? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  “Looks like we’ve lost them,” Odd said quietly, glancing back.

  The group halted in a sparse thicket where pale spring sunlight filtered through bare, leafless branches. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of rotting leaves, wet bark, and lingering anxiety. Having put enough distance between themselves and the city, they sat on a moss-covered fallen tree to catch their breath and decide their next move.

  “So, what do we do now?” Brenn sighed, wiping his forehead with a grime-stained sleeve.

  “If it weren't for me… you wouldn't be running,” Violetta whispered, her eyes fixed on the forest floor.

  Brenn gave her a friendly nudge with his shoulder.

  “Drop it. We already settled this.”

  “Besides, can we really leave our 'goddess' in the lurch?” Tillo smirked, gently placing a hand on her head. Violetta’s hair was disheveled, a small twig snagged in the strands.

  Irellis frowned, gazing pensively into the distance where snow-capped mountain peaks shimmered beyond the trees.

  “We could try to reach the Great Forest…”

  “The one that requires passing right through the shadow of the Capital?” Odd interrupted, narrowing his eyes.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” the elf asked, meeting his gaze squarely.

  “I do…” Brenn muttered, his face darkening.

  “And what would that be?” Tillo asked warily.

  “I know a way through the mountains that bypasses the capital. There’s an old pass… hasn't been used in years, but I lived in those parts once. The road is grueling, but it’s free of Imperials.”

  “Through the mountains?!” Irellis cried. “Through dragon territory? Have you lost your mind?!”

  “I know where it's safe. If we stick to the northern ridge, the chances of running into them are slim…”

  “No, absolutely not,” Tillo waved him off. “Entering dragon lands is suicide. We might not see a dragon, but the wyverns...”

  Violetta raised her hand like an obedient student.

  “I killed a wyvern,” she said flatly, without a hint of bravado, as if stating a mundane fact.

  The group fell silent. Even the wind seemed to die down, listening.

  “You did what?!” Tillo exploded.

  “Well, with this...” In the air above her palm, a thin, shimmering needle appeared—metallic, glinting with a sheen that seemed to drink the surrounding light. It spun, trembling like a predator before a pounce. “I showed you this yesterday… I made them, only larger and…”

  With a flick of her wrist, the needle whistled through the air and slammed into the trunk of a nearby pine. The tree, pierced clean through, groaned, cracked, and toppled over, kicking up a cloud of frost, bark, and dirt.

  The forest went still. Even the wind ceased its rustle among the branches. Only their gazes—heavy as stones—remained fixed on Violetta.

  “Ha!” Brenn shouted. “If our little one can fell trees with a glance… maybe we can handle a wyvern. And a dragon, if we’re lucky. But the Imperial army? That’s something you don’t joke with.”

  Odd merely sighed and nodded, his face remaining stone-cold. Irellis shifted her gaze from Violetta to the fallen pine, still swaying in the wind.

  “Fine, Brenn. You win.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me…” Tillo groaned, looking up at the sky. “Fine… alright, but I’m going to regret this. I’m definitely going to regret this!”

  Brenn slapped him on the back, a faint, weary smile on his face. “What, were you planning on living forever?”

  “Cursed jester…” Tillo muttered, but there was no malice in his voice—only the exhaustion and warmth shared by those who have walked through hell together.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Weeks of travel blurred into a monotonous grind of fatigue. The scents of spring were gradually replaced by summer heat. The air grew heavy and sticky, as if the sun itself was trying to sear away memories of their former lives. When the group reached the former dwarven domains, a vision of forgotten majesty unfolded before them: stone stairs, worn smooth by centuries, climbed the slopes, flanked by the ruins of structures choked with ivy and moss. Lichens, like sores on the skin of the mountains, crawled over the grey stone, hiding the remnants of bas-reliefs and histories.

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  Their path lay through a gorge—the site of the former city of Karum-Dag. Stone arches, like the ribs of a colossal dead beast, stretched along the cliffs. Where hammers once thundered and steel was poured—now there was only the wind. Ash, fused with the earth over the years, remained the sole reminder of the lost greatness of this place.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Brenn walked ahead in silence, but his eyes flared as he touched the face of a defaced bas-relief—nothing but empty sockets where eyes should have been. Nearby lay a charred tapestry, destroyed by fire, yet the Imperial stamp—[REQUISITIONED BY ORDER OF THE PREFECT]—was still legible.

  “Right here,” he grunted through clenched teeth, “my father sold his first sword. And over there, I saw silver for the first time, back when it still glowed with heat. Master Vorgrim laughed then: 'Remember, boy, metal must sing, not scream.'”

  His voice broke. He looked at a shattered gate where a marketplace had once stood. Only iron rings remained, protruding from the walls—where mountain goats used to be tethered. Now, they were just rusted hoops in stone, abandoned and forgotten.

  “They didn't just burn it. They hammered at our memories, trying to make us forget who we were.”

  Irellis clenched her fists. “It was the same with our forests. They didn't just exterminate… they mocked us.”

  Brenn stopped by the sealed entrance to the Temple of the Stone Circle and spoke softly. “They took my sister. Said she had 'potential for Imperial service.'”

  He went silent. The stone on the door cracked under his fist.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Tillo stopped.

  “Look...” He pointed to a solitary tree that had burst through the stone plaza. From its branch dangled an old rope—darkened, rotted. At the top, it remained intact, the knot still holding. But the bottom was frayed and split, as if devoured by time.

  “What is that?” he asked, frowning.

  “What do you think?” Violetta replied, her voice dry as ash.

  “This was a dwarven settlement,” Odd reminded him.

  “The level of the knot,” Violetta said. “It’s at the level of your neck.”

  Tillo shuddered. His eyes darted back to the knot—and stayed there, as if unable to look away.

  “I bet they laughed. Said something like: 'If only you’d been born human—you’d still be alive.'”

  His gaze flicked to Brenn. Then back to the tree. Imagination filled in the blanks. Tillo’s face contorted; he covered his mouth with his hand, stumbled aside—and retched. He couldn't even conceive of such cruelty. It didn't fit in his mind.

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  Not far from the ropes, in the middle of the stone plaza, stood a gonfalon—slumped as if in defeat. At its peak, a faded Imperial flag with the Church symbol fluttered, torn by a wind that had long since ceased to carry hope.

  Below it hung a wooden plaque, blackened by moisture. The letters were barely legible:

  “These lands were Purified according to Imper…

  …Through Purification—to Unity.”

  Below that were scratches and text distorted by age. Odd spoke calmly, without emotion—as always.

  “Purified...” he repeated. “Of its inhabitants.”

  “And of life,” Tillo added. “Bastards…”

  “They don't want the bodies,” Irellis said. “They don't want death. They want us to thank them for the chains.”

  ? ─── ?? ? ?? ─── ?

  They found a house with an intact roof, the only one on the street still holding together. The silence here was hollow. Only the wind occasionally burst through the shattered windows, whistling through the cracks like a soul trapped in a place where even death refused to take it.

  The home was a place of mockery.

  Beneath their feet lay a layer of dust mixed with ash. Old floorboards groaned, and something scratched beneath the ceiling—maybe a rat, maybe just a shifting beam. In a corner lay a rotted shoe with child-sized laces.

  Pale light seeped through the gaps in the rotting roof—dead, devoid of warmth. A smashed door lay to the side, bearing the indentations of heavy boots, as if it had been kicked out along with its owner.

  Even a wooden pipe had been snapped. Where a family tapestry once hung, only a torn nail remained with the inscription: “Vermints.” What they couldn't steal, they broke. What they couldn't break, they defaced with their own names. Like dogs marking territory.

  In the center of the room sat a black cauldron where stew once simmered; now it was filled with baked human excrement. Flies swarmed over it, a thick, lazy cloud that only took flight when someone drew too close.

  On the soot-stained wall, right beneath an icon, words were carved with a knife:

  [WHO TOLD YOU THAT YOU DESERVE HAPPINESS?]

  The letters were deep and jagged, as if the blade had trembled in someone’s hand. Around them were small splatters of dried, ancient blood.

  In another room hung a shredded canvas. Where the sun had once been in the painting, an Imperial crest had been crudely carved with harsh, caricatured lines.

  Irellis stood like a statue.

  “Is it always like this?” she asked, not turning her head.

  Tillo was silent, his gaze vacant. Only Odd spoke softly.

  “I’ve seen this before. In another house. Another city. It’s always the same handwriting.”

  Brenn ran his fingers over the carved letters. The skin on his fingertips trembled as if touching a raw wound.

  “We lived. We didn't fight. And for that, we were given war.”

  “But the real blow was always here,” he tapped his chest. “Because after this, you start to believe that maybe… you really don't deserve it.”

  Irellis suddenly grabbed the cauldron and, without a word, hurled it out the window. It clattered against the stone and shattered.

  “Disgusting,” she whispered with contempt. “This isn't memory. We are the memory.”

  Violetta approached the wall, staring at the carved inscription for a long time. Her eyes didn't glisten with tears—but with something deeper, something icy.

  “I’ve seen something like this…” her voice was hollow. “War is peace. Freedom is slavery…”

  She smiled. Not a happy smile. The kind of smile worn by those who have reached the edge, looked down, and remained standing.

  Worlds change, she thought, but the real monsters are always the same.

  Sometimes they have names. More often—uniforms. Most often—power.

  Not because of what happens… but because stories like this are not only fiction.