Year 400,
Thalen,
Duskrend
Takaya stirred before the first light, the chill of dawn pressing against his skin. Mist curled low over the village of Thalen, weaving between rooftops and fence posts like ghostly fingers. The faint smell of smoke drifted from a few chimneys where early risers had begun cooking, but the usual morning sounds were absent—no birdsong, no clatter of shutters, no greetings exchanged. Even the air seemed tense, heavy with anticipation.
At the edge of the village, Aelna moved silently, carrying a pot of porridge and baskets of bread toward a small clearing where the children slept on mats laid carefully on the ground. She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable, then nodded. "They'll wake soon," she murmured, her voice soft, careful not to startle anyone.
Takaya followed, keeping his steps light. He helped set the bowls and trays down without a word, arranging them so the children could reach each one without jostling. From the corner of his eye, he watched the small figures stirring beneath their blankets. Some shifted, murmuring; others clutched the edge of their mats, wary of the unknown presence at the clearing's edge.
He knelt beside a sleeping child, adjusting a blanket over their shoulders. His hands were gentle, precise—movement without intention to alarm. The children, so accustomed to fear and sudden punishments, flinched at first, then relaxed when he stayed still, patient. Takaya didn't speak, didn't demand acknowledgment; he merely existed among them, a silent guardian for this fragile dawn.
The fog pressed closer, curling around the edges of the clearing, and for a moment, the village seemed to hold its breath, watching him as he watched the children.
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the morning fog, the children began to stir. Takaya remained kneeling near the edge of the clearing, quiet, his presence deliberate but unobtrusive.
At first, the children flinched. Tiny hands clutched blankets to their chests, some peeking out from behind Aelna's skirts. Whispers skittered between them—soft, nervous, carrying questions they dared not speak aloud.
A pair of wide eyes locked onto him from across the clearing. He met the gaze briefly, steady and unthreatening, then looked away toward the trays of porridge and bread. Still, the children shrank back, their movements tentative.
Takaya felt the weight of their suspicion like a tangible thing pressing against him. He didn't advance or make sudden gestures. Instead, he simply observed—breathing slowly, moving carefully, letting them adjust to his presence. Each glance, each cautious whisper told him more about what would earn their trust and what would push them further into fear.
The tension was palpable, stretched across the clearing like a taut string. The children didn't yet see him as a protector; they weren't sure if he was a threat. Takaya stayed still, patient, letting the silence speak louder than words, his calm presence a quiet promise that he would not harm them.
Takaya lowered himself to the ground, kneeling so his eyes were level with the nearest children. Every movement was measured—slow, deliberate, careful not to startle. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, almost a whisper carried on the morning mist.
He reached toward a sleeping child, brushing a hand lightly over the shoulder to wake them. The child stirred but did not scream, only blinking up at him with wary curiosity. Takaya held his gaze steady but gentle, offering reassurance in the stillness.
The other children watched, some peeking from behind Aelna. Their tension eased just a fraction as they noticed his calm, deliberate movements. He did not rush, did not demand attention, and above all, did not threaten.
Slowly, cautious whispers were replaced by curious glances. A trembling hand reached out to touch the edge of his sleeve, testing the safety of his presence. Takaya allowed it, smiling faintly, letting the children understand—without words—that he was there to protect, not harm.
By the time the trays of porridge and bread were placed before them, the children were still wary, but the sharp edge of fear had dulled, softened by the quiet certainty in Takaya's motions.
Takaya moved among the children with quiet precision, carrying bowls of steaming porridge and slices of bread. He placed each portion carefully, making sure no child was left waiting or overlooked. His movements were methodical, but gentle, never forceful.
Some of the children still clutched their blankets, glancing at him with suspicion. One small hand hesitated before reaching for a bowl—but then, slowly, a little girl took his hand, letting him guide it toward her portion. He gave a reassuring nod, letting her know she was safe, and she smiled faintly before retreating behind Aelna.
Another boy peeked from under a straw mat, unsure whether to come forward. Takaya crouched to his level, sliding a piece of bread closer. The boy's eyes widened, then he cautiously reached for it, the edge of fear softening just a little.
Aelna watched silently, her lips pressing together in approval. She noted the way Takaya guided the children not with commands but with his calm, deliberate presence—his efficiency and thoughtfulness spoke louder than any words could.
The Veyl's voice murmured in Takaya's mind, almost fondly: "Look at you, Takaya. From curled-up tears by the lake to this… feeding children without a single command. You've grown far beyond the boy who thought he'd lost everything."
Takaya didn't respond.
By the time every child had their meal, the atmosphere had shifted. Wariness still lingered, but in its place a fragile thread of trust had begun to weave itself between Takaya and the children.
Aelna led Takaya down a narrow alley, her steps light, careful. "This is the quickest way to the old well," she said. "Children can hide there if anyone comes."
Takaya nodded, eyes scanning: cracked doors, boarded windows, abandoned huts. Nothing moved. The village felt hollow, as if the fear itself had built walls around it.
"Ah, so now you're learning where to hide when the Covenant comes," the Veyl murmured, amused. "That's wise".
They ducked behind a collapsed shed. "Here, too," Aelna whispered. "A few of them know to squeeze under the floorboards. Adults won't check there."
"Look at you, mapping it all in your head," the Veyl continued. "Planning. You're becoming something the old lake boy could only dream of."
Takaya crouched, tracing the lines of the village in his mind. Every empty street, every shuttered home, every narrow escape route—he memorized it, weighing safety against speed.
By the time they returned to the main square, Takaya already had mental notes of which streets were safe, which corners were traps, and where the children could vanish without a sound.
It was time, the next noon some men had arrived, they went straight to the priest – questioned him about the kids.
The priest's hands shook slightly as he faced the three men who had arrived from the Covenant. Their boots scuffed the cobblestones, and the sun glinted off the weapons at their hips.
"I… I don't know where the children are," the priest said, his voice trembling but measured. "They've been missing for days. I've searched, questioned… I cannot find them."
One of the men stepped forward, towering, his shadow swallowing the priest. "Do not lie to us," he growled. "We know you've hidden them, priest. Every corner of this village has eyes, and yet you claim ignorance?"
The priest swallowed, kneading his hands together. "I swear, I—"
"Swear all you want," the leader interrupted, voice flat and dangerous. "You are disposable. If you fail to deliver the next child… or the one after that… someone else will replace you. The village will still breathe, and you will hang in the square as a lesson."
The priest's eyes went wide. "A week… you give me a week?"
The man nodded slowly, as if savoring the threat. "Seven days. After that, your failure will not be tolerated. And don't presume mercy. One misstep, one delay, and the next priest you see swinging will be yourself."
The air In the square seemed to tighten around the priest. He bowed his head slightly, voice a whisper, "I understand… I will do what I can…"
The men turned, boots echoing against stone as they left. The priest remained rooted, pale and trembling, the weight of the ultimatum pressing into his bones.
Takaya crouched in the shadow of the corner house, listening. Footsteps—slow, measured—approached from the main street. Aelna's hand brushed his arm.
"Quick," she whispered.
He moved with precision, guiding a small cluster of children toward the well. Their tiny hands clung to his coat as he ducked beneath a low roof. A villager passed a few feet away, muttering to himself, oblivious.
A sharp Intake of breath from a child reminded Takaya to stay calm. He signaled with a tilt of his head, directing them silently into the floorboards beneath the hut. The last child slid under just as the footsteps receded.
Another moment, another group. He led them down a side alley, checking corners before letting them emerge into a hidden courtyard. Every movement was smooth, deliberate. The fear in their eyes began to shift into trust—they followed without hesitation.
Takaya's muscles tensed and relaxed in rhythm with the village's quiet pulse. He was aware of every creaking plank, every shadowed doorway, every hint of wind that might betray them.
By the time the sun dipped low, all the children were safely hidden. Takaya's chest rose and fell steadily, his eyes scanning for any sign of danger. The village felt smaller, quieter—yet under his watch, somehow less threatening.
Takaya sat cross-legged on the edge of the courtyard, a small wooden ball in hand. He rolled it gently toward a pair of children, letting it stop just within reach. They hesitated, glancing at him, then cautiously nudged it back.
A soft giggle escaped one, and the next child dared to reach for it. Takaya mirrored their movements, exaggerating slow, playful gestures. He spun imaginary stories with his hands—a bird flapping across the sky, a fish darting through invisible waters.
For the first time, small smiles cracked through the shadows on their faces. Eyes brightened, shoulders relaxed. The laughter was quiet, hesitant, but it filled the space like a fragile light.
Even as the rest of the village remained muted—closed shutters, silent streets—the courtyard hummed with a tentative warmth. Takaya noticed how the children's fear melted, piece by piece, into trust. Their tiny hands occasionally brushed his arm as they laughed, no longer shrinking away.
He stayed patient, letting their curiosity lead. A ball here, a story there. Every act of play was a seed, and with each passing moment, it took root, creating a small circle of life in the midst of silent oppression.
From behind shuttered windows and cracked doorways, parents watched. Eyes narrowed at first, suspicion written in every line of their faces, but as they saw Takaya carefully roll the ball back to a laughing child, some tension eased.
A mother peeked around a corner, holding her youngest close. The child's wide eyes followed Takaya's gentle movements, and for the first time that day, she didn't shrink back. Relief flickered in the mother's gaze, clashing with the ever-present fear of the village's harsh rules.
Near one of the hiding spots, an older woman quietly placed a bucket of rice on the ground, enough for all children who came by. She didn't approach, didn't speak—just a silent gesture of tentative trust.
Inside his mind, Takaya noticed these small acts, cataloging them like precious information. The subtle nods, the cautious glances—proof that the villagers were starting to consider him reliable, even if fear still anchored them. Aelna caught his eye, giving the slightest smile of approval.
The courtyard remained alive with laughter, quiet, fragile but persistent, while the village beyond stayed muted. Change was slow, but it was beginning.
Takaya moved silently through the village square and narrow alleys, inspecting every nook and cranny that Aelna had shown him. Broken shutters, loose floorboards, hidden alcoves—he noted each one, running a careful hand over surfaces, testing their stability.
"This one's good for a quick escape," he murmured to Aelna, pointing to a gap behind an old shed. "But we'll need a signal. If someone comes near, the kids should know where to hide without being seen."
Aelna nodded, watching as he laid out a subtle system: a series of small marks, barely visible, to indicate safe paths, and designated spots where children could crouch if approached. He even improvised tiny rope barriers and diversionary objects to mask the trails.
Some children, initially hesitant, began to follow his instructions, mimicking the placement of tiny bundles or moving along marked paths. Their curiosity overrode fear just enough to let them participate in small ways, rolling pebbles into place or lifting sticks to clear paths.
Takaya observed them with sharp focus, noting which spots were secure and which needed reinforcement. Every choice was deliberate; one weak point could unravel their safety. He adjusted, repositioned, and tested his plans repeatedly, a silent strategist ensuring that even the smallest child would be protected.
The Veyl's voice surfaced faintly, a low hum of amusement and approval. "Takaya… even after the lake, even after the fire, you learn. You build. You protect. You remember how to be more than survival."
The children didn't understand the words, but they felt the steadiness behind them. By the time Takaya stepped back, every hiding place was reinforced, every path accounted for, and the village—though silent and tense—felt a little less suffocating, at least for those under his care.
The village lay quiet under the weight of the rising moon, fog curling between the rooftops and alleys like restless spirits. Takaya moved along the perimeter, his boots silent on the cobblestones, every shadow observed, every distant sound cataloged.
Inside the hidden spaces, children slept curled beneath thin blankets, faces softened in dreams for the first time in months. Takaya paused at each hiding spot, checking locks, reinforcing a loose shutter, whispering gentle instructions to a few who stirred, reassuring them without waking the others.
Occasional animal calls pierced the fog—an owl hooting from a nearby tree, a rat scuttling along a roof beam—but the danger that mattered was human. Takaya's eyes flicked to the darkened windows, noting movements in the village: shutters trembling, a flicker of candlelight, hushed voices fading as the inhabitants obeyed the oppressive calm.
He rested briefly against a wall, letting the cool night air press against his face. Thoughts of Eri and Lira surfaced unbidden—faces he would never see again, warmth he would never feel, and yet… the children here, under his watch, were living because of his presence. The weight of responsibility pressed down on him, heavy, but not paralyzing.
A soft chuckle echoed in his mind, the Veyl's voice threading through the quiet: "To be perfectly honest with you, Takaya, I expected you to halfass this. My money was on the fact that you'd burn this village down but it is not crumbling. Not bad."
Takaya exhaled slowly, letting the tension loosen just enough to remain alert. He continued his patrol, moving from alley to alley, roofline to corner, until the village settled into a fragile sleep beneath his watchful eyes.
Morning light seeped through the fog, soft and pale, casting long shadows across Thalen's narrow streets. Takaya moved among the children, checking blankets and offering quiet reassurances as they stirred awake.
A faint sound caught his attention—a hurried shuffle behind a half-closed door. A mother peeked out, eyes darting nervously. She held her child close for a moment, then, with a barely perceptible nod, stepped back and left the boy in Aelna's care. Takaya noticed the child clutching his sleeve, not afraid for the first time.
Elsewhere, a father left a small bundle of rice and cloth near a hidden corner, pausing just long enough to meet Takaya's gaze. It wasn't spoken gratitude—no words—but the gesture carried weight. Another parent lingered by the path, hands folded, then quietly retreated after a nod of acknowledgement. Takaya understood: the village was beginning to test him, letting him shoulder responsibility, piece by piece.
The Veyl's voice slipped through his mind, low and approving: "Aww look at how far you've come, from being an outcast to babysitting random kids."
Takaya's jaw tightened, his awareness sharpening. Hope was fragile; trust even more so. He moved among the children and hidden adults, guiding, protecting, ever watchful. Each gesture, each silent nod, each small offering reinforced the fragile web he was weaving between fear and safety.
By midday, several more parents had discreetly entrusted their children, leaving food and small provisions as they slipped away. Takaya's shoulders bore the weight of responsibility, yet with every hand placed in his care, the burden felt lighter, more like purpose than obligation.
Night had swallowed Thalen, thick fog curling around shuttered windows and narrow alleys. Takaya sat on the village's edge, arms resting on his knees, eyes tracking the dim lantern light. Everything was quiet—but only just. The silence pressed against him, reminding him of the void he'd carried for so long.
His thoughts drifted to Eri and Lira. He saw Eri's bright, trusting eyes and Lira's steady presence. The way they had clung to him, laughed with him, needed him—and how quickly it had all been taken away. His chest tightened. The loss hadn't dulled; it had become a weight he carried everywhere.
A small laugh cut through his reverie—dry, sardonic, impossible to ignore.
"Oh, Takaya," the Veyl muttered in his mind. "Look at you. Guardian of a few scared kids. You cried by the lake, curled up and useless. And now? You pat them on the head and call it progress?"
Takaya didn't answer. He clenched his fists instead, feeling the memory of loss and the sting of the Veyl's mockery blend into something sharp and hot.
He glanced back at the sleeping children, safe under Aelna's care. "Not like them," he whispered to himself. "They'll live."
The Veyl snorted. "Oh, yes. Keep telling yourself that, little hero. That's a good story. Just don't get clever and end up another corpse, huh?"
Takaya's jaw set. The Veyl, mocking, unhelpful as ever—but the words only sharpened his resolve. He would guard these children. He would be the shield Eri and Lira could no longer be. And if the Veyl wanted to mock him every step of the way, fine—he'd take that too.