and this is how it had taken the lives now lost at the market. And these shadows that now stood before him might have once been those very same individuals.
He wasn't sure if these were the stolen townsfolk or not. How could he know? But he was certain that they were no longer who they once were, regardless of whether they were Sharan, Atheian, or human.
Kanrel gritted his teeth, formed another set of codes, and burst the eight or so shadowy figures into flames; the gift of the Angels, the abhorrent manifestation of it, white and pure, burned brightly like a stain in the darkness of the evening. The shadows screamed in the tune of the screams of billions of dead Sharan, as they were unmade by what might have been the thing that had burned them alive in the first place.
And when they had burned away, Kanrel did not stay to bear witness any further. He began walking down the road as swiftly as he could maintain for a longer period of time. He had to go south before it would be too late. He had to find those who had left Jersten behind before the Veil would reach them.
And as he left the Dar's home behind, as well as the rest of Jersten, he entered the forest just past them. Suddenly, he felt something cold and soon wet on his neck. He touched it and felt what felt like a droplet of water. One was followed by another, this one he felt on his hand; he placed it before him and saw a speck of white that soon melted away. White, a stain pretending to be mercy. As it melted, another took its place.
He looked up and saw the falling snow, the first of a winter that had now begun.
He looked back a final time, shamed by the fact that he had left the shoes to the weather, for now the snow would hide then—hide his shame—when it longed to be seen by all.
He tore his gaze away from what he had already allowed to happen and kept on walking as the snow gently covered what was left behind, as well as what would be ahead of him. Soon, he left behind footprints that, too, would disappear into the white.