Year 400,
Northern Valleys,
Duskrend
Dust rose around Takaya's boots as he limped along the dirt path, each step grinding into cracked earth. His cloak was torn, one sleeve half-burnt; blood had dried dark across his ribs, sealing wounds that still throbbed when he breathed. The Northern Valleys stretched out before him — a gray-green sprawl of hills and dying trees, ending where the river split the valley in two.
The air smelled faintly of wet iron. Wind tugged at his hair, whispering through the reeds.
From far ahead, faint plumes of smoke rose — the promise of fire, food, and human noise. Vel'Cain.
For a moment, he almost doubted it was real.
"Two weeks and you still breathe,"
Veyl murmured, voice curling through his skull like smoke.
"Maybe you're not entirely useless."
Takaya didn't respond. His throat was too dry.
He tightened his grip on the pack slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on the faint wooden outline of the town gate shimmering in the valley haze.
The wind shifted — carrying the scent of cooked grain and distant forge-fire. Civilization.
For the first time in days, Takaya felt something faintly human in his chest — a flicker of relief he almost didn't recognize.
After months of silence and blood, it almost looked like a dream — a world untouched by blood or ruin.
He stood there for a while, listening to faint sounds drifting up the slope — hammering from a forge, dogs barking, someone shouting over the market noise. It felt distant. Foreign. He had almost forgotten that people could sound alive.
The wind caught his cloak as he descended. Each step stirred dust around his boots; his breath was shallow, his legs unsteady. Still, something — hunger, instinct, maybe hope — kept him moving.
The wooden palisade walls loomed ahead, sun-bleached and patched with age. Two guards flanked the gate, leaning on their spears, their armor dulled by routine.
Their expressions sharpened when they saw him — a lone man, bloodstained, with eyes that didn't belong to travelers.
One stepped forward.
"Name?"
Takaya paused, throat dry.
"…Arthur."
The guard raised a brow. "Arthur, huh?"
Takaya dropped a few tarnished silver coins into his open palm.
Metal clinked softly.
The guard looked at them, then at him, and shrugged. "Welcome to Vel'Cain… Arthur."
The gate groaned open, spilling sound and light.
Takaya stepped through. The air changed — filled with chatter, the clatter of hooves, the smell of spice and sweat and bread baking somewhere close. Children darted between stalls, laughter rising above the din.
He walked past them all, silent and watchful, the noise of life pressing around him.
For a man who'd spent too long among ghosts, it felt almost unbearable.
Inside the walls, the world compressed into sound and color.
Narrow cobbled lanes twisted between timbered houses, their upper floors leaning like old friends. Steam drifted from cookstalls — thick with the scent of meat, pepper, and fresh bread. Someone laughed loudly nearby, the sound raw and human.
Takaya slowed, caught off guard by it all.
Horses snorted as carts rolled by, merchants barked prices, and the air was thick with the chatter of barter and gossip. Children weaved through the crowd, ribbons trailing behind them, shouting about some game only they understood.
The smell of food hit him hard — roasted lamb fat crackling on an open flame, bread dusted with salt. His stomach growled loud enough to make him wince. He almost laughed — almost.
He hadn't eaten real food in weeks. The hunger twisted between his ribs, sharp and alive.
He passed a smithy — the rhythmic clang of hammer and anvil ringing clear through the noise. Sparks danced in the air like fireflies, and the heat brushed his face as he walked by. For a moment, it reminded him of something — a forge, a face, a name long gone.
Veyl's voice cut through the haze:
"All this crap for what? Some food? You could've hunted a rabbit."
Takaya murmured under his breath, "Would've had to eat it raw."
"Then call it sushi, hero."
He ignored it.
The street opened up to a square, lined with vendors and taverns spilling laughter and smoke. Lanterns hung from ropes overhead, swaying in the wind. For a heartbeat, it felt like another world — loud, alive, and unscarred by what lay beyond the hills.
He stopped near a food stall, hand instinctively brushing the few coins left in his pouch.
The scent of meat and warmth felt almost holy.
For the first time in a long while, Takaya let himself breathe — really breathe.
Takaya found a spot at a small tavern near the market edge — just a few rough tables under a faded awning, lanterns swinging in the wind. The air smelled of char and grease, spiced smoke rising from a pit where meat turned slowly on an iron spit.
He sat alone at the corner, back to the wall out of habit. The tavern keeper — a broad man with a half-burnt apron — gave him the cautious once-over that all wanderers earned.
"Roast and bread?"
Takaya nodded, pushing a few tarnished coins across the counter.
"Ale too," he added after a beat.
The man grunted and went to fetch it.
When the plate came, it was simple — roasted meat, coarse bread, watered ale that smelled faintly of copper. But to Takaya, it might as well have been a feast.
He took the first bite in silence. The meat was tough, over-salted, yet warm. He chewed slowly — reverently — as though remembering how to eat. The taste grounded him, the heat of it reminding him he was still alive.
He ate like someone relearning a lost ritual.
The tavern around him hummed with life: laughter spilling from one table, a card game at another, a couple whispering too close. Somewhere outside, a lute played a crooked tune.
He watched all of it, quiet, detached — eyes tracing the movements of ordinary people who still had something to lose. A sliver of envy crept in before he could stop it.
The Veyl broke the moment, voice dripping with smug amusement:
"What, you want a wifey now, you pervert? I always knew you were one of those cool NEETs."
Takaya didn't even look up. He took another bite, slower this time, and muttered under his breath —
"Shut up."
The Veyl chuckled softly.
"Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your five-star peasant meal, hero."
Takaya's eyes drifted back to the crowd — the laughter, the noise, the living.
For a fleeting second, he felt something dangerously close to peace.
When the plate was empty and his coin purse lighter, Takaya stood, stretching the stiffness from his legs. The tavern's noise faded behind him as he stepped back into the street — the sun dipping low, painting the market in copper light.
He stopped a passerby — a thin man carrying bolts of cloth.
"Inn. Closest and cheap," Takaya asked, voice rough.
The man blinked, then pointed toward the western lane.
"Follow the forge smoke. Two streets past the well. Can't miss it."
Takaya nodded and started down the cobbled path, the clatter of hooves and chatter of merchants following him.
He passed a small forge — heat spilling out from the open doorway, iron ringing sharp. An old smith struggled with a crate of ore, the wood splintering under its weight. Without thinking, Takaya stepped in, catching it before it fell.
The old man glanced up, sweat streaking his beard, then gave a short nod of thanks.
"You look like someone who could use some money," he grunted, adjusting his gloves. "Help me out here tomorrow morning. Just after dawn."
He didn't wait for Takaya to answer — just turned back to the anvil, sparks blooming like fireflies around him.
Takaya lingered for a moment, watching the rhythm of hammer and steel. Then he exhaled softly and said to himself —
"Fine. Tomorrow morning."
The Veyl snorted.
"Ha. Look at you, working a job. Next thing you know you'll be paying taxes and overworking while being underpaid."
Takaya ignored him and kept walking, following the smell of smoke and bread toward the cheap inn at the lane's end.
The inn sat at the edge of the market street — half-rotted sign, one lamp still flickering. The smell of ale and damp wood greeted him at the door. The innkeeper barely looked up from his ledger when Takaya dropped a few coins on the counter.
"Room's upstairs. Last door on the right."
The stairs creaked beneath his boots. The small chamber was as promised — dusty, walls thin enough to hear the rain beginning to patter outside. But there was a fireplace, and the faintest hint of warmth.
He shrugged off his cloak, heavy with mud, and sat down beside the hearth. The silence felt unfamiliar — almost hostile.
For a moment, ash shimmered faintly in the air. Then, with a slow whisper, Solthar formed beside the bed — its black scabbard catching the firelight. The blade pulsed once, faint and alive, before falling still.
Takaya watched it quietly. He could feel the hum beneath his skin — not threat, not power, just presence. Like it was breathing with him.
He leaned back against the wall, the warmth of the fire painting gold along his face. The sound of rain grew steady, soft against the glass — a rhythm that dulled the ache in his body.
"Just one night," he whispered to no one.
The Veyl didn't reply — even it seemed to rest.
For the first time in weeks, Takaya closed his eyes without reaching for Solthar, without bracing for footsteps in the dark.
He slept — unguarded, human, and almost at peace.
For a moment, there is peace.
No pursuit. No whispers. No ghosts.
Only the hush of rain, the slow collapse of fire, and the quiet breath of a man who has forgotten what it means to rest.
The world beyond that room can wait.
For tonight — just tonight — Takaya sleeps, and the storm keeps its watch.