Three days after the sky had burned, the grasslands near the Vartas Empire swayed as if nothing in the world had changed.
Tall green blades rolled gently under the wind, bending in soft waves beneath a pale afternoon sun. Birds moved cautiously through the air, their patterns slightly unsettled, as though some instinct still remembered the violence that had rippled across the horizon days before. The land itself bore faint scars — flattened stretches of earth, broken trees in the far distance — quiet reminders of shockwaves that had traveled farther than any war ever should.
Through that sea of grass walked four figures who looked like they had crawled out of the end of the world.
Julius moved at the front, his steps steady but heavy, Adam's unconscious body draped across his shoulders. Dirt streaked his face and armor, dried blood marking the edges of his collar. His usually composed presence felt worn down, dulled by fatigue that pressed into his bones. Behind him, Corondell and Arwell walked in silence, their movements slower than pride would have allowed on any other day.
Three days earlier, the shockwaves from the clash between Indura and Gundr had swept across the lands like a divine tempest. The sky had flashed bright enough to blind, and the wind that followed had torn their carriage apart as if it were paper. Magic knights had been thrown into the air, crushed by debris, or carried away by forces too immense to resist. Julius had reacted without hesitation, unleashing his power to shield those closest to him, forcing back destruction that did not even belong on their battlefield.
Even so, they had paid a price.
Now, as they crested a gentle rise in the grasslands, the outline of a small village appeared in the distance — modest wooden homes clustered together like a sanctuary against the vastness of the plains.
Arwell exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing at the sight. "Oh look… we made it," he murmured, his voice thin with exhaustion but threaded with relief. "We can see the village from here."
Julius adjusted Adam's weight slightly before answering, his tone calm despite the strain beneath it. "Let's keep going. Surely we shall receive some hospitality."
The word sounded almost foreign after days of survival.
They had eaten little, drunk from streams when they found them, and slept in short, uneasy intervals under open skies that still felt unstable. Reaching civilization — even a small, distant corner of the empire — felt like stepping back into something human.
As they entered the village, wooden doors creaked open one by one. Villagers stepped out cautiously, drawn by curiosity. Their eyes widened at the sight of the battered group walking down the narrow dirt road.
"Look at them… didn't they leave here with their carriage?" one man murmured to his neighbor, his voice barely hushed.
"Don't you know what happened in the south?" another whispered, leaning closer. "Didn't you see the explosion in the sky?"
"They must have had a battle over there."
"The prince is surely strong. To battle and protect his friends… that's royalty."
The gossip passed between them like a quiet current. Every villager had seen it — the sky turning brighter than day for a fleeting, terrifying moment. They had felt the air tremble and heard the distant echoes roll across the plains. To them, such phenomena could only mean one thing: a monster had risen, and their prince had stood against it.
"They must have fought and defeated a giant beast. You heard it, right?"
"Yes, I heard it. It must have been a strong one."
"The prince has saved us from a powerful beast."
"The goddess always watches and protects us. Praise be to the goddess of love and protection."
The murmurs carried reverence rather than fear. To the villagers, Julius was not returning from a failed mission or from witnessing a battle between forces beyond mortal scale. He was returning as a protector who had driven away danger before it reached their homes.
Julius heard fragments of their words as he passed, but he did not correct them. He did not have the energy to unravel truth from comfort. Let them believe what steadied their hearts.
"Prince Julius!"
The voice cut gently through the murmuring crowd. A man pushed forward, urgency in his movements but kindness in his expression. He approached quickly, stopping just short of the group as his gaze assessed their injuries.
"Come… come, let us take care of you," he said, his tone firm yet warm. "I'm a doctor. I treat patients in the empire. Please, come to my house for treatment." He gave a small, respectful nod. "You can call me Rugard."
Julius inclined his head faintly, exhaustion weighing down even that simple gesture. "Th-thank you… Rugard."
Rugard immediately moved to support Corondell, guiding them gently down the village path. The small home they approached sat near the edge of the settlement, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. It looked ordinary — wooden walls, modest roof, the kind of place built for quiet living rather than history.
They stepped inside, and warmth wrapped around them at once.
The interior was simple but comforting, filled with the scent of cooked herbs and bread. A woman emerged from the kitchen at Rugard's call, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached. A young girl followed close behind, curiosity shining in her wide eyes.
"Dear, I've brought home some guests. Please, come look after them," Rugard called gently.
The girl tilted her head as she stared at the battered figures. "Father… who are these people?"
Rugard placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Shula, these people are from the empire. They are weak and tired. Why don't you help your father out?"
Shula's expression shifted from curiosity to earnest determination as she nodded.
Rugard's wife stepped closer then, and the moment her eyes settled on Julius, her breath caught. Her hand rose instinctively to cover her mouth. "Oh my… this… is the Prince," she murmured, surprise softening into concern. "What happened to these people?"
"They must have come from the south," Rugard replied quietly as he began examining Adam's condition. "That's where the echoes came from three days ago."
The weight of unspoken questions filled the room, but no one pressed further.
"They will stay here for a while," Rugard said firmly. "I'll receive proper treatment from the clinic. Meida, please look after them until I return."
"I will," she answered gently.
Rugard gave one last assessing glance before stepping out into the fading afternoon light.
Julius was carefully lowered onto a simple bed near the wall. The mattress was thin, but after sleeping on open ground, it felt luxurious. He exhaled slowly as he stared up at the wooden ceiling beams above him.
The house was quiet.
Outside, children laughed faintly. The wind moved softly against the walls. Somewhere nearby, livestock shifted lazily in a pen. It was the kind of peace that existed only far from courts and politics, far from battlefields and burning skies. Yet Julius knew that three days ago, the sky itself had fractured. This village had only felt an echo.
He closed his eyes briefly, not in sleep but in reflection. The world beyond these wooden walls was shifting. Forces too vast to explain were moving, and though the villagers believed he had defeated some nameless beast, the truth was far heavier.
For now, though, he allowed himself the stillness. The empire's walls were not far from here. And soon enough, quiet grasslands would give way to matters far more complicated than survival.
Hours later, Julius stirred.
The house was dim now, painted in amber by lantern light that flickered gently against the wooden walls. For a few seconds, he listened to the quiet crackle of firewood, to the distant murmur of voices in another room, to the soft hum of a peaceful night untouched by catastrophe. His body felt lighter than before. The aching tension in his muscles had dulled to something manageable.
He pushed himself upright slowly, testing his strength. The exhaustion had not vanished, but it no longer ruled him.
The door creaked open, and Meida stepped inside with careful steps, as though not wanting to disturb him if he still slept. When she saw him sitting up, a soft smile spread across her face. "Do you feel better?" she asked, her voice gentle but observant, the way only someone used to tending wounds could sound.
"Better than ever," Julius replied sincerely. There was no royal performance in his tone, only gratitude.
"Then come, join us for dinner," Meida said warmly. "Your friends don't seem to be waking up any minute, but I've prepared supper for all of us. Come, before it gets cold."
He rose from the bed, steady this time, and followed her into the main room.
The table was small and worn from years of use, yet it carried an intimacy no grand palace hall ever could. Rugard sat at one end, sleeves rolled up, hands rough from work. Shula sat beside him, swinging her feet slightly beneath her chair, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that the world's cruelty had not yet burdened.
This was a family that lived in the present.
Their clothes were simple. Their home is modest. But there was a fullness here — the kind built from shared meals, small laughter, and quiet evenings unbroken by ambition.
Julius paused briefly before sitting, taking in the scene as though memorizing it.
"Thank you… " Once again for your kindness," he said, bowing his head slightly. "I'll be sure to repay you once I return to the palace."
Rugard chuckled softly, waving a dismissive hand as though the idea itself were unnecessary. "Please, Your Highness, we don't need your repayment. Thanks to you, we live in peace and fruitfully. The empire has done us great deeds for the young and the old. It is we who should thank you."
There was no flattery in his voice—only sincerity.
Meida gently pushed a steaming bowl toward Julius, the rich scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat rising into the air. "For now, what matters is your health," she said kindly. "Eat. We have plenty of food."
Shula leaned forward slightly, her smile earnest and proud. "Today we're having boar stew. It's the best in the house… so enjoy."
Julius allowed himself a faint smile as he lifted the bowl. The warmth seeped into his hands first, then into his chest as he took the first bite. It tasted simple. Honest. Nourishing in a way that went beyond hunger.
For a moment, he forgot about burning skies.
The night wrapped around the house softly, wind brushing against the windows in quiet rhythm. Laughter rose gently between them as Shula described helping her father gather herbs earlier that week. Meida listened with patient affection. Rugard occasionally glanced at Julius, not with awe, but with quiet reassurance — as if to say, here, you are safe.
Yet even in that warmth, Julius felt the weight beneath his ribs.
He knew the truth; the villagers did not.
The sky had not flashed because of some wandering beast defeated at the empire's border. A dragon now roamed with purpose. A guardian had fallen. And somewhere within the empire's southern territories, the foundations of power were shifting.
The dragon's palace was still under construction.
And with every stone placed, the future grew heavier.
He lowered his gaze briefly to the surface of the stew, the lantern light reflecting faintly in its broth. Peace like this was fragile. It existed because someone, somewhere, held back the darkness.
He wondered how long that would remain possible.
Far to the south, where the dwarf kingdom had once stood, the earth still glowed.
The crater pulsed faintly with residual heat, embers breathing in and out like the dying lungs of a fallen titan. Smoke curled into the night sky, twisting upward in silent accusation. The land no longer resembled a kingdom. It was a wound.
Figures stood at the edge of that devastation.
Their forms were obscured by cloaks that shifted in the rising heat, their faces hidden beneath shadowed hoods. They did not move like ordinary travelers. There was purpose in the way they surveyed the destruction, in the silence they kept as they observed the magnitude of what had occurred.
"Who could be responsible for this?" one of them asked quietly, voice edged with disbelief. "How did this even happen? The dwarves served us faithfully… and now they are annihilated without leaving anything behind."
Another stepped closer to the crater's edge, eyes scanning the molten terrain carefully. "Wait… look over there."
A gloved hand pointed toward a darker shape amid the glowing rock.
"There's… someone lying in the flames."
For a brief second, none of them moved.
"A survivor," another voice breathed, sharp with urgency. "Quickly. We cannot leave him here."
Without hesitation, they advanced into the heat. Protective enchantments shimmered faintly around their forms as they pushed through the burning debris, boots sinking slightly into softened stone. The figure in the center of the crater lay barely, skin charred, breath present — clinging stubbornly to life in a place that should have allowed none.
They reached down carefully, lifting the body from the flames.
Behind them, the crater continued to smolder. The night above remained silent.
And far away, in a quiet village lit by lantern light and shared warmth, Julius sat unaware that the consequences of that burning south were already being carried away — not by wind, but by hands with intention.