#keyalinvendel

~~ A short time after the scourge invasion ~~

He leaves what was left of Silvermoon City before dawn, slipping into the formation of volunteers and soldiers gathering near the gates. No one questions him, nor his age. There are too many faces, too many hollow expressions, too many people pretending they are going for practical reasons instead of personal ones. They say they’re searching for survivors, which was a partial truth. They are searching for their loved ones, and to see what remains of their homes, if anything at all.

It wasn’t a good idea, but what else could he do? What else did he have left?

The Scourge had not fully withdrawn from the woods, that much is clear even before they reach the outer treeline. The forest feels unsettling, too quiet in some places, then abruptly alive with distant movement that causes hands to tighten around weapons. The air carries the heavy, sweet-sick scent of decay beneath the sharper sting of smoke. Every snapped twig makes someone turn, and every shadow seems to shift a little too slowly.

When Tranquillien finally comes into view, it looks like something out of a fever dream. Dark and heavy smoke rises in uneven columns. Several buildings are still burning outright, flames licking through collapsed roofs and broken windows. Others sag inward, charred skeletons waiting for gravity to finish its job. The sky above the town is stained a sickening gray. It's worse than he had expected. Some buildings remain, a small win. Not enough to get his hopes up.

The group breaks apart quickly, voices calling out names, checking doorways, pulling at debris that might conceal someone still breathing. Keyalin does not call out, he doesn’t trust his voice not to break right now. He moves toward his neighborhood on instinct. He knows the path by heart, or he once did. Everything looks so different now. The road is coated in ash, soft enough that his boots leave distinct impressions. The outer line of houses, including his own, took the brunt of whatever swept through first. Several structures are reduced to little more than cracked beams and half-fallen walls.

He sees where his home should be before he allows himself to register it.

There is no house. 

There’s only the outline of foundation stones and a heap of collapsed timber still burning in its center. Heat rolls off the wreckage in waves, distorting the air around it. The front wall is gone entirely, the upper floor has caved inward, and what remains shifts and crackles as embers settle.

He steps forward anyway.

The heat forces him to squint, smoke clawing at his lungs. He maps his memories onto the ruin. Four steps in would have been the main room, five more, and he would have reached the table where they all sat and had meals. He can almost see it: the careful placement of silverware, the little projects his father would bring to the table, his mother bustling around to ensure everyone had enough food, and his sisters’ laughter filling the space.

Now there is only fire and ash.

A beam collapses inward with a shower of sparks, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too numb, nothing here feels real. Did he even survive? Was this some kind of nightmare limbo? He crouches near what should have been the center of the room, reaching carefully into the debris despite the heat. His fingers brush something metallic and he pulls it free, a warped fragment of what might once have been a tool. It bends under slight pressure, twisted beyond recognition.

He stares at it for a long moment before letting it fall back into the ash.

There are no bodies here. 

That thought lands heavily in his chest. What if they were alive? No. That was unlikely. What if they were still wandering out in the woods, no longer themselves? That was more logical. He swallowed the lump in his throat. His parents had insisted on staying longer. He had argued. He had wanted to remain too. He had wanted to protect what was theirs. He didn’t want to be left alone.

But he had left. He is alone.

The knowledge settles into him with a painful finality. He had obeyed. He had done what was asked of him. The logic doesn’t quiet the ache. Somewhere beneath the smoke and heat, beneath the ringing in his ears and the shouted orders from the road behind him, he can feel it: A futile yearning for one more ordinary evening in this space. One more lesson. One more shared meal. One more moment that had seemed so unremarkable at the time. One more anything.

Behind him, someone calls out sharply. There’s movement near the treeline, the threat is still present. The woods still hold things that will not stay dead. What if it was – no. He couldn’t think that way, not about them. 

He rises slowly and the roof gives way completely, collapsing into itself in a rush of sparks and embers. By morning, there will be nothing left but stone and ash. He turns away before the fire finishes consuming what remains. Ash clings to him as he steps back into the street, carrying the scent with him. 

He does not look back again. Behind him, Tranquillien continues to burn.