The gates of Eldris stood open, but the city beyond them was unrecognizable. Smoke still rose from the ruins, twisting into the sky like silent cries of the fallen. The once-proud walls bore the scars of battle, great gashes torn through stone and steel. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood and blood, and beneath it all, the suffocating weight of despair.


    Nyroth rode at the head of the returning party, his crimson eyes scanning the devastation with cold precision. His heart, however, was not as still as his gaze. He had seen war. He had seen ruin. But never had he seen his home brought to its knees, not for a long time.


    The streets were littered with debris—shattered homes, overturned carts, remnants of lives abruptly ended. Survivors moved like ghosts through the wreckage, their faces hollow, their eyes speaking of horrors that could not be put into words. Every step forward felt like treading through echoes of screams.


    But Nyroth did not linger. There was only one thought in his mind.


    Elian.


    He moved like a storm, brushing past those who called his name. His boots pounded against the broken stone, his mind racing through every possible place his son could be. The castle, the training grounds, the old watchtower. Yet, each place he searched was met with the same answer—he was not there.


    Then it struck him. The thought landed like a dagger to the heart.


    His mother’s graveyard.


    Nyroth''s breath caught, and he turned sharply, making his way beyond the ruins, past the outer streets, to the place where only memories remained.


    And there, beneath the twisted branches of a lone, withered tree, sat Elian.


    The boy did not turn as Nyroth approached. He sat before the gravestone, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes locked onto the name carved into the stone. The wind whispered through the stillness, carrying nothing but the scent of ashes and sorrow.


    Nyroth did not speak at first. He knelt beside his son, his gaze resting on the grave as well. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.


    “She would have been proud of you.”


    Elian exhaled sharply, a breath that was almost a laugh but too broken to be one. “I did it you know...I mastered it, at least for a while. After all this training with you, after all this hard work, I actually did it, and yet...I don’t even know if I deserve that.”


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Nyroth placed a hand on his shoulder, firm but not forceful. "You do. Your mother always believed in you, Elian. She saw something in you that was worth everything. Don''t let doubt take that from you. Remember, what happened to her... it''s not your fault son."


    Elian didn’t reply. He just sat there, letting the silence hold them both.


    "Father...could...could you leave me alone here for a while, please?"


    "Of course son. You know where I''ll be", placing a hand to his head messing with his hair before leaving.


    Elian gave a little smirk, before it faded away very quickly.


    Meanwhile, back within the ruins of Eldris, another figure had already come to his own decision about how to handle grief.


    Varrian stormed into the remains of the Drunken Crow, a once-bustling tavern that now bore the signs of battle. The walls were scorched, half the tables broken—but the barrels of ale, miraculously, had survived.


    With a smirk that cut through the gloom, Varrian grabbed a mug, filled it to the brim, and raised it high. He laughed greatly. "To still standing when the world itself wanted us gone!"


    A few wounded soldiers and disheveled patrons looked up. For a moment, the weight of sorrow held them down. Then, slowly, as if daring to feel again, someone lifted their own mug.


    “To surviving,” they echoed.


    It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t even happiness. But it was something. And in a city drowning in grief, something was enough.


    Away from the noise, in the quiet of the war-torn corridors, Siris found himself walking beside Dren. The younger warrior had been silent since their return, but Siris could see the weight on his shoulders.


    Finally, he spoke. “What did you see? In the dungeons?”


    Dren’s jaw tightened. He did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them before exhaling a breath he did not realize he was holding.


    Dren hesitated, his breath unsteady. "I saw a little boy running beside me… and then he was gone. But I knew him, Siris. I know it was my brother." His voice broke, his hands clenching into fists. "He died because of me. When we were young, we began to discover our power. I thought I could teach him, guide him, but I was reckless. An accident... I couldn''t stop it. He was gone before I even realized what had happened. And now, I see him. In the dark, in the silence. Always running, always just out of reach."


    Siris listened, his own expression heavy with something unsaid. He placed a firm hand on Dren’s shoulder, grounding him. "The past is cruel, Dren. It lingers, it haunts. But guilt does not honor the dead. You carry him with you, not as a burden, but as a promise. To be better. To keep going."


    Dren exhaled shakily, a tear slipping down his cheek. For the first time in a long time, he did not wipe it away.


    After a moment, he whispered, "How do you do it, Siris? How does the past not break you?"


    Siris was quiet for a moment before answering. "It does. But I carry it. I grow by it. And I make sure it never defines who I become."


    Ilara sat in the dim glow of her chamber, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a small, faded picture. The faces within it were a reminder of a life that had been stolen from her—a life that once held warmth, love, and promises that would never be fulfilled. The walls of her chamber felt smaller, pressing in around her as the weight of memories settled like an iron chain around her chest.


    A soft knock at the door broke the silence. She inhaled sharply, hastily wiping away the tears that had slipped down her cheeks. Before she could find the strength to speak, the door creaked open, and Nyroth stepped inside.


    For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Ilara’s breath hitched as their eyes met, and suddenly, the years fell away. The flashes of her past, of that fateful night, of the man who had pulled her from the wreckage of her old life—it had always been him.


    "I saw it, Nyroth... I lived it again. The single most horrific moment of my life. It was as if I was there all over again."


    She did not resist when Nyroth stepped forward and knelt beside her. He did not speak, did not try to offer empty reassurances. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, holding her as she broke down. Her body trembled, and for a moment, she allowed herself to cry—not as a warrior, not as a survivor, but as the girl she had once been.


    The silence stretched between them, heavy yet comforting in its understanding. Then, after a moment, Nyroth exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I still remember the first time I tried to train you. You were, without a doubt, the most stubborn recruit I''d ever met."


    Ilara let out a weak chuckle between her sobs, shaking her head. "You were terrible at teaching."


    Nyroth huffed a quiet laugh. "And yet, here you are." The weight of the night lingered, but for the first time in a long time, Ilara felt something lighter—something closer to peace. Outside, the ruins of Eldris remained, but within these walls, in this quiet moment, neither of them was alone