The storm had turned into a light rain by morning. Gray clouds hung low and heavy, pressing down on the world like a tired sigh. Rain dripped from the eaves of houses and flowed along the cracked cobblestones. Even the birds were silent, as if the sky's gloom had seeped into their wings.
Rian Rosswick walked down the path with a familiar slouch in his shoulders. His long coat was darkened by water, and his bamboo hat kept the drizzle off his face. To anyone watching, he looked like just another wanderer, with mud on his boots and silence in his steps. But beneath the calm, something changed. He carried a weariness deeper than fatigue, a man accustomed to walking away, even from things he shouldn't.
The road behind him was painted with yesterday's blood. Faces already blurring in his memory. He had told himself they were fools for picking a fight. That it was just survival. But even in the quiet of the rain, the doubt lingered. He didn't flinch from killing. That was never the problem. It was the stillness afterward. The quiet that followed, where grief found a way back in.
He didn't flinch from killing. That was never the problem. It was the stillness afterward. The quiet that followed, where grief found a way back in.
It was the stillness afterward.
The quiet that followed, where grief found a way back in.
----
By noon, he found a village nestled between ridges and overgrown woods. It consisted of just a few buildings grouped together, partly covered by moss and time. Old signs groaned on rusty hinges. Shutters closed tight whenever strangers walked by. Even the livestock appeared too weary to care.
They called the place "Vaelbrook". The name was spoken softly, as if the wind might hear and remember that it had been forgotten.
The village looked like it had aged a hundred years in the last ten. Sloped roofs sagged under the weight of wet wood and decay. Ivy crawled up crumbling stone walls, as if nature were trying to reclaim what was left. Chickens clucked wearily in makeshift coops. Dogs lay curled in doorways, too familiar with strangers to bark. Smoke drifted from a few chimneys, pale and thin like old breath.
There was a small communal garden with a few patches of vegetables struggling to grow under gray skies. A cracked bell hung in the center of the square, its rope frayed and neglected.
It was the kind of place where hope faded away quietly.
Rian entered the square like a man who had done this way too often. The children looked through cracks in the shutters. The adults watched him with narrowed eyes and hands close to their weapons.
A man in a worn leather coat and a week's worth of beard stepped forward. His jaw was tense but not unkind. He looked at Rian for a moment before he spoke.
"Stranger," he said. "What brings you to Vaelbrook?"
"Just passing through. Looking for rest. Maybe a bit of work."
"Work, huh?" The man scratched at his beard, eyeing him. "You a bounty hunter?"
Rian shook his head. "Don't work for crowns. Just coin."
The man grunted and nodded slightly. "Name's Garron. I'm the chief of this place, what's left of it, anyway."
He extended his hand, and Rian shook it, firm but gentle.
Garron went on, lowering his voice as if he didn't want the houses to listen. "We've lost three people this month. They vanished without a sound, all near the old well."
Rian followed his gaze.
The well stood like a forgotten shrine—its stones cracked, its wood support crooked. There was something... off about it. The kind of silence that didn't belong to nature. A hush too still, too expectant.
He approached it slowly. Placed a hand on the cold stone lip and peered down.
Darkness.
Not the kind that came from lack of light.
The kind that stared back.
----
He didn't act right away. That wasn't his way.
Instead, he stayed. Moved through the village like smoke—quiet, steady, unnoticed if he wanted. He bought a stale heel of bread and some stew from the tavern. Spoke little, but watched how people shifted when he asked questions.
A bent old man sharpened a broken plow and murmured about cursed ground and dead gods. A widow with hollow eyes said she heard crying from the well at night, but when she looked, there was nothing.
Most just said the same thing: they went missing. No sign. No sound. No blood. Just gone.
He took mental notes. He didn't believe in curses. But he did believe in things worse than them.
The people here showed their grief in the way their shoulders slumped and in the deep lines around their mouths. Children played but did not laugh, and adults spoke in whispers even during the day. Each face had experienced too many goodbyes.
----
He was sitting by the square when the child approached him.
Freckles dotted her nose, her boots were muddy, and a scrap of ribbon was tangled in her hair. She approached quietly, uncertain whether to interrupt him. He stayed silent at first and just waited.
"You kill bad people ?" she asks him plainly.
Rian blinked. "Sometimes."
"My brother said so. Said you looked like a man who's done bad things too. Is that true?"
Her eyes weren't afraid. Just curious.
He thought about it. "Yeah," he said finally. "I have."
She tilted her head. "Do you still?"
Another pause. Then he told her "I try not to."
"Are you going to help the village?"
He looked at her. Something in her eyes reminded him of a time long ago. Another girl. He recalled a flash of red hair, a giggle, and small arms around his neck.
He blinked it away.
"I'll try," he said.
The girl nodded seriously. "Okay. Thank you, mister."
Then she turned and skipped off.
Rian sat there for a while longer, letting the rain soak into his boots.
The memory she stirred hadn't gone away.
And the darkness in the well still watched.
He didn't believe in fate.
But he had come to this place for a reason.
Even if that reason still had a face he wasn't ready to remember.