🎵: Dreadful Dirge, Rise of the Iron Will, Wellspring of Arcana

I can barely lift my feet as we trudge back to the village. Every muscle in my body screams in protest. My legs feel like lead weighs them down. Every step feels like I'm walking through thick mud, though the path is dry. My shoulders ache from the weight of my pack, and each breath is a struggle, as if the very air is pushing against me. The silence between us is deafening—worse than any Ratman's screech. I keep my eyes fixed on the ground, counting leaves, stones, anything to avoid looking up and seeing the space where Kira should be walking.

The weight of her absence presses down on me with every step, making each movement feel even heavier. I can feel Caius's hatred radiating back at me. He walks ahead with rigid shoulders, his hand clenched so tight around his staff that his knuckles are white. I don't blame him. How can I? Kira is dead because of me. I was sure I saw them—Ratmen emerging from the walls. But now... I thought I saw...

No. I saw them. I know I did. There were more Ratmen coming from the walls. Their red eyes gleamed in the torchlight, their claws reaching out, almost tangible in the shadows of my memory. I replay it over and over in my mind, searching for clarity, for some assurance that what I saw was real. The doubt gnaws at me, twisting in my gut.

"We should have stayed together in that room." Caius's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade. He doesn't turn to look at me, but he directs his words straight at my heart. "We could have formed a defensive line."

My throat feels too tight, but I force the words out, anyway. "There were more coming from the walls." Even to my own ears, my voice sounds weak, uncertain. "If we had stayed—"

"There was nothing there!"

Caius whirls around so fast I stumble back a step. His face—gods, I've never seen him look at me with such hatred. His eyes burn with fury, his lips pulled back in a snarl. We've only known each other for two days, but the intensity of our bond made it feel like a lifetime. Now he looks at me like I'm worse than the monsters we hunt.

"I was right there with you," he continues, his voice shaking with rage, "and I saw nothing. Nothing but shadows and your cowardice!"

The accusation hits harder than any physical blow. My legs feel weak, and I have to fight to stay standing. "I know what I saw," I insist, but do I? The memory that seemed so clear in the tunnels now feels like trying to recall a dream. "There were at least five of them, coming from the holes in the wall. They would have flanked us—"

"Liam." Caius turns to our friend, and my heart sinks further. "Did you see anything in the walls? Any sign of more Ratmen?"

I watch Liam's face, searching for support, for understanding. We've only known each other for a few battles, but those moments were intense, and I thought we had each other's backs. Surely he...

But Liam won't quite meet my eyes. "I... I was focused on the ones in front of us," he says carefully. "I didn't see the walls clearly."

The hesitation in his voice is like a dagger twisting in my chest. He doesn't outright deny me, but the lack of support is just as painful. The unspoken doubt hangs between us, heavy and suffocating.

"But you believe me, right?" I hate how desperate my voice sounds. "You know I wouldn't just..."

Finally, Liam looks at me, and the pity in his eyes is almost worse than Caius's anger. "I believe you think you saw something," he whispers. "And maybe you did. But Caius is right—none of us saw what you saw."

"Think you saw something?" Caius spits the words out. "He panicked. He got scared, feared the few rats remaining, and dropped Dash of the Daring, our escape song. Kira died because of it." He takes a step toward me, and I force myself not to retreat. "She trusted you. We all did. And your cowardly actions forced us to retreat."

His words echo in my head, mixing with the memory of Kira's last scream. Did I really see those Ratmen? Or did my anxiety, my ever-present fear, twist the shadows into monsters? Back home, before all this, I was the kid who triple-checked that the front door was locked before bed, who kept spare keys with three different neighbours "just in case." That caution made my parents feel safe, made them trust me. But here, in this world of actual monsters and actual life-or-death decisions, has that same careful nature finally betrayed us all?

The fear, the need to protect, it's always been there. It kept me vigilant, careful. But now it feels like a curse—an instinct that saved no one, that only led to destruction. "I didn't... I wouldn't..." The words tangle in my throat. The memory that seemed so clear is now clouded with doubt. I remember the fear, the overwhelming urge to run, but were there really more Ratmen coming, or did I just need to believe there were to justify my retreat?

Caius doesn't give me a chance to continue. "Save it," he cuts me off. "I don't want to hear your excuses." He turns to Liam. "I'm done. I won't risk my life grouping with someone who'll abandon their friends at the first sign of trouble."

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I look at Liam, my last hope, but I can see the decision in his face before he speaks. "Maybe..." he says slowly, "maybe it would be best if we took some time apart. Just until things... settle."

The betrayal steals my breath. Liam has always been the leader, our peacemaker. His taking sides, even gently, makes this feel final. I want to beg, to plead with him, to make him understand I didn't mean for any of this to happen, but the words lodge in my throat, trapped beneath the weight of my guilt.

The village gates come into view as the sun sets, but they bring no comfort. Home should feel safe, welcoming after a dangerous expedition. Instead, I feel exposed. Fear tightens my chest as I imagine the villagers' reactions, their judgment and whispers. The guards notice our reduced number immediately—I see the question in their eyes, the way they exchange glances. By morning, everyone will know.

We pass a group of children playing near the gate. They stop and stare, their eyes wide, their laughter dying on their lips. One of them, a little girl with braids, points at us. "Where's the lady with the red hair?" she asks, her innocent question cutting through me like a knife. I turn away, my chest tightening as Caius marches ahead, ignoring her.

"I'll report to the guildhall," Caius says stiffly. The implication is clear—he'll tell them it was my fault. And maybe he's right.

Liam hesitates, his shoulders slumping slightly as he avoids my gaze, his brow furrowed with that terrible mixture of pity and discomfort. His fingers twitch at his side, as if unsure whether to reach out or pull away. "Get some rest," he says finally. "We're all... we need time to process this."

I watch them walk away, feeling the distance between us grow into something vast and uncrossable. Villagers going about their evening routines seem to give me a wide berth. Maybe they sense the tragedy clinging to me like a shroud, or maybe word has already spread somehow about what happened in the tunnels.

I catch sight of Juna at her vegetable stand, her eyes widening when she sees me. She gives me a tentative smile, but it falters when she notices the others are gone. Her lips part, as if she wants to ask what happened, but I shake my head slightly, and she nods in understanding, her gaze dropping to her hands as she resumes arranging her produce. Even without words, the weight of her unasked questions adds to the burden I carry.

The walk to the inn passes in a blur. My feet feel heavy, each step echoing the hollow emptiness inside of me. I barely register Mara's greeting. Can't bear to see the concern replace her usual smile. The stairs to my room seem endless, each step requiring more effort than the last. My hands shake so badly I can barely work the key in the lock.

Inside my room, nothing feels real. The bed where I slept peacefully this morning belongs to a different person—someone who hadn't destroyed his friends' trust. Someone who hadn't gotten Kira killed. The walls seem to close in around me, the room too small, too confining. I drop my pack on the floor; the sound echoing in the silence, and I sink down onto the bed, my head in my hands.

The tears come without warning. One moment I'm standing, the next I'm on my knees, sobs tearing through my body like physical pain. I cry for Kira, for her bravery and her sacrifice. I cry for the friendship I've lost with Caius and Liam. But mostly, I cry because I don't know—I truly don't know—if I really saw those Ratmen or if my fear created them from shadows. The answer may never come, and that uncertainty might be the heaviest burden of all to bear.

I think of Kira's laughter, the way her eyes lit up when she spoke of her dreams. She aspired to be a hero, to save people, to make a difference. She trusted me, and I let her down. Her face haunts me, the memory of her last moments replaying in my mind like a broken record. I remember the way she looked at me, her eyes filled with fear and confusion, and I wonder if she knew—if she realized I was the reason she wouldn't make it out alive.

My chest feels tight, and I struggle to breathe, each sob making it harder to draw air into my lungs. Gasping desperately, my fingers dig into the bedsheets as the battle for control rages within. The weight of getting someone killed crushes down, leaving me lost on how to make amends or find any path to atonement. I think of the promises I made to my friends, the assurances that I would always have their backs. Those words now feel like lies, empty and meaningless in the face of what happened.

I don't know how long I stay there, on the floor of my room, lost in my grief. Eventually, the sobs subside, leaving a hollow emptiness in their place. With effort, I push myself up, taking a deep breath as I wipe my face. Staying here forever isn’t an option. Somehow, I have to keep moving, even if it feels impossible. This needs to be made right—for Kira, for Caius and Liam, and for me.

I walk to the window, staring out at the village below. The sun dips below the horizon, and lantern light bathes the streets. People move about, unaware of the turmoil inside me, their lives continuing as if nothing has changed. I envy them, their normalcy, their ignorance of the darkness that lurks beyond the village walls. The world moves on, indifferent to my pain, and I am left wondering how I fit into it now, how I could ever find my place again.

Turning away from the window, determination hardens inside me. There has to be a way to make things right. Kira's death can't be the end of my story, nor can it be the end of hers. I owe it to her, to the dreams she had, to make up for what I've done. I will learn, I will fight, and I will become someone worthy of the trust she placed in me. No matter how long it takes.

A soft knock at the door breaks through my dark thoughts. I don't answer, can't face anyone right now, but I hear Mara's gentle voice through the wood.

"Brendan? I've left some stew and bread outside your door. You need to keep your strength up, dear." There's a pause, then softer: "Whatever happened out there... well, just know you're not alone."

Her footsteps fade away, and I wait several minutes before cracking open the door. The smell of her famous vegetable stew hits me—warm, familiar, comforting in its normalcy. I bring the tray inside, setting it on the small table by the window.

Though my stomach churns with guilt, Mara's right. Starving me won't bring Kira back. It won't fix what happened in those tunnels. The only thing that matters now is what I do next. Slowly, I take a spoonful of the stew. The warmth of it spreads through me, a minor comfort amidst the pain. I force myself to eat, even though every bite feels like a betrayal of the grief that still claws at my insides.

Though failure weighs heavy from today's events, the path forward can't end here. The debt owed to Kira demands perseverance—learning from these mistakes and becoming someone worthy of her trust. Despite the long road ahead and the uncertainty of self-forgiveness, the attempt must be made. For her. For all of us. I have to honour her memory to make sure that her sacrifice wasn't in vain. And maybe, just maybe, in doing so, I can forgive myself too.