The slanting rays of the setting sun pierced through the sparse tree crowns, painting the broken road in crimson hues. The mud squelched unpleasantly underfoot, mingling with blood seeping from the wound on Tamion''s leg. Each step sent a sharp pang of pain through him, but he clenched his teeth and forced himself to keep up. Ahead, walking without turning, was Kairon—his lean figure like an immovable boulder amidst the chaos.


    Suddenly, Kairon stopped and, without looking back, tossed a dirty, blood-soaked bandage over his shoulder. It landed with a wet slap at Tamion’s feet.


    "Tie your leg," Kairon’s voice was flat, emotionless, as if commenting on the weather. "Cripples are dead weight. You’re slowing us down."


    Tamion’s fists clenched, anger rising like a hot wave up his spine. He bent down, picking up the bandage with fingers trembling from exhaustion.


    "And what about heartless bastards like you? Decoration?" His voice dripped with venom as he tightened the bandage around his wound.


    Kairon didn’t dignify him with a response. But his broad shoulders tensed slightly, and his pace slowed unexpectedly. His eyes narrowed, scanning the gathering dusk for something only he could see. His fingers twitched toward his sword hilt, but after a moment, he relaxed and kept walking.


    The wreckage of the caravan lay before them like a grim painting of destruction. Overturned carts, once laden with supplies, now lay broken and looted. Torn bodies littered the ground, a grotesque mosaic of death. The air reeked of decay, thick with the metallic tang of blood.


    Kairon moved methodically through the carnage, his boots splashing through congealing blood. Without warning, he kicked a flipped wagon—a muffled whimper came from beneath.


    "Come out," his voice was ice, brooking no argument. "Or I’ll drag you out by your hair."


    From under the corpse of a young woman, a girl crawled out. No older than twelve. Her wide, terror-filled eyes looked unnaturally large in her pale, blood-streaked face. Her dress, once light-colored, was soaked in dark blood—not hers, judging by the lack of wounds.


    Kairon crouched to her level, his shadow swallowing her whole like a predator sizing up prey.


    "Who were your parents?" He paused deliberately between questions. "Why are you alive?"


    The girl said nothing, only clutching a bloodstained bundle tighter to her chest. Kairon slowly drew a dagger and began cleaning his nails, feigning indifference.


    "Lie, and we leave you here," he nodded toward the darkening woods. "These lands are crawling with shapeshifters. They love to... play with their prey. Especially children."


    "I’m Anika," the girl whispered, her voice barely audible. "M-mama told me to run... Then they... used her voice... Called for me..."


    With shaking fingers, she pulled a tarnished guild pendant from under her collar—the sigil of the "Truthseekers," an elite division known for dangerous investigations.


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    Tamion, who had been silently watching, stepped forward.


    "We’re taking her. The Guild doesn’t abandon its own."


    Kairon rose to his full height. Something dangerous flickered in his usually impassive eyes.


    "Remember that boy?" His voice dropped, making the threat even sharper. "He cost us two lives. Want a repeat?"


    Tamion’s sword hissed halfway out of its scabbard. Kairon didn’t flinch, merely raising an eyebrow as if observing an experiment.


    "Fight me, and you’ll be buried next to Malrian. If we find enough of you to bury."


    Silence stretched between them, broken only by Tamion’s ragged breathing. Finally, with a sharp motion, he slammed his sword back into its sheath, turned, and offered a hand to the trembling girl.


    Torchlight at the Guild gates cast erratic shadows on ancient stone walls. Kessal paced restlessly, her bootprints a tangled mess in the trampled earth. When familiar figures emerged in the distance, she sprinted forward, ignoring the guards’ shouts.


    "What happened?!" Her hands gripped Tamion’s shoulders, then flew to his wounds, assessing the damage. "Where’s... where’s Mal—?"


    Kairon strode past, dragging the bloodstained Anika behind him.


    "Girl. Anika. She’s with us now," he threw over his shoulder without slowing.


    Novian, silent until now, knelt before the girl. His massive, scarred hands gently cupped her face, checking for injuries. Anika shrank into Tamion’s cloak like a frightened animal.


    Kessal pulled Tamion close, her whisper sharp as a slap:


    "He’s planning something again... That girl—another pawn?"


    Tamion watched Kairon’s retreating back. His reply sounded hollow, distant:


    "Not today, Kess. Not today."


    Smoke from pipes and hearth filled the Guild tavern’s low ceilings, creating a suffocating haze. Adventurers huddled in tight groups, their voices merging into a constant din punctuated by bursts of laughter or curses.


    "''Aid’ after ten years?!" A gray-templed drunkard slammed his fist on the table, making mugs jump. "That’s not aid—it’s robbery dressed as mercy!"


    Kairon leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of undiluted wine. His steel-cold gaze swept the room, silencing chatter wherever it landed.


    "They’ve come to carve up the corpse," his voice cut through the noise. "Men are weak now—vultures always circle weakness. Nothing personal. Just nature."


    Tamion, seated in a corner, spun an empty mug between his fingers. His tone was unexpectedly measured:


    "Without allies, we die. But their terms will bleed us dry. Question is—are we willing to pay that price?"


    Novian, who had been silently observing, suddenly stood. His massive frame blocked the fireplace light, casting a monstrous shadow on the wall.


    "Not tonight," he growled, and strode out without another word.


    Moonlight streamed through Novian’s narrow window, painting eerie patterns on the floor. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed, a near-empty bottle of strong wine clutched in his huge hand. The door creaked—Kessal stood on the threshold, her face in shadow.


    "I... heard you," she began hesitantly, stepping inside. "Talking about... Malrian."


    Novian didn’t answer immediately. He took a final swig, then turned to her. Moonlight revealed eyes red-rimmed from exhaustion and drink.


    "In that damned city..." His voice was rough, as if dragged over gravel. "He pulled us from a goblin encirclement. Eighteen of us. Eighteen lives already written off."


    His grip tightened—the bottle cracked under his fingers.


    "Then... when we were trapped in the ruins, starving... He snuck into their den. Night after night. Stole food. For the squad. For the local kids hiding with us."


    Kessal didn’t hold back her tears. They streaked through the grime on her face, glistening in the pale light.


    "Why... why didn’t you ever say?" Her voice trembled. "We thought... I thought..."


    Novian looked up, and the raw pain in his eyes made her recoil.


    "And I... I didn’t even watch his back when it mattered."


    Silence settled between them, thick and heavy as swamp mist. Outside the door, in the dark hallway, Tamion’s shadow retreated from the crack. His fingers loosened around a bottle—he never took a sip. Only one thought echoed in his mind, squeezing his heart like a vise:


    What if I’d been faster? What if—?