The soldiers were allowed time to rest.

  One by one, they washed their hands and mouths at the outdoor basin, scrubbing away dried blood and dust. The water ran dark at first, then slowly cleared. Some leaned heavily against the wooden posts, exhaustion finally catching up to them now that their guard was down.

  They were served food soon after.

  It came quietly.

  Not carried by Clarabelle, but by other cows—smaller, slimmer, their bodies closer to human proportions. They moved on two legs, heads lowered slightly, eyes avoiding direct contact. Their hands were steady, practiced.

  They were not like Clarabelle.

  They were not fully developed.

  But there was something there.

  A pause before placing bowls. A glance to see if anyone needed more. An understanding of sequence and routine. Enough intelligence to unsettle, not enough to speak.

  The food was warm.

  Real food.

  Grain. Vegetables. Thick slices of meat. And milk.

  After days of rationing and stress, the soldiers ate without hesitation. Some sighed openly. Others closed their eyes as they chewed, letting the simple act of eating remind them of something close to normal.

  The milk was rich—unnaturally so.

  It coated the mouth, heavy and filling. Within minutes, warmth spread through aching limbs. Bruises dulled. Small cuts closed. Tight muscles loosened.

  Veyor felt it too.

  The sharp pain behind his head faded. The pressure in his skull receded until it was only a memory. His vision cleared.

  For the first time in days, he felt… stable.

  Luken noticed the change.

  Soldiers took sweet time to eat till their stomach was full.

  No one can blame them, the food was tasty.

  After the soldiers done eating.

  Luken approached Clarabelle.

  “Our men will sleep in the barn,” he said casually, already planning defensive rotations.

  Clarabelle reacted instantly.

  “No., not the barn” angrily.

  The word cut through the room, sharp and loud.

  Every head turned.

  She froze, then seemed to realize how forceful she had been. Her posture softened. She drew in a slow breath.

  “How can we let our guests stay in such a dirty place?” she said, voice calmer now. “The house is empty. Why not take the rooms you prefer?”

  Luken hesitated.

  “We don’t want to burden you,” he said.

  “It’s nothing,” she replied immediately.

  Too quickly.

  “Now if you allow me ,I need to feed the animals,” she added, already turning away. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Ask them if anything needed.” She says while pointing towards two servants.

  She left the room.

  The soldiers exchanged glances.

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  Some remained cautious. Eyes lingered on doorways, windows, the staircase. Others smiled faintly, relief overpowering suspicion. They laughed quietly as they claimed rooms, voices echoing down hallways.

  “I’m taking the left room “ says one.

  “Not that one , I already told you that’s mine.” Replies another.

  They weren’t soldiers anymore.

  Not here.

  Most of them had been ordinary people before everything collapsed. They had jobs, routines, and lives that never involved weapons or combat.

  Fighting had not been a choice—it had been something forced on them by circumstance. The war, the mutations, and the chaos had pushed them into roles they were never meant to fill.

  For days, they had moved without pause, sleeping lightly and staying alert even when exhausted. Every place they stopped had been temporary, every moment of rest uncertain. Survival demanded constant awareness.

  But inside the farmhouse, that pressure eased.

  The walls were intact. The food was warm. There was light, water, and quiet. It felt closer to a home than anything they had seen in a long time.

  Without realizing it, they relaxed. Weapons were kept nearby, but grips loosened. Voices softened.

  For the moment, they allowed themselves to rest—something they hadn’t done in a long time.

  But Luken wasn’t comfortable with them sleeping alone—it was a tactical flaw he couldn’t ignore.

  Luken barked at them to pair up, ordering groups of three per room. They obeyed, but without urgency.

  Veyor didn’t join them.

  His stomach twisted.

  The fullness from the food had turned heavy, uncomfortable. His mouth tasted wrong. A faint nausea crept up his throat.

  He stepped outside without anyone noticing.

  The night air was cool, damp. The fields stretched quietly around the house, moonlight brushing the tops of grass and crops.

  But strangely there were no large cows near the farmhouse now.

  No animal to feed.

  None.

  The silence pressed in.

  It wasn’t peaceful.

  It was controlled.

  But Veyor was lost in his surroundings.

  Everything had happened too quickly. From the city, to the battle, to the march, to this place—it had all blurred together into a continuous movement without pause.

  He hadn’t been given the time to sit with his actions, to question the choices he had made or the role he had been forced into. Survival had demanded momentum, and momentum had stolen reflection.

  Most of his thoughts had always drifted backward, and only now did he recognize how damaging that had been.

  He wasn’t replaying specific memories—he was realizing that he had spent too much of his life trapped in what had already happened. While he kept turning to the past, the present kept moving without him, and the future remained untouched.

  He understood, standing there, that this habit had quietly ruined his chances to act, to change, to move forward. If he continued like this, nothing would improve. Thinking about the past had never fixed anything. What mattered now was what he chose to do next.

  As he stood outside the farmhouse, the quiet of the land pressed in on him.

  The farm was untouched. Organized. Peaceful. Crops grew in clean rows. Animals moved without fear. There was structure here—control, even—amid a world that had collapsed into chaos.

  It didn’t feel temporary. It felt maintained.

  For the first time since everything began, Veyor saw proof that peace wasn’t impossible.

  That order could exist again.

  The thought unsettled him more than the fighting had.

  If something like this could survive the disaster, then rebuilding wasn’t just a fantasy. It was achievable. Not through war or destruction, but through control, planning, and intention.

  Standing there, alone in the quiet, Veyor felt a decision form—not sudden, not dramatic, but steady.

  If the world could not return to peace on its own, then someone would have to force it back into shape.

  And for the first time, he considered that maybe that someone could be him.

  But something broke him out of thoughts.

  A sound reached him.

  Soft.

  Irregular.

  He stopped walking.

  It came again.

  Thin. Broken.

  Crying.

  His breath caught.

  A baby.

  The sound pulled something tight inside his chest. His heart began to race. His thoughts stumbled, scrambling for explanation.

  He told himself it was nothing.

  Then Clarabelle’s reaction echoed in his mind.

  No. Not the barn.

  The sound came again.

  Clearer.

  Veyor turned.

  The barn stood a short distance away, its shape dark against the moonlit field. A heavy lock hung on the gate, metal dull and thick.

  He approached slowly.

  Each step felt wrong.

  There was a small gap near the top of the doorframe, just wide enough to see through if he stood on the rail beside it.

  He did.

  He looked inside.

  The world tilted.

  Rows.

  Too many.

  Human were contained within narrow partitions—separated, organized. Men and women paired together. Their bodies thin. Their faces hollow. Eyes dull with exhaustion and fear.

  They didn’t had energy to even speak.

  Newborns lay near them.

  One with each pair.

  Clarabelle moved among them.

  Calm. Methodical.

  She lifted a newborn from one enclosure, then another. The movements were gentle. Almost practiced.

  Milk was given.

  To the mothers.

  To the children.

  Veyor watched in horror as the children changed.

  Not screaming.

  Not fighting.

  Growing.

  Swelling.

  Their bodies became heavy, unnatural—life accelerated beyond reason.

  Newborns turned into fat chunks of meat, trice their original size.

  His breath came in shallow bursts.

  Then the servants arrived.

  The smaller cows.

  They took the children away.

  Beyond a partition.

  Where sounds stopped.

  Then a sound of blade slamming into the table came, splashes of blood came from that corner.

  Veyor’s stomach heaved.

  Everything was clear to Veyor.

  The food.

  The meat.

  Was none other than human meat.

  His hands began to shake.

  This was a system.

  A process.

  A harvest.

  Harvesting of humans.

  Clarabelle paused.

  She tilted her head.

  Slowly, deliberately, she looked up.

  Straight toward the gap.

  Toward him.

  Veyor stumbled back, heart slamming against his ribs.

  He didn’t know if she had seen him.