Year 400,
Thalen,
Duskrend
Dusk draped over Thalen, the fog pressing low across cobblestones. Lanterns flickered along the narrow street, throwing soft, trembling light onto shuttered windows and empty doorways. Takaya walked steadily, passing the temple on the side of the road, his eyes scanning for any movement, any sign of threat.
On the same side, the priest was moving toward the chapel, robes swaying with careful steps, his presence calm but deliberate. Without warning, a firm hand closed around Takaya's arm. He stopped abruptly, turning to find the priest's face level with his own, eyes sharp and insistent.
The priest's grip was neither weak nor violent—just commanding enough to make Takaya pause. The air between them was thick with quiet urgency, the unspoken weight of a man who carried responsibility no one else could bear.
No words were exchanged yet; the priest's hold said enough—pay attention, and hear what I have to say.
Takaya froze, the priest's hand still gripping his arm. The fog seemed to thicken around them, the lanterns along the street dimming as if the village itself leaned in to listen.
The priest's voice was low, soft, carrying urgency rather than anger:
"I know what you're doing, boy. I will not stop you, but I will tell you the Covenant, they aren't the ragtag group of bandits you're used to. Don't die, they like you."
The words struck with quiet weight. Takaya's eyes narrowed, measuring tone and intent. This was not a threat. It was a confession, a bargain, an appeal that he survive so the village might survive too.
The priest's grip on his arm slackened slightly, but his gaze remained sharp, conveying the limits of what he could say. There was knowledge here, but no guilt; he was bound by fear, duty, and invisible chains, all at once.
Takaya exhaled slowly, feeling the tension in the misted evening, aware that the Covenant's shadow was closer than it had ever been.
Takaya stayed still, letting the priest's words settle. His eyes flicked over the man, noting how drawn and weary he looked—the lines in his face sharp with exhaustion, the dark rings beneath his eyes. When Takaya's gaze fell to the priest's hands, he noticed the grip on his arm was weak, almost trembling, as if the man had carried unbearable burdens for far too long.
The village's dim lights flickered faintly in the distance, but Takaya didn't look away. He weighed the fatigue and subtle tension radiating from the priest, sensing truth beneath the restraint.
After a long pause, Takaya finally asked, calm but firm:
"Since when?"
The priest's gaze softened, and he gave a faint nod, letting out a quiet, tired sigh.
"Come."
Takaya didn't resist. He read the man's exhaustion, the silent plea hidden beneath the weakness, and silently allowed himself to be led.
The priest walked slowly beside Takaya, his robes whispering against the cobblestones. The dim glow of lanterns outlined the edges of the chapel, casting long, uneasy shadows across the street. His movements were careful, deliberate, as if each step might betray the weight of years spent under the Covenant's eye.
"You must understand," the priest began, his voice low and almost hollow, "the Covenant's authority isn't just rules on parchment. It's fear. Fear keeps them alive. Fear keeps us obedient."
He led Takaya past closed windows and shuttered doors, pointing out faint symbols carved into doorframes and painted on posts.
"See these? Each mark is a token. A sign the villagers have complied. Patrols check them daily. If a mark is missing, word travels… sometimes, the consequences are immediate."
Takaya studied the subtle runes and scratches, noting the uniformity and precision. They weren't random acts of superstition—they were a system, one the priest maintained meticulously, even as it weighed on him.
The priest's hands flexed, gripping the hem of his robe. "I cannot defy them completely. If I try… if I openly resist… this village burns. All of it. That has happened before. Not here. Not yet—but other villages…" He let the thought trail, unspoken but hanging heavy in the night air.
They stepped inside the chapel, the scent of old incense lingering thickly, almost suffocating. Dust motes floated in the lamplight. The priest gestured to a faded mural along the far wall: a scene of abundance, children laughing in the sun, crops rippling in the wind.
"Once, this village thrived," he said quietly. "The Covenant came, and slowly… everything changed. Prosperity, trust, hope—they were stripped away, brick by brick, until only obedience remained. It is not the first village, nor will it be the last."
He ran a hand across the mural's cracked surface, lingering over the painted faces of villagers. Takaya noticed the subtle tremble in his fingers—the sorrow of someone carrying a burden too vast for one life.
"I do what I can," the priest added, glancing at Takaya with hollow eyes. "I can delay them. I can minimize suffering. But I cannot fight openly. I am… limited."
The weight of his words settled between them. Takaya understood—not just the rules and patrols, not just the system of fear—but the human cost: the priest's resignation, the village's terror, and the fragile thread that separated survival from annihilation.
"Follow me further inside," the priest whispered. "There is more you must see before you decide your path."
Takaya didn't speak. He simply nodded, taking in the signs of ruin and control—the oppressive weight of the Covenant made tangible in symbols, whispers, and the tremor of a man's hands.
Takaya's gaze swept the chapel interior, taking in the faint scratches along beams and the worn floorboards beneath their feet. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, his fingers traced a chipped pew edge, his mind weighing every detail he had already observed in the village.
Finally, he looked up, calm but deliberate.
"How often do these… visits happen?" he asked, voice low, measured.
The priest inhaled sharply, the sound almost swallowed by the chapel's high ceiling.
"Once a year, typically," he replied. "That was the original agreement. Five children. Each year… we tried to offer less. At first, I begged… until it was one child per year. For decades, that was our small mercy."
Takaya's brow furrowed, lips pressed together. He probed further:
"You already told me this."
The priest hesitated, eyes darkening.
"My apologies I tend to forget, recently… the Covenant's demands have changed. They've sent enforcers—strangers. They increase quotas. The village is under more pressure. If I fail, if I falter… everyone dies. Entirely."
Takaya's fingers tightened subtly. He noted the priest's posture, his weary slump, the way his hands flexed nervously. Weakness. Fear. Knowledge.
"Where do these enforcers come from?"
"From the east, always the east. They patrol in pairs, three at a time, sometimes four if they suspect disobedience. Outside the village, they camp near the river bend. At night, they move silently… marking doors, checking symbols, ensuring compliance."
Takaya processed the information, mapping patrol routes mentally: the main roads, blind corners, hidden paths, likely rendezvous spots. Each detail added to a mental lattice of strategy and risk.
"And the villagers?" he asked softly. "Do they ever resist?"
"Some whisper. Some hide. Most obey. Those who resist… disappear. The enforcers do not tolerate hesitation."
A shiver of tension traveled through the chapel. Takaya realized that the Covenant's hold was not just superstition—it was active, organized coercion. The priest's confession confirmed it: fear enforced through both doctrine and armed threat.
Takaya's eyes lingered on the weak wooden rafters above, imagining how quickly the village could burn if any misstep occurred. He said nothing, storing everything in silence, weighing what the priest had revealed.
"Follow me outside," the priest finally whispered, voice trembling slightly. "I can show you where they camp… and how close the danger truly is."
Takaya's expression remained unreadable, but the Veyl's voice murmured inside his mind, cynical and sharp almost proud
"Look at you now, saving this village. How quickly misery shapes one. You really have come so far in these three months."
Takaya said nothing, letting the thought hang. He had enough to plan, but the stakes were far higher than he had imagined.
The priest's shoulders sagged further, the weight of years pressing visibly on him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely above the rustle of the fog outside.
"They told me… deliver or the whole place burns in seven days."
Takaya's eyes remained fixed on him, unreadable, but his body tensed subtly. He could sense the gravity, the real immediacy of the threat—not abstract doctrine, not superstition, but concrete violence waiting just beyond the village borders.
"I did what I could," the priest continued, hands clenching the edge of a pew. "I begged, I bargained… for mercy. My daughter, Chloe… she was the first. I thought… if I offered her, maybe the others could live."
His voice cracked, trembled with the memory. A fleeting shadow crossed his eyes—a grief too long held in silence. Takaya didn't flinch. He simply observed, letting the weight of the confession settle in the chilly chapel air.
"If you remain," the priest said finally, desperation threading his tone, "at least… don't let them die. I cannot stop what comes next, but perhaps… perhaps you can."
The words hung between them, heavier than stone. Outside, the village was silent, fog curling along narrow streets like a warning. Inside, the priest's plea etched a fragile line of trust—deliberate, earned, and terrifying in its implication.
The Veyl's voice whispered in Takaya's mind, sharp and mocking:
"What a joke."
Takaya's jaw tightened. Without thinking, he muttered under his breath,
"Can't you shut the f**k up for a while?"
The priest flinched, eyes widening.
"I—what? Did you… what are you saying?"
Takaya's eyes narrowed, realizing the misunderstanding, but he said nothing. Outside, the village lay still, fog curling along narrow streets like a warning. The chapel held its fragile tension; the priest's plea lingered, heavier than stone.
The Veyl snickered in Takaya's mind, sharp and cynical:
"Perfect. You scared the guy half to death without even lifting your ass and that's impressive."
Takaya's eyes met the priest's, steady, unyielding. His voice was low, firm—not meant to impress, not to threaten, simply to declare.
"I won't let them die. Not on my watch. You don't have to trust me, but know this: if you leave them in my hands, they survive. I won't bargain their lives for anything."
The priest's shoulders sagged, a mixture of relief and disbelief passing over his features. He wanted to speak, to beg or plead again, but the words caught in his throat. Takaya's certainty filled the space the priest's fear had occupied, like a weight pressing down gently, insistently.
Outside, the chapel's stones seemed colder, the fog curling tighter around its edges, and for a moment the world itself held its breath.
The Veyl's voice coiled in Takaya's mind, mocking, "Aww, look at you. Such a hero.".
Takaya ignored it, focusing instead on the priest. There was no time for commentary, no room for hesitation. The promise he made was not for honor or praise—it was necessity, and he felt its weight anchor him in the silent chapel.
The priest leaned closer, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves had ears. His eyes darted toward the empty pews and the shadows pooled at the corners of the chapel.
"There are a few who will act if asked carefully… quietly," he murmured. "A stone bridge to the west—it can be sabotaged to slow them. The cellar beneath the bakery hides a dozen, maybe more. And the chapel… the small back entrance leads into the alley."
He handed Takaya a small bundle: a tarnished iron bell, a brass key, and a folded list of households that quietly defied the Covenant's terror. The priest's hands trembled as he gave them over, as if every second held the weight of inevitable failure.
"The foundation here… it won't survive combat. No fight inside, Takaya. You understand?"
Takaya nodded, scanning the notes. Blink runes. Short-range teleporting soldiers. One veteran commander rumored to command respect, ruthless. Every detail mattered, and the priest's fear was carved into every word.
"I ask discretion," the priest said finally. "If they suspect… I will die. All the quiet work, all the children we've saved… it ends if I appear to oppose them. Your cooperation is the only cover I have left."
The fog pressing outside seemed heavier, curling around the chapel's edges, as if anticipating the storm to come. Takaya felt the tension in the priest's frame, a mirror of the stakes they now shared.
Takaya crouched near the edge of the alley, observing the children as they shuffled from their hiding spots toward the granary. The air was thick with the scent of stale bread and the faint tang of damp stone.
"Here," he whispered to a small boy, pressing a hand against his shoulder. "If anyone comes, freeze. Step into the shadow. Count three heartbeats before moving again."
Aelna nodded from a nearby corner, quietly guiding another child through a narrow back path. Takaya moved between them like a silent tide, showing subtle hand signals: stop, wait, shift. Each gesture communicated volumes, leaving no room for panic.
The village Itself seemed to bend to their rhythm. A mother left a small bowl of rice at the base of a wall near the hiding cellar. A man, eyes darting, whispered a quick confirmation as he passed a child along a covered alley. Slowly, Takaya realized a network was forming—subtle, efficient, unseen. Coordination without speech, defiance without exposure.
Even the fog seemed to cooperate, curling along walls and between roofs, masking their movements. Narrow alleys became arteries of safe passage, routine adjusted to minute details: patrol timings, the sound of distant doors, the scent of morning fires. Each child, each adult, each shadow was accounted for, rehearsed.
By the end of the day, Takaya stepped back onto the main street and watched the children move seamlessly, slipping between adults and alleys. The village still felt tense, silent, but beneath it a heartbeat of quiet resistance had taken root.
The night pressed in, thick and slow. Takaya moved along the village's edge, the torchlight dimmed behind his sleeve to keep from drawing eyes. Each step took him past the points the priest had marked — the collapsed cellar, the hidden passage beneath the chapel, the rope snare by the stone bridge.
Crickets rasped somewhere distant, swallowed by a silence that felt too complete. Beneath that quiet, a faint hum threaded through the soil — something deep under the hills, alive or ancient, he couldn't tell. It vibrated just enough to make him pause and glance toward the horizon.
He tightened his cloak. His hands still remembered Eri's laugh, Lira's smile before it faded from reach. The thought made his chest tighten, but not with sorrow — with direction. This wasn't a skirmish or a simple culling. The Covenant wasn't hunting bodies; it was pruning hope.
He finished the last inspection by the chapel's back entrance, adjusting a tripwire. The air hung unmoving. From afar, Duskrend slept as if nothing had changed.
But in the stillness, the night seemed to hold its breath. And somewhere past the hills, the thunder that would shatter it was already forming.
The next morning came without warmth. Takaya sat by a small table in the cellar, a single lantern spilling muted gold across scattered notes.
He laid out his thoughts like blades.
Routes: marked.
Fallbacks: timed to minutes.
Distractions: smoke jars, sand caches, the bell signal.
He feared — he admitted that. The children's faces made sure of it. But fear sharpened, not dulled. It forced precision. No wasted gestures, no rash heroics.
The Veyl said nothing. Watching. Measuring. For once, its absence of voice was not mocking, only present — like a dark mirror held just behind his shoulder.
Takaya leaned back against the wall, listening to the drip of water in the far corner. Every plan felt too fragile, every defense too thin. But the alternative was surrender. And he had already chosen what kind of man he would be.
By dawn, Thalen was washed in gray. Mist coiled along the rooftops, clinging to the quiet like breath that refused to fade. Takaya stood near the village gate, cloak drawn, eyes on the far road.
At first it was only dust — a faint column rising where the land met the horizon. Then the faint metallic rhythm began to bleed through the air. Measured. Rehearsed. Marching.
The Covenant was coming.
He didn't move. The light touched his face, cold and pale. Behind him, the village still slept under the illusion of calm. Ahead, inevitability gathered momentum.
Takaya's hand rested on the wooden stake at his belt. His voice, when he spoke to no one, was quiet and even.
"Then let's see who breaks first."
The sound of boots carried on the wind — steady, growing.
And Thalen waited for the storm.