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Between the quiet rhythm of breath, there lingered a warmth too faint, too strange for the last memory to make sense of.
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She sat by his side in silence.
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In that moment of stillness, Sillion listened to the world beyond the room’s hush—the whisper of wind rustling the branches, birdsong from somewhere afar, and the gentle crackling breath of the hearth.
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It was by that warmth that Sillion slowly opened his eyes.
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And for a long while, he simply lay there.
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A ceiling unfamiliar, a peace unaccustomed.
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All was calm. All was quiet. And yet that very peace felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else.
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He closed his eyes gently—and opened them once more.
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Where…
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“…How long have I been here?”
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A soft voice, careful yet sincere, reached him from nearby.
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“Are you all right?”
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She tilted her head gently as she answered her own question.
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“This is the third day. When I first found you, you had no consciousness. Your body… it was cold. I truly thought you were dead.”
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Everything was still too hazy to comprehend. Sillion gazed at her in silence, then slowly, almost unconsciously, gave a nod.
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At her words, his eyes drifted downward.
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It was the first time in this journey that someone had spoken to him.
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Even now, he needed time to believe that he was, in fact, still alive.
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He turned his eyes slowly around the room, and cautiously parted his lips.
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He was alive. And yet the silence was so thick, it hardly felt real.
And then—within that hush—the truth welled up from beyond the warmth: he was breathing.
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“…Thank you.”
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He spoke in a low murmur. It was the whisper of one who had survived, and a quiet gratitude offered to the one who had reached out to pull him back to life.
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Gently, Sillion tried moving his fingers. There was a dull numbness in them.
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Then came a sudden ache, deep in his forearm.
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He turned his head with effort. His arm was wrapped in bandages—and beneath them, faintly, remained a mark.
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It wasn’t the trace of a blade. It was something carved, something like a brand that could not be undone.
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He had not borne that mark when he left the gates of the citadel.
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As he stared in a daze, she spoke again, gently.
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“That… that wound—do you remember it?”
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Sillion could not answer.
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The memories of that dream scattered like mist. And in that mist, only the final moment still shimmered faintly—
The wind over the ash, the long-lost language it carried, and a voice whispering from some unseen place.
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But the warmth beside him now drew him back to the world.
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“…What is your name?”
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Sillion hesitated for a breath, then replied, as if drawing the word from far away.
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“…Sillion.”
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“And this place… where am I?”
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“You’re in an inn. My family runs it.”
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“I was out in the woods gathering firewood when I found you. Your body… are you truly all right?”
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She reached out, placing her small hand against his brow.
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It was a morning full of light. Like sunshine filtering through leaves, her touch fell upon him with a gentle grace.
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Without meaning to, Sillion leaned into that touch, reassured.
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He let out a quiet breath, and tried to sit up. But his body, still too heavy, refused, and he sank back down.
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“You mustn’t! Your body’s not healed yet.”
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Her hand, warm and soft, pulled the blanket gently over him again.
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As the warmth cradled him once more, he felt a sudden thirst.
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She smiled and offered him a cup of tea.
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“This has honey in it. It’ll be good for you.”
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He accepted it with care. The warmth in his fingers felt almost like someone holding his hand.
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“I’ll go downstairs for a moment! Please, just rest.”
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She stepped out, hair swaying like light, and left the room.
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“I see you’re awake.”
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A deep, unfamiliar voice filled the room. A broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, his eyes on Sillion.
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“How’s your body holding up? When my daughter said she found someone collapsed in the woods… I was shocked. Get plenty of rest. If you need anything, just ask.”
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From downstairs came the faint splash of water, the sound of women’s voices.
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“She came in just yesterday, too. Seems about your age. Might get along well, who knows. I’ll leave you be.”
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With a hearty laugh, he turned and exited the room.
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It was a short exchange, and yet, oddly, Sillion felt something fatherly in the man’s presence.
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He stared at the door for a while, then slowly turned his gaze toward the hearth.
The flames flickered small and steady.
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A strange inn. Strange lives.
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And upon his lips, faint and rare, a smile formed.
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As warmth settled in his body once more, the sun relinquished its light, and the cold hour of the moon crept in.
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The girl, whom he had seen earlier, knocked gently. She opened the door only slightly and peeked in, her voice soft but clear.
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“Are you feeling alright? Nothing uncomfortable, I hope?”
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Sillion turned from the window and met her gaze, his voice as quiet as the moonlight.
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“Yes… thanks to you, I feel much better.”
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Relief bloomed upon her face, followed swiftly by a quiet joy that lit her eyes with even greater warmth.
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“That’s good to hear! If you need anything—anything at all—just call. Sleep well.”
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Her face disappeared behind the closing door, which thudded softly into place.
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Through the window, the moonlight flowed in—casting a pale, bluish glow across the room.
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Lying there beneath the blankets, embraced by the lingering warmth, Sillion turned his thoughts back to the seven days before. And to the moon, he asked quietly,
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“Will I be able to do this…?”
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Silence stretched beneath the moonlight—long and unwavering.
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Then, from somewhere within that stillness, a voice arose. Low and distant, cold yet familiar.
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“You will.”
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Startled, Sillion looked about, but strangely, he felt no fear. Instead, he lay back down, as though the voice were part of the air—present yet untouchable, like moonlight.
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“But… I’m not perfect.”
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The voice did not answer at once. Like dew sinking into petals, a faint laugh lingered in the quiet before slowly dissolving.
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“No one is perfect. Not even the gods.”
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Sillion’s lips parted, searching for a reply. But no words came. He closed his eyes in silence.
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The final words, spoken barely above a whisper, carried a chill and a strange tenderness.
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“…Sleep well.”
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And with that single phrase, the voice vanished. Nothing more followed.
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For a while, Sillion stretched out his hand into the moonlight spilling through the window, then let it fall back into the warmth of the bed. His breathing slowed, steady and calm, as his soul drifted gently into the dreamworld of the moon.
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Stars of many heroes had fallen. The morning star had dimmed. And now, even the moon had given way—
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Until at last, the red sun rose again, brushing against the curtains of his room and caressing his face like the soft hand of a gentle woman.
He leaned into the sunlight and slowly opened his eyes.