CHAPTER 14 - THE DAY TROD DID NOT WAKE
Morning arrived without a sound.
There was no nightmare to jolt Zio awake. No sharp premonition piercing his chest. No warning from the world. There was no pressure in his mana core and no strange whispers from the forest.
There was only morning.
Pale gray light crept through the cracks of the wooden window. The hearth had long since gone cold, leaving behind gray ash and blackened charcoal. The air inside the house felt colder than usual, heavy with the dampness of last night's rain that had yet to fully fade.
Zio opened his eyes slowly.
He did not rise at once.
He waited.
He waited for the familiar sound of heavy breathing from the corner of the room. He waited for the short cough that always came before the sun fully rose. He waited for the dragging footsteps heading toward the hearth.
There was nothing.
Zio sat up.
"Trod?" he called softly.
No answer.
That was still normal. Trod often woke earlier than him, sitting outside, facing the forest, silent like an old stone waiting for time itself.
Zio stood and reached for his jacket.
Then he stopped.
Trod's bed was still occupied.
The old wool blanket covered most of his body. His shoulders looked slightly raised. Or at least, they should have been.
Zio took one step closer.
Then another.
"Trod," he called again, clearer this time.
He knelt beside the bed.
His hand lifted, hesitated, then touched Trod's shoulder.
Cold.
Not the chill of morning. Not the cold of the air.
A cold that did not move.
Zio pressed a little harder.
No response.
The chest did not rise.
It did not fall.
For several seconds, Zio did nothing.
His mind refused to assign meaning to what his eyes were seeing.
"Wake up," he said.
His own voice sounded strange to his ears. Too flat.
He shook the shoulder once.
"Wake up."
Nothing.
Zio drew in a long breath.
He placed two fingers against Trod's neck, just as he had learned from hunting. Searching for a pulse. Searching for life.
There was nothing.
Time stopped.
Not metaphorically.
It truly stopped.
Zio sat on the earthen floor, his hand still resting on cold skin, his eyes fixed on a point that did not exist.
He did not cry.
He did not scream.
He did not call for anyone.
Because a part of him already knew.
It took a long time before Zio moved again.
He closed Trod's eyes.
His movements were slow and careful, like he was afraid of disturbing someone's sleep.
"You always woke up first," he murmured. "That's not fair."
Nothing laughed.
Zio stood.
He opened the window and let the morning air enter. Then he cleaned the hearth. He lit a small fire. He did ordinary things.
Routine.
Because if he stopped, the world might collapse.
He changed Trod's clothes to the best ones they had. Not new. Trod never kept new clothes. Only the cleanest. The most intact.
Zio tied the old man's hair and short beard the way he always did.
Trod looked peaceful.
There were no signs of pain. No marks of struggle.
The old body had simply stopped, like a fire that had run out of wood.
Zio sat in front of the body for a long time.
He talked.
About small things.
About last night's overly salty soup. About the rain. About the rabbit that had been too thin.
He did not apologize.
He did not say goodbye.
Those words felt too final.
Near midday, Zio stepped outside.
The refugee village of Greyhollow was not large. A scattering of wooden and stone houses stood among the trees, built without design, only necessity.
People began to notice.
Not because Zio shouted.
But because Trod was not seen.
An old woman approached first.
"Zio?" she called carefully.
Zio turned.
"Trod didn't wake up."
The sentence was simple.
Its weight spread quickly.
There was no hysteria. The village had lost too many people before.
A few men came to help. They did not speak much. They only nodded and patted Zio's shoulder once.
Enough to acknowledge.
Not enough to intrude.
They carried Trod's body out of the house.
Zio walked behind them.
His steps were steady.
Yet every step felt heavier than it should have.
The burial was held that afternoon.
Simple.
A grave was dug at the edge of the forest, where Trod often sat watching the trees. There was no priest. No long prayers.
Only silence.
Zio stood closest.
When the body was lowered, something in his chest trembled.
Not mana.
Not pain.
Emptiness.
As if something that had always held his balance had suddenly been released.
He did not fall.
He just stood.
"Would you like to say something?" one of the villagers asked.
Zio shook his head.
If he spoke, he feared his words would sound insufficient.
The earth was filled in.
A simple stone was placed.
No long name.
Just one carving.
TROD.
That was enough.
That night, Zio was alone in the house.
The fire burned low.
The space felt too large.
He sat where Trod used to sit.
And realized something painful.
There was no voice left to correct him.
No one left to tell him to stop before crossing the line.
No one waiting at home anymore.
Zio closed his eyes.
For the first time since he could remember, he cried.
Without sound.
Without movement.
Tears fell onto the ground, soaking into the earth like a small rain no one would ever remember.
Inside him, something shifted.
Not awakening.
Not exploding.
But losing its restraint.
Strangely, the mana core did not rage.
It remained still.
As if it knew now was not the time.
The night grew deeper.
Zio lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"You said you'd wake up again," he whispered.
There was no answer.
But far beyond the village, in a place untouched by firelight, something that had been watching for a long time opened its eyes once more.
Not because of death.
But because the anchor was gone.
And a child was now truly alone.
End of Chapter 14