Footsteps into the Unknown

Velia breathes with quiet life.

The village is small but not lifeless—modest wooden houses with thatched roofs dot the landscape, smoke rising lazily from chimneys, the scent of salt and fresh fish mixing in the air. Children run barefoot through the uneven cobblestone paths, their laughter ringing softly against the sounds of daily labour. A woman with sun-worn hands washes linen in a wooden basin, a fisherman shoulders a net full of the day's catch, and an old man mumbles to himself as he sharpens a rusted sickle.

It is ordinary.

It is real.

And yet, to me, it is as foreign as Elias himself.

I have never seen a place truly lived in before. My body was made for a world like this, yet my mind holds no memories of it.

But Elias—he watches everything with the same distant calculation, a man studying a puzzle he doesn't yet know how to solve.

And, for once, he speaks first.

"We need information."

I glance at him, unimpressed. "That's obvious."

He smirks. "Then you won't mind if I do the talking."

I consider for a moment, then nod. I may have a warrior's instinct, but when it comes to this—this world, these people—I am utterly unarmed.

——

We approach a man unloading crates of fish near a wooden stall. His hands move with ease, skin browned from years beneath the sun, eyes sharp as he glances up at us.

Elias steps forward. "Excuse me."

The man doesn't stop his work, barely sparing him a glance. "If you're looking for a meal, you'll have to wait. My wife's selling dried fish later."

Elias shakes his head. "Not here for food. Just passing through. Looking to get our bearings."

The man finally sets the crate down, straightening. His gaze flicks over us—not with suspicion, but curiosity.

"You two don't look like simple travellers."

I stiffen slightly.

Elias, however, just shrugs. "We're new to this region."

The man wipes his hands on his tunic, tilting his head. "Newcomers, then. From where?"

Elias doesn't miss a beat. "Far from here."

The fisherman snorts. "Aye, I figured as much. No one from around here carries themselves like you two." He studies Elias for a moment longer, then gestures vaguely toward the village square.

"You'll find more folk to answer your questions near the inn. Stablemaster might have heard some news from passing traders."

Elias nods. "Thanks."

The man waves him off, already turning back to his work. "Just don't go asking the wrong questions. Some folk don't like strangers poking around."

——

As we walk away, I let out a slow breath.

"That went well," Elias muses.

I raise an eyebrow. "You mean he didn't demand we leave?"

He grins. "Exactly."

I roll my eyes, but I don't disagree.

We are unknown here. And the unknown is always met with caution.

Still, Velia is open—not hostile, not outright rejecting us. That alone is something.

——

The village square is livelier, if only slightly. A few market stalls line the open space, women exchanging gossip as they barter for fresh vegetables. A stable stands at the far end, its scent of hay and damp leather filling the air as a young boy brushes down a sturdy brown horse.

Elias looks around, thoughtful.

"This feels…" He trails off.

I glance at him. "What?"

His fingers flex slightly as if grasping for something invisible.

Then, slowly—"I don't know. Normal."

I tilt my head. "Isn't that good?"

He exhales. "It is. But it's—" He hesitates, shaking his head. "Never mind."

I frown but let it drop.

We continue toward the stable when, out of nowhere, Elias scoffs.

I glance at him, startled. "What?"

He huffs a short, dry laugh. "I just realised."

"Realised what?"

His expression is unreadable for a moment, then—soft, distant.

"My mum would love it here."

I stop walking.

Elias notices a second too late, turning back to me.

"What?" he asks, confused.

I stare at him. "Your… mother?"

He blinks. Then—realisation.

He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. That just came out, didn't it?"

I don't respond right away. Because, no—this wasn't just something that "came out."

This is the first real thing Elias has ever told me about his past.

His real past.

Not a player's past. Not a Black Spirit's past.

His own.

——

I step closer, folding my arms.

"You said she would love it here," I echo.

Elias exhales, tilting his head back toward the sky. "She likes quiet places. Simple places. This?" He gestures vaguely to the village. "This is the kind of thing she always talked about when she said she wanted to get away from everything."

His voice is casual. Too casual.

But I catch the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers curl just slightly into his sleeve.

This is not just an observation.

This is longing.

I watch him for a moment, then—carefully—I ask, "Is that why you don't like it?"

Elias falters.

Just for a second.

Then, his smirk returns—forced this time, small and bitter.

"Nah," he says lightly. "I just think it's funny. I never appreciated stuff like this before. Guess I never thought I'd end up in a place like this."

I don't believe him.

But I don't push.

Instead, I turn, looking toward the village ahead.

"It's not a bad place," I say quietly.

He hums. "Yeah."

Neither of us say more.

But I know this—

Somewhere, buried beneath his words, beneath his careless shrug and his distant tone—

Elias misses home.