The next day, Rennan left, promising to get more resources and investment for Riku's business plans. With no major events, the small village of Elowen got back to its rather laid back style of life.
But that peace was shattered one hazy morning — when the sound of hooves and stumbling feet echoed from beyond the village gate.
"Someone's coming!" a young boy cried out from the watchtower.
By the time Barou and a few of the farmers rushed to the entrance, a small crowd had gathered — murmuring and shifting uneasily.
At the edge of the main road, where dust clung thick to the air, two figures staggered forward.
One was an elderly man, bent and trembling, his robes tattered and stained. His arms were wrapped around a limp, unconscious girl — her dress torn, her legs bruised and caked in dirt.
"Please," the old man rasped hoarsely, collapsing to his knees before the assembled villagers. His voice broke into a dry, choking sob.
"Please… save her. Save my young miss."
The villagers, though wary, did not immediately turn their backs.
They hurried forward — rough hands gentler than they looked — lifting the unconscious girl and helping the old man to his feet.
"Bring them inside!" Barou ordered. "Quickly! To the meeting hall."
Murmurs ran through the crowd, but no one refused.Elowen had long prided itself on kindness, on taking in those who had no home.
A makeshift cot was laid out, and the girl was carefully placed atop it.One of the elder women fetched a wet cloth and dabbed the dust from the girl's forehead.
The village's only doctor — a thin, bearded man named Orlen — bustled in moments later, dropping his bag at the girl's side.
"Let's see what we have here," he muttered, pulling out salves and tools.
But as he leaned closer, parting the girl's matted bangs, he froze.
Silence fell across the room.
Orlen leaned back — almost stumbled — his face suddenly pale.
With a trembling hand, he pointed to the faint symbol etched into her skin:a crescent moon wrapped in twisting vines.
The girl — no older than twenty— bore strange markings woven into the fabric of her torn dress. Her forehead bore the faint symbol of a crescent moon intertwined with a black vine — subtle, yet unmistakable.
Whispers burst forth like a dam breaking.
"Those marks—!"
"It can't be—"
"The Dark Temple…"
Orlen backed away, shaking his head.
"I won't touch her," he said sharply. "Not if she's cursed."
The kindness that had bloomed a moment earlier wilted into suspicion and fear.
The old man, noticing their retreat, dragged himself forward on his hands and knees — tears spilling freely from his faded eyes.
"Please… she is innocent," he croaked. "We have fled from… from persecution. We sought only safe haven. She's but a child—"
Barou frowned deeply. He knew that the Dark Temple had a reputation — much of it unsavory. Stories of blood rituals, night sacrifices, old magic whispered of in backroom tales.But the man before him was no warlock. No blade in hand. Only desperation clung to his bones.
Still, Barou hesitated.
In this world, even kindness could be a trap.
At that moment, a new figure pushed through the gathering crowd — Lysaria.
Seeing Lysaria come in, Barou quickly went to him.
"Lysaria, you came at the right time. What should we do? These two appear to be from the dark temple."
Lysaria's breath hitched as she took notice of the engravings on the unconscious girl's body.
"The Dark Temple's marks," she said sharply, spotting the girl's faint forehead sigil.Her voice, unintentional as it was, made the villagers stiffen even further.
A low murmur of anger rippled across the crowd as the Vestal from the church of light confirmed their suspicion.
"They bring calamity—"
"I heard they can curse a whole harvest just by stepping through a field—"
"The last town that sheltered their kind lost half its folk to sickness—"
"They'll poison the well next, just watch!"
"Kick them out of the village immediately."
The injured girl groaned faintly, shifting weakly in the old man's arms.
The butler — for it could be nothing else — looked up at them, tears streaming down his dust-streaked face.
"Please!" he sobbed. "She's all I have left! She is no priestess — no acolyte! Just a girl! I swear it upon my soul—"
He reached into his torn robes and pulled free a small, cracked pendant — the symbol of his house, not of the temple.
A family crest — not a cult mark.
But no one moved. No one dared.
Barou's face was tight with conflict.
Even Lysaria, who was known for her kind self, could not hide the hesitation in her gaze.
"You lot..."
The old man, seeing the wall of suspicion closing in, choked back a sob.
His voice broke as he cried out, not to the villagers, but to the empty sky above.
"I hope… I hope that when your hour of need comes," he rasped, "you remember this day. I hope you remember how mercy was crushed beneath fear."
Tears streamed down his weathered cheeks.
He turned to the unconscious girl, smoothing her hair once more, whispering so softly that only those closest could hear:
"I'm sorry, my lady… I promised your mother I would protect you... but this world no longer has a place for us."
He pressed a trembling kiss to the girl's forehead.
Suddenly, a dagger slid from his sleeve.
The villagers tensed, some reaching instinctively for weapons — but the old man did not raise the blade against them.
Instead, he brought the knife downward — swift and merciful. The dagger quickly slit the throat of the unconscious girl, resulting in a fountain of blood spraying from her throat.
The girl never woke.
"What are you doing - "
Before anyone could move, the old man drew the blade across his own throat in a single, final motion.
He fell beside her, his blood pooling and mingling with hers, two abandoned lives left cradled by the dust of an uncaring world.
Silence.
Only a deep, endless silence and the steady flow of blood remained.