18

Two weeks had passed since the massacre.

The battlefield hadn't been cleaned. Murloc corpses littered the grounds around the Necropolis, their scaly bodies slowly decomposing beneath the gray, overcast skies. The stench of rotting fish clung to the air, stubborn and suffocating. Flies danced through the fog, and the once-lively clearing where children used to train and laugh now reeked of death.

Behind the Necropolis, a small grave lay hidden beneath shadowed earth—marked only by a dark, crude stone and a broken sword half-buried in the soil. Ishlar's body rested there, wrapped tightly in black cloth, buried by trembling hands with no proper rites or mourning chants. Only silence had seen him off.

Within the warehouse, the food supply was full. But it was not wheat or fruits or meat from a hunted deer. No. It was murloc flesh—stacked, preserved, and stored. Chunks of blue-green meat that made the children gag when they opened the crates. But they had no choice. Hunger didn't care about disgust.

The silence around the mansion was thick—like something invisible held the world still, strangling joy from the air. Even the wind barely moved the trees now. It was as though the island itself grieved.

Dorothy sat near the entrance of the mansion, her face pale and empty. Her hands were limp on her lap, wrapped in stained bandages. Her legs no longer responded to her will, her feet cold despite the fire nearby. A crude wooden wheelchair supported her frail frame, and one of the younger children gently pushed her back and forth to help her feel the wind, though she barely noticed.

The vibrant girl with curious eyes and fierce conviction—was gone.

Haben sat on a fallen pillar near the Ziggurat. His face was more gaunt now, his eyes darker, more hollow. Since the battle ended, he had spent every day near the Ziggurat. Sometimes meditating. Sometimes staring blankly at the dark fog that constantly spiraled around it. The whispers that came from the Ziggurat had begun to burrow into his mind, pressing promises and threats both sweet and venomous. But Haben didn't care. Not anymore. He just listened.

In the shadows of the courtyard, the remaining older children gathered. Three of them. They spoke in hushed tones, casting glances toward the Necropolis, where Vanthelis was last seen.

"…He should've died instead of Ishlar," one boy muttered. "That guy's supposed to be our leader? He didn't even do anything…"

"Shut up," another girl said, though her voice was weak, conflicted. "He did fight… He did his best…"

"The best? Ishlar fought with everything he had. And now he's in the ground while that coward hides and punches trees like some lunatic."

"Do you think… he even cried?" the third asked, voice trembling.

No one answered.

Vanthelis was gone. Not from the island—but from their sight. Since the day of Ishlar's death, he had vanished into the forest beyond the Ziggurat. Some said they saw him by the cliffs, others said he went to the waterfall. But every time someone tried to follow him, they were met with broken branches, bloodied bark, and eerie growls from the trees.

And there—deep in the woods—he was.

Vanthelis. Once a boy of noble poise and sharp eyes—now a figure of vengeance, a shadow that didn't rest. His hands were bruised and bloodied, his knuckles cracked from smashing against thick tree trunks. His spear had long since broken, replaced with sharpened bones tied to sticks.

He trained like a beast. Not with discipline, but with rage.

Each punch was a scream.

Each slash a cry.

Each gasp a memory.

Anna. Ishlar. Dorothy. His mother. His clan.

He had lost them all.

He no longer ate with the others. No longer spoke. He hunted murlocs alone, killing the stragglers that still roamed the outskirts of the island. He brought their corpses back silently, throwing them into the food pile without a word, before vanishing again.

The younger children feared him now. The older ones didn't know what to think.

At night, when the fog thickened and the mansion groaned, they heard him.

Training. Screaming. Breathing like a monster behind the trees.

They feared what he was becoming. But deep down, some of them—especially the younger ones—hoped he would return. Stronger. Fearless. Cold. Like Ishlar was. Like a leader. Like a king.

But the silence never gave them answers.

Dorothy's eyes blinked slowly one afternoon. She stared out at the trees and whispered, "Ishlar… why did you save us?"

No one could answer.

Haben heard her. But he didn't move. He was too deep in the whispers now. Too numb.

And far beyond the trees, by the cliff where the waves crashed and the sky always seemed darker—Vanthelis raised his arms again. His muscles ached. His bones screamed. But he didn't stop.