The village sat in the bend of a shallow river like a forgotten thought—small, exposed, defenseless. Mud-brick houses huddled together as if for warmth, their walls cracked from seasons of sun and rain. No palisade. No watchtowers. No walls at all. Just open fields stretching to the tree line on three sides, and the silver thread of water on the fourth.

  In the yards, sheep nosed at packed earth. Pigs grunted in makeshift pens. Chickens scratched and clucked, oblivious to the vulnerability of their home. Beyond the houses, croplands stretched in neat, desperate rows—the only barrier between the village and starvation.

  A small group of demihumans worked the fields. Their forms were varied—some with the tall, tapered ears of deer-kin, others with the broad shoulders and blunt muzzles of boar lineage. They moved slowly in the afternoon heat, their tools rising and falling in the rhythm of survival.

  Near the center of the village, under the thin shade of a struggling tree, an elder sat on an overturned crate. His fur was the tawny gold of a lion, now shot through with grey, his mane thinned but still proud. Around him, a half-dozen demihuman children knelt in a loose semicircle, their eyes wide and focused.

  "Watch closely," the elder said, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of decades. His large, weathered hands moved with surprising delicacy, guiding a small pair of shears along the flank of a patient sheep. The wool fell away in a clean, continuous sheet. "The animal trusts you, so you don't betray that trust. Steady hands. Calm breath. The wool comes when the sheep knows you mean no harm."

  Among the children, a hyena boy sat with his spotted fur dusty from the yard, one ear notched and scarred. Altes. His large ears swiveled forward, catching every word, every nuance of the elder's instruction. He barely blinked.

  The elder smiled, showing worn teeth. "You'll learn, little ones. This is how we live. This is how we—"

  The first scream ripped the afternoon apart.

  It came from the fields—a high, terrible sound that cut off as suddenly as it began. Altes was on his feet before he knew he'd moved, his small body rigid, ears swiveling toward the sound.

  Then more screams. Men's voices, shouting. The clash of metal. The terrified bleating of sheep.

  Figures crested the low rise at the edge of the croplands. Men in leather armor—not fine things, but practical, scuffed, blood-stained. They moved with purpose, with a coordination that belied their ragged appearance. Not bandits. Not really. Bandits didn't form lines. Bandits didn't flank.

  Soldiers playing at being bandits.

  They swept through the fields first. The demihuman workers had no weapons, no chance. Some tried to run. Arrows took them in the back. Others raised their hands, pleading. Blades answered.

  The killers moved inward, toward the village.

  "Run!" The elder's roar was a lion's cry, ancient and desperate. He thrust himself between the children and the approaching tide, his shears held like a dagger. "To the river! GO!"

  The children scattered like startled birds. Altes grabbed the smallest—a rabbit-girl frozen with terror—and yanked her forward. "Come ON!"

  They ran. Behind them, the sounds of slaughter grew: the crash of doors being kicked in, the screams of those inside, the horrible laughter of men who enjoyed their work.

  Altes led the children through the narrow gaps between houses, through yards where chickens exploded into panicked flight, past pens where pigs squealed and trampled each other. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. The rabbit-girl stumbled and he hauled her up, never stopping.

  They burst out the far side of the village, into the open ground before the river. Freedom was right there—water, then trees, then safety.

  And then men stepped out from behind the rocks.

  A half-dozen of them, spreading wide, cutting off escape. Their leathers were dark with blood not their own. Their smiles were worse than their blades.

  "Well, well," one said, his voice lazy, amused. "Look what we caught. Little cubs playing escape."

  Altes skidded to a halt, throwing an arm out to stop the others. They huddled behind him—seven children, ages five to ten, shaking, crying, holding each other. The rabbit-girl pressed her face into Altes's back, her small body trembling so hard he could feel it through his fur.

  He should run. He should fight. He should do something.

  His legs wouldn't move. His hands shook. His heart pounded so loud he couldn't hear anything else. The men were laughing now, spreading out, taking their time.

  One of them, a big man with a scar splitting his lip, stepped forward. "Look at the little hero. Trying to protect his friends." He crouched, bringing his face level with Altes's. "You're brave, kid. I'll give you that." His eyes dropped. "But bravery doesn't stop piss running down your leg."

  The other men howled. Altes looked down. The front of his trousers was dark, wet. He hadn't even felt it.

  The tears came then—hot, humiliating, unstoppable. But he didn't move. He stood there, wet and crying and terrified, arms spread, trying to cover children who had nowhere left to run.

  "Please," he whispered. "Please don't hurt them."

  The scarred man's smile widened. "Aw. Cute." He straightened, drawing his sword. "Tell you what, pup. I'll make it quick. You first, so you don't have to watch."

  The blade rose.

  Altes squeezed his eyes shut.

  THWUNK.

  The sound was wrong. Metal meeting metal, but deeper—like hitting a tree. Like hitting something that bit back.

  Altes's eyes snapped open.

  A sword had stopped the blow. But it wasn't a normal sword. It was jagged, black as burnt bone, lined with thorns that seemed to writhe. The scarred man's blade had shattered against it, leaving only a hilt in his hand.

  He stared at the broken weapon, then up.

  Two figures stood between Altes and the men.

  The first was a man in his prime—a powerful frame layered with muscle, dark hair plastered to his brow with sweat, eyes the color of exhausted glass. His face was weathered, lived-in, but not scarred—just the face of a man who had seen too much. He wore simple, travel-worn clothes, and in his hands, the thorned sword hummed with a dark, hungry light.

  Beside him stood another—younger, slighter, with blond hair falling in soft waves around a face so beautiful it hurt to look at. His features were almost angelic, too perfect to belong to any mortal creature. His eyes, the color of dried blood, held a quiet, terrible sorrow. He wore simple peasant garb, frayed at the edges, and his hands were empty—but his presence was its own weapon.

  Altes stared. The other children stared. Even the bandits stared.

  Two men. One rugged, one beautiful. Both standing between the children and death.

  The scarred man recovered first. "What the—who the hell are you?!"

  The rugged one—Daniel—didn't answer. He simply adjusted his grip on the thorned sword, and the weapon seemed to purr in response.

  The beautiful one spoke instead, his voice carrying a weight that didn't match his youth. "You have five seconds to run."

  The bandits laughed—nervous, uncertain laughter. Five of them. Two of them. Good odds.

  The scarred man's face twisted. "Kill them! KILL THEM ALL!"

  They charged.

  Daniel moved first—not fast, but inevitably. The thorned sword sang through the air, and the scarred man's head left his shoulders before his brain could finish the command. The body stood for a ridiculous second, fountaining blood, then collapsed.

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  The remaining four came at him. Daniel met them head-on. The thorned sword was not a weapon—it was an extension. It drank their steel, shattered their blades, and found the gaps in their leather. Each strike was final. Each fallen man became a lesson written in blood.

  The beautiful one—Rufus—didn't move to join the fight. He stood his ground before the children, a wall of flesh and bone between them and the violence. His red eyes tracked the battle, ready to intervene if needed, but Daniel needed no help.

  The last bandit tried to flee. Daniel's sword extended—literally extended, thorns growing, reaching—and took him in the back as he ran.

  Silence crashed down.

  The children stared, wide-eyed, at the blood-soaked ground, at the bodies, at the two figures standing among the wreckage of the ambush.

  Altes hadn't moved. He stood exactly where he'd been, arms still spread, trousers still wet, tears still cutting tracks through the dust on his face. His whole body shook.

  The beautiful one turned first. His red eyes found the hyena boy, and something in them shifted—recognition, perhaps. Or memory.

  He walked forward slowly, hands visible, empty, harmless. When he reached Altes, he knelt, bringing himself to the boy's level.

  "Kids," he said softly. "It's alright now."

  Altes blinked. The voice was familiar, somehow. Not the face—he'd never seen a face like that—but the eyes.

  "You saved us," Rufus continued. "Back there in the tavern. You removed the drugs from our food. We're here to return the favor."

  Altes stared at him, uncomprehending. The tavern. The drugs. The woman with the crossbow. The—

  "I knew you could save us. So I removed the drugs from your food."

  The memory hit like a physical blow. Altes's legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees, then forward onto his hands, his breath coming in great, heaving sobs. "I—I thought—they came so fast—I couldn't—I tried to—"

  Rufus's hand—slender, perfect, impossibly gentle—rested on his head.

  "I know," he said. "I saw. You stood. You didn't run."

  "I peed myself," Altes choked out, the shame raw in his voice.

  Behind them, Daniel finished checking the bodies. He walked over, the thorned sword now quiet, dormant, resting across his shoulders like a farmer carrying a hoe. He crouched beside Rufus, his weathered face showing nothing but patience.

  Rufus glanced at him—a silent communication—then turned back to Altes.

  "So did I," Rufus said quietly. "When I was small. When the monsters came. When I had nothing and no one." His red eyes held Altes's with impossible gentleness. "Bravery isn't not being scared. Bravery is being scared and standing anyway. You stood."

  Altes sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "You... you really peed yourself?"

  Rufus's lips curved—a small, sad smile. "Worse. I cried for three days straight. My face was so swollen my own mother didn't recognize me."

  A wet, hiccupping laugh escaped Altes despite himself. It was small, fragile, but it was there.

  Rufus gestured to the rugged man beside him. "I'm Rufus. And that brute over there is Daniel."

  Daniel grunted, raising one hand in a lazy wave. "Hey."

  Altes looked between them—the beautiful one and the rugged one, the talker and the fighter, the angel and the brawler. They were so different. And yet they stood together like two halves of something whole.

  "Thank you, for coming back my name is Altes" Altes whispered.

  Daniel's weathered face softened, just slightly. "That's what happens when you save someone. They tend to remember."

  Rufus nodded. "You bought us time when we had none. We're just returning the favor."

  Altes didn't fully understand. But he understood enough.

  He wasn't alone.

  The village was peaceful now. Too peaceful. The sun hung motionless in the sky. The river's flow made no sound. The children's laughter, which had begun to echo from somewhere behind the houses, was frozen mid-note—a perfect, impossible silence.

  Altes stood between Daniel and Rufus, still catching his breath from the tears, still processing the miracle of being saved. He looked up at the two men, gratitude shining in his eyes.

  "You came," he whispered again, as if saying it enough times would make it more real. "You actually came."

  Daniel and Rufus exchanged a look—that same glance that held whole conversations. Then Daniel crouched, bringing his weathered face level with Altes's.

  "Altes," he said, his voice gentle but weighted with something Altes couldn't name. "I need you to listen carefully. Can you do that?"

  Altes nodded, confusion flickering across his features.

  "You're not here," Daniel said. "Not really. This place—this village, this moment—it's a memory. A wound that won't stop bleeding."

  Altes's brow furrowed. "I don't... what do you mean? You're right here. I can touch you." He reached out, his small hand pressing against Daniel's arm. Solid. Real. Warm.

  Rufus knelt beside them, his beautiful face serious. "Right now, you are battling for life and death inside Valerius’s chamber, and he has sent us to protect you from within during the ritual. This reality..." He gestured at the frozen village, the silent river, the children frozen mid-laugh. "This is your trauma. Your mind trying to escape what happened by living in a moment that never truly was."

  Altes's hand dropped. His ears flattened against his head. "That's not... I don't..."

  "The bandits," Daniel said, and his voice was impossibly gentle for a man who had just killed six men without breaking a sweat. "They came. They hurt your village. They chased you and the others. That was real."

  Altes's breath quickened. His eyes darted around—at the peaceful houses, at the children who weren't moving, at the sky that didn't change.

  "But you came," he insisted, his voice rising. "You saved us. I remember. The sword—the thorns—you killed them all. You saved us."

  Rufus reached out, taking Altes's small hands in his own. They were so different—Rufus's slender, perfect fingers; Altes's spotted, scarred, child's hands. But they held.

  "We came too late," Rufus said softly. "In the real world, we arrived after. After the bandits. After the village fell. After you..." He trailed off, unable to finish.

  Altes stared at him. The words didn't make sense. They couldn't make sense. Because if Rufus was telling the truth, then—

  "No," Altes whispered, pulling his hands away. He stumbled backward, shaking his head. "No, you're lying. You're here. You saved us. The children—" He spun around, looking for the others. They stood frozen, their smiles plastered on their faces, their eyes empty.

  Empty.

  They weren't really there.

  "They didn't make it," Daniel said, rising slowly, giving Altes space. "None of them did. You were the only survivor, Altes."

  The sob that tore from Altes's throat was raw, animal, devastating. He collapsed to his knees in the dust, his small body wracked with grief. "I tried—I tried to save them—I tried to—"

  "I know," Rufus said, moving to him, wrapping his arms around the shaking boy. "I know you did. You stood in front of them. You spread your arms. You tried to be their shield. That's more than most adults ever do."

  "But it wasn't enough," Altes choked out. "It was never enough. They died. They all died, and I—" He looked up, his tear-streaked face a mask of guilt. "I ran. I hid. I survived while they—"

  "You survived," Daniel interrupted, his voice cutting through the grief like a blade. "You lived. And because you lived, you saved us in that tavern. Because you lived, you removed the drugs from our food. Because you lived, we're here now, inside your soul, trying to pull you back."

  Altes stared at him, uncomprehending.

  "Your life matters," Rufus added softly. "Not because of what you could have done, but because of what you actually did. You saved two strangers who would have died without you. That's not nothing. That's everything."

  Altes's breathing slowly steadied. The tears continued to fall, but something else was happening behind his eyes—a dawning awareness, a reaching for memory.

  From a distance, a child's voice called out, high and sweet. "Altes! Come on, we're playing!"

  He turned. The rabbit-girl stood at the edge of the village, waving. The badger-boy was beside her, holding a worn leather ball. The fox-sisters braided flowers in the grass. They were solid. They were real.

  Altes's heart clenched. "I... I can stay? With them?"

  "No," Rufus said gently, his red eyes full of understanding. "Not if you want to truly live. This place is a memory, Altes. A beautiful one, but a memory. The children you see are echoes. They would want you to live."

  The rabbit-girl smiled and waved again, more urgently this time.

  Altes looked at her, then at the two men who had come to save him. "The future," he whispered. "I lived... I grew up? I..."

  "Yes," Daniel said. "You grew. You survived. You became someone who could look at two strangers and decide to help them, even when it was dangerous. That courage you showed today—standing in front of your friends, arms spread, refusing to run—that didn't disappear. It just... grew up with you."

  Altes closed his eyes. Behind his lids, images flickered: a burning tavern, a masked man, a woman with four arms, a long journey, a village under attack, and then—then—

  He opened his eyes, and they were clearer now. Older. Wiser.

  "The bandits," he said, his voice steadier. "The ones who attacked the village. You weren't there. You never were. I just..." He swallowed hard. "I wanted so badly for someone to have saved them. For it not to have happened the way it did."

  Rufus squeezed his hands. "That's not weakness, Altes. That's love. You loved them. You still love them. That's why this memory is so strong—because a part of you has been living here, trying to make it right, ever since."

  Altes looked again at the frozen children—the rabbit-girl he'd dragged to safety, the badger-boy who always shared his food, the fox-sisters who braided each other's fur. His heart clenched, but this time, the grief had a different quality. It was still there, still real, but it no longer threatened to drown him.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered to them. "I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. I tried. I really tried. But I was just a kid, and they were men with swords, and I—" His voice broke, then reformed. "I'm sorry. I'll always be sorry. But I can't stay here anymore. I can't keep pretending this moment is real when you're all gone."

  The children smiled—genuinely smiled, not the frozen masks from before. The rabbit-girl nodded. The badger-boy raised a hand in farewell. The fox-sisters waved together.

  Then they began to fade.

  The village followed—houses dissolving into motes of light, the river evaporating into mist, the frozen sun winking out like a snuffed candle. Altes watched it all go, tears streaming down his face, but he didn't look away. He bore witness to his own loss, and in doing so, he began to heal.

  The world reformed around them.

  They stood on an island—a small, green paradise in the middle of an endless ocean. Fruit trees heavy with golden apples and crimson berries dotted the landscape. Soft grass carpeted the ground. A gentle breeze carried the scent of flowers Altes had never smelled but somehow recognized.

  Home. This felt like home.

  But beyond the island's shores, the ocean raged. Waves the height of mountains crashed against the island's borders, throwing spray hundreds of feet into the air. The water was dark, churning, alive with fury. It slammed into the island's edges again and again, trying to breach, trying to swallow, trying to destroy.

  It couldn't.

  The island held. The green shores absorbed each impact and remained. The fruit trees continued to bear. The grass continued to grow. The island endured, unbowed, unbroken.

  Altes stared at the raging sea, his small body tense. "What... what is that?"

  "The ocean," Daniel said quietly, "is your anger. At the bandits. At the world. At yourself. It's been trying to consume you for years."

  Altes watched a wave the size of a mountain crash against the shore, sending spray sky-high. The island shuddered but held.

  "And this place?" he asked. "The island?"

  "Your innocence," Rufus answered. "The part of you that refused to become what the world tried to make you. The part that still believes in protecting others, even when it costs you everything."

  Altes looked down at his hands—still small, still spotted, still scarred. But standing on this island, surrounded by that raging sea, they didn't feel weak. They felt like they belonged to someone who had survived the impossible.

  "It's beautiful," he whispered.