Two of them were lifting a small figure onto a wooden stretcher.
Face pale. Eyes closed. Hands folded.
And beside her was a child.
Hair matted. Hands stained. Knees scraped raw.
Staring at her fingers like they might still twitch.
Lindarion stopped walking.
The soldiers didn't notice him. Or maybe they did. But they didn't say anything. Just pulled the blanket back over the woman's body. Slowly. Carefully.
Ashwing let out a sound behind Lindarion. Not a growl. Not a chirp.
Lindarion didn't turn around. Just walked forward.
He crouched beside the kid, boots cracking faint bits of frost underfoot. The heat from earlier was gone now. All that remained was a dull, persistent thrum behind his chest. Like an echo of something divine trying to remember why it mattered.
He didn't touch the kid.
Didn't speak right away either.
Let the moment exist.
The boy's voice was hoarse when it finally came.
"She said we'd be safe here."
Lindarion stared at the hands. Tiny. Dirt under the nails. Blood crusted at the edge of one sleeve.
"She said they'd protect us."
Lindarion closed his eyes.
'What do you even say to that?'
No words worked. No title helped. No fire could fix it.
Didn't say it would be okay.
Didn't promise vengeance.
And after a while, said:
"She tried to fight."
Lindarion nodded. "That counts."
"They killed her anyway."
Ashwing padded closer. Pressed his warm side against the boy's back. The child tensed at first. Then relaxed. Just slightly. He didn't pet him. Just leaned.
Lindarion let the silence sit again.
The soldiers walked past with the stretcher. They didn't stop. Didn't bow. Just moved.
Because that's what grief looks like.
Small movements. Not heroic.
After a while, the boy's voice cracked again.
"Will they come back?"
Lindarion looked toward the treeline.
The sky that still hadn't healed.
The boy didn't flinch.
He just whispered back:
He reached out. Not to grab. Just offered a hand.
The boy didn't take it.
But eventually he stood too.
Ashwing followed them both as they walked back toward the square.
And the snow began to fall again.
Just enough to remind them that time, somehow, hadn't stopped.
The boy had followed.
No resistance. No trust.
Now, they crossed the square again, if it could still be called that. Blood and ash turned the snow to sludge. The lanterns swayed in the wind, guttering faintly, as if the night itself was tired of trying.
Ashwing stayed close, his steps oddly quiet. Like even he understood this wasn't a moment for noise.
Lindarion's gloves were still damp.
The heat from his affinity helped a little. But it didn't fix what soaked through.
They found Raleth near what was left of the town center. Bent over a piece of parchment held down by two broken blades and a burnt mug. One of the guards was speaking low beside him, pointing at the remains of a wall.
Raleth looked up as Lindarion approached.
His gaze caught the boy first.
Then dropped back to the boy.
Something in his shoulders shifted.
He dismissed the guard with a nod and stepped forward.
Lindarion stopped in front of him, let the quiet breathe for a beat, then said, low:
"He didn't say a name."
Raleth studied the child. No blood on him, but too much elsewhere. The boots were wrong for his size. Probably handed down. Or borrowed. The coat hung off his frame like it used to belong to someone who could still smile.
Lindarion added, after a pause, "His mother's dead."
Raleth's lips pressed into a flat line.
"She was already cold when I got there," Lindarion said. "He just… stood there. Didn't cry. Didn't move."
The boy still hadn't moved now. His hands were tucked under his sleeves, thumbs worrying at the frayed edge of the cuff. Brown hair fell messily over his brow, too long, cut blunt in the front like someone had tried to trim it with kitchen shears. His face was pale but not shaking. Not red from tears.
Raleth knelt slightly.
Not low. Just enough to speak level.
"Do you have a name?" he asked gently.
Lindarion rubbed the back of his glove against his scarf, more habit than anything. 'He's been through too much to remember the alphabet, much less introductions.'
"He followed me," he said, voice low. "Didn't say a word. Just moved after me."
Raleth nodded. "It's enough."
He glanced toward a pair of guards near the inn, then back at Lindarion.
"I'll have someone take him to the hall. He'll get food. A bed."
Lindarion looked down at the kid.
"I'll check on him tomorrow."
"You should rest," Raleth said.
Raleth didn't push it.
He just motioned to the nearest soldier, who approached slowly, crouching in front of the boy with the care of someone trying not to scare a wild animal.
"We'll take care of you," she said.
The boy didn't flinch.
But after a moment, just a moment, he stepped toward her.
Lindarion watched until the small form disappeared into the smoke-hazed shadows of the square.
Lindarion just exhaled. Once. Slow.
Then turned back toward the firelight.
'No name. No home. Just one more ghost we'll try to keep from fading.'
But because if he stopped moving he might start thinking.
And right now, that was a luxury no one could afford.