The boisterous warmth of the Dunlyre Tavern gradually faded behind them, replaced by the cool embrace of the Aerion night. After the harrowing discoveries in the forest and the brief, necessary camaraderie of the shared meal, the squad had dispersed, each member seeking their own solace or the oblivion of sleep before the next day's duties inevitably dawned. The city, unlike the mortal flesh it housed, seemed tireless. Phosphorescent stones embedded in the high walls and along the cobbled streets pulsed with a soft, ethereal luminescence, bathing the capital in a cool, white radiance that surpassed the clarity of daylight, casting long, dancing shadows and lending a serene, almost mystical ambiance to the late hour.
Henry walked beside Sophia, the rough calluses of his palm, freed from the harsh confinement of his duty gauntlet, enveloping her smaller, softer hand. Her fingers curled instinctively around his, a familiar anchor in the tumultuous current of their lives. They moved in comfortable silence for a time, passing beneath ornate stone archways and past shuttered shopfronts, simply savoring the rare moment of quiet intimacy, a fragile peace carved out amidst the relentless demands of their profession and the ever-present shadow of danger. The shared horrors of the day felt momentarily distant, held at bay by the simple act of walking together through the luminous night.
It was Henry who finally broke the silence, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet air. "This morning… the cave… It troubled you deeply, didn't it?" He felt the slight tremor that ran through her hand at his words.
Sophia nodded almost imperceptibly, her gaze dropping to the glowing cobblestones beneath their feet. A shadow seemed to dim the usual warmth in her amber eyes. "Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "It was… truly dreadful. Worse than usual." She hesitated, searching for words. "Despite the countless missions, the faces… the things I've witnessed… the scene this morning…" Her voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken horror. "It felt… overwhelming. The sheer… violation of it."
She needed no further explanation; Henry understood completely. He had felt it too - the gut-wrenching revulsion, the cold dread that seeped into the marrow. The nameless corpses, victims subjected to the most savage, ritualistic forms of execution… they haunted not merely for their graphic horror, but for the chilling truth they represented: in this brutal world, anyone, at any moment, could become that. A discarded piece of flesh on a blood-soaked altar. That stark reality, Henry knew, was a persistent torment for Sophia, a shadow cast by the trauma of her own past.
"Thank the Angels for our safe return," Sophia murmured then, her grip tightening almost painfully on his hand, her eyes lifting to meet his, reflecting a fragile blend of gratitude and the lingering chill of fear. "For allowing you… allowing us… to remain."
Henry offered no immediate verbal reply, his own grip intensifying, a silent, fierce affirmation. He couldn't offer platitudes; the Angels, if they watched at all, seemed capricious in their favour. All he could offer was his presence, his strength, his unwavering commitment. In this world teeming with uncertainty, violence, and loss, each moment their hands were intertwined felt like a small, defiant miracle, a cherished grace he would fight tooth and nail never to relinquish.
"It's late," he said finally, his voice softening as he glanced towards the distant silhouette of the barracks rising against the luminous sky. "Almost ten. We need to return soon." He paused, then added, "But perhaps… two more hours? Somewhere quiet. Just us."
A faint, weary smile touched Sophia's lips, chasing away some of the shadow in her eyes. "Yes," she agreed softly. "Please."
Two hours. A fleeting measure of time in the grand scheme of things, yet for them, in the precarious balance of their existence, it held the weight of an entire world, a precious sanctuary stolen from the jaws of duty and danger.
Later, under the subdued, warm glow of a rented room's single lumen-stone lamp, Henry silently observed Sophia. They occupied a small, anonymous room above a quiet inn, a necessary extravagance for privacy couples sometimes required. Sophia rested her head upon his outstretched arm, her unbound brown hair cascading like watered silk against the roughspun linen of the narrow bed. Her deep golden eyes, luminous in the soft light, were fixed on his face, holding an emotion so profound, so deeply felt, that it seemed almost tangible in the quiet space between them - love, yes, but intertwined with a vulnerability, a reliance that humbled him and strengthened his resolve in equal measure.
Words remained unspoken. There was little need for them now. Only their fingers brushed, interlaced, a gentle, reassuring pressure. These same hands had wielded blades stained with the gore of monsters and men, trembled before the specter of death in lightless caverns, expertly field-dressed wounds under fire. But now, in this stolen peace, they simply sought the warmth, the living pulse of the other, as if that touch were the only verifiable proof that they both still existed, still endured.
Henry reached out with his free hand, gently tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind Sophia's ear, his calloused fingertips tracing the delicate curve of her cheekbone. The unexpected softness of her skin against his rough hand sent a tremor through him, a sensation that was achingly tender yet fiercely possessive. He felt the familiar, overwhelming urge to shield her, to hide her away from the horrors they faced daily, from the memories that haunted her waking and sleeping hours.
"Sophia…" he began, the name a rough whisper.
She shifted slightly, turning her face towards his touch, her eyes holding his gaze. He saw the echo of the day's horror still lingering there, but beneath it, an unwavering trust, a deep and abiding affection that anchored him.
He tightened his embrace almost imperceptibly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her smooth forehead. The vow rose unbidden, as it always did in these quiet moments, heavy with the weight of unspoken history. "I will protect you," he murmured against her skin, the words more than just sound, more than just intention. They were an oath, sworn in blood and horror years ago, reaffirmed in the quiet desperation of now. It was the only truly inviolable offering he could make her in this broken world.
Each time he uttered those words, felt their weight settle upon him, Henry was inexorably pulled back through the mists of time. Back to a desolate, blood-soaked field under a sky bruised with smoke and twilight. Back to the silence, the terrible, profound silence surrounding the shattered remnants of a refugee caravan. And amidst the countless corpses, the lifeless bodies of families, friends, strangers united only in their brutal end - a single, small figure. Sophia. Twelve years old, huddled amidst the carnage, her dress stained crimson, her eyes wide and vacant, utterly alone in a landscape of death. He had found her there, a small flicker of life in an ocean of finality. And kneeling beside her in that field of unspeakable horror, amidst the chilling silence of absolute loss, he had sworn a silent, unbreakable vow to himself: Come what may, whatever the cost, I will never allow such desolation to touch her again. I will be her shield.
Sophia sighed softly, curling tighter within Henry's embrace now, pressing her face against his chest, absorbing his warmth, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear. She didn't need to hear the vow spoken aloud again; she felt it in his touch, saw it in his eyes, trusted it implicitly. It was the bedrock upon which her own fragile sense of security was built.
Outside the inn's thick walls, the vast machinery of Aerion ground on, indifferent. Beyond the city, the world continued its relentless spin, war and bloodshed and monstrous incursions an unending, brutal cycle. But here, within the small, lamp-lit sanctuary of this room, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of shared survival, they had found the only true refuge they knew. A fragile haven built on trust, shared history, and the desperate, unwavering commitment to protect each other against the encroaching darkness. He held her close, wishing he could freeze this moment, keep the outside world and its horrors forever at bay.
Years ago, when Henry's homeland was ravaged by monsters. Parents and relatives were all lost, he fled with a few survivors from the village. Then those people sold him to traffickers, who forced him into hard labor for a time before selling him elsewhere.
From eight to twelve years old was a hellish period when he was forced to do everything to get money: begging, scamming, stealing… but still frequently beaten and starved.
He endured patiently until these people deceived a pitiful woman, one who treated him like a son. That was the last straw that made him determined to escape the villains; he didn't want to do such conscience-pricking things anymore.
During one theft attempt, these people wanted to steal some goods from a group of migrating people, who seemed to have abandoned their homeland for a better place. At this time, Henry raised the alarm, causing chaos in the area. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he escaped from the traffickers, moving continuously through the forest, running along a stream for many days.
Henry had heard that more and more groups were heading to Aerion, considered the promised land, the capital of the strongly rising nation of Zephyros. They would travel along a river eastward to reach Aerion. Therefore, he hoped that by following the stream bank, he would reach that river, then find a chance to sneak into a group heading to Aerion, perhaps finding an opportunity for a less wretched life.
By the fifth day, Henry had spotted a migrating group. They weren't too far, but he couldn't approach immediately. The small stream he followed had now grown much larger and turned into a fierce waterfall. Henry stood on a cliff more than twenty meters high; if it were flat ground, he could have joined the group, but now he was forced to stand rooted, watching. Going around was impossible; the past five days had completely drained his strength.
Risking his life, Henry clung to a thin layer of vines on the cliff face. But those vines were too fragile for him - just a child; he hadn't climbed down two meters before the vines started snapping one by one. Terrified, Henry threw himself towards the waterfall, because at least below was water, perhaps he could still survive. The terrifying current of the waterfall never refused anyone; Henry was swept straight down to the foot of the falls without mercy.
He didn't know how much time had passed; Henry heavily opened his eyes when he felt someone tapping his face. The first image he saw was a figure bathed in golden light, face unclear. Rubbing his eyes for a while, he finally saw the whole scene. Around him were two adults and a very cute little girl who had just woken him up.
"Hello, I'm Sophia."
Miles away, within the opulent, heavily guarded confines of a luxurious estate in Aerion's central military district, General Zalogr sat behind a vast, polished desk crafted from dark, ancient wood. The air in his private study was still, heavy with the scent of old parchment and expensive wine. Before him stood a high-ranking intelligence officer, Captain Verus, delivering his periodic report, his posture ramrod straight, his gaze fixed respectfully on the wall behind the General's chair.
"…and the pattern remains consistent, General," Verus reported, his voice a low monotone. "Subject Seven - 'Henry' - maintains his routine. Awake at 0400 hours. Standard physical regimen: endurance running, calisthenics, followed by weapons drills - one thousand swings, one thousand thrusts, precisely executed. Then morning meal, followed by assigned duties - patrols, guard shifts, occasional low-rank reconnaissance."
Zalogr listened impassively, his sharp, eagle-like eyes narrowed slightly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He betrayed no emotion, his face a mask honed by decades of command and political maneuvering.
"His off-duty hours," Verus continued, consulting his notes, "are primarily spent in the company of Subject Twelve - 'Sophia'. Standard social interactions observed: shared meals, walks within the city, occasional visits to the Estath Cathedral. His interaction with other squad members remains professional but reserved, Captain Jacobs excepted. Every Friday, as documented, he engages in a fifteen-minute sparring session with Captain Jacobs. Subject Seven invariably loses, often requiring minor medical attention afterward, though his recovery rate remains… unusually high."
Zalogr remained silent for a long moment, contemplating the report. Subject Seven. Henry. The boy from ten years ago. The image was still sharp, seared into his memory despite the passage of time.
"Tell me, Captain," Zalogr finally spoke, his voice quiet but carrying immense weight, "your assessment regarding the primary anomaly. Does the subject possess Mystic Sense?"
Verus hesitated fractionally. "General, direct confirmation remains elusive. Standard arcane scans show nothing beyond his documented Rank 2 aether levels, albeit with unusually high reserves, as noted by Archbishop Ralph recently. His outward demeanor shows nothing conclusive - no overt signs of precognition or empathetic distress beyond standard battlefield reactions. He exhibits exceptional discipline and resilience, yes, but…" Verus chose his words carefully. "…nothing that definitively proves the presence of the Sense."
Zalogr leaned back slowly in his high-backed chair, the fine leather creaking softly. His gaze became distant, unfocused, drifting back a decade. Ten years. Ten years since the Dark Reaper incident. He remembered standing outside the command tent afterwards, the air thick with the stench of blood, soldiers grimly clearing the hundreds of corpses and shattered equipment left in the wake of the A-rank monster's rampage.
And inside that tent, amidst the chaos and fear, a boy. Barely twelve years old, face smudged with grime, clothes torn and bloody, yet standing defiantly. Holding a trembling girl - Subject Twelve - protectively in his arms. The boy had looked directly at him, at General Zalogr, commander of the entire Zephyros southern forces, a man wielding Rank 6 power, and his gaze held no fear, only a chilling, desperate resolve.
"I offer my life as guarantee," the boy had declared, his voice surprisingly steady despite the horrors he'd witnessed. "I will eliminate the Dark Reaper. It won't cost you a single soldier."
Audacity. Madness. Yet… the boy had succeeded. Against all odds, against all logic, the Dark Reaper had been destroyed. And Zalogr had gained a significant political and military victory, solidifying his reputation as the 'Hero of Zephyros'. But the question remained, the anomaly persisted. How? And did the Sense, the Dark Reaper's unique and terrifying ability, find a new host that day?
"Continue surveillance, Captain," Zalogr ordered quietly, bringing his focus back to the present. "Maintain standard protocols. Report any deviation, however minor. Especially any incident suggesting… heightened awareness or unusual luck."
"Yes, General," Verus replied, offering a crisp salute before turning and exiting the study, leaving Zalogr alone with his thoughts, the memory of a defiant twelve-year-old boy, and the lingering, unanswered question that had shadowed him for a decade.