The door clicked shut with a soft thud.

  Takahiro stared at the wooden frame for a few seconds longer than necessary, as if he could still see through it. The room behind it had no windows, only a narrow cot with a thin blanket and Kana curled beneath it, her skin still pale and damp from the fever. The old woman—short, round-shouldered, and firm in her tone—had said she needed rest.

  “She’ll sleep better if we don’t hover,” the woman added, voice low.

  He nodded and followed her down the creaking hall.

  The kitchen smelled of boiled roots and baked bread. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to soft coals, casting flickers of orange across the clay walls. Serenya was seated at the modest table, hands folded in her lap, spine straight despite the exhaustion in her face.

  “Thank you again for your kindness,” she said as they entered.

  The woman waved it off. “Any traveler who knocks at our door in the rain deserves a roof. And one with a sick girl doubly so.”

  Serenya smiled politely. “My husband and I”—she nodded at Takahiro without missing a beat—“and my sister-in-law lived in the capital. We lost everything when the demons attacked.”

  Takahiro glanced at her for a moment, but said nothing. He slipped into the seat beside her.

  “I’d heard rumors,” the old woman muttered, settling into a chair across from them. “Didn’t know they were true. But I suppose if you made it all the way here... it must be.”

  She looked them over now with a more discerning eye. “You’ve walked far. Pale as ghosts. Thin as twigs.”

  “We’ve done our best,” Serenya replied, softly.

  The woman turned and retrieved a pot from the hearth. “Then you’ll eat. No use sitting on stories with an empty belly.”

  She poured thick stew into three bowls and set them down with a kind of stern finality. The scent was overwhelming—herbs, onion, fat. Takahiro's stomach twisted with sudden hunger.

  “My husband will be home soon,” she added. “He’ll want to hear about the capital himself. You’re lucky he’s the quiet type.”

  Serenya inclined her head. “We’ll answer what we can.”

  The food burned Takahiro’s tongue, but he didn’t care. It was hot. Real. He hadn’t eaten anything cooked indoors in over two weeks.

  The door creaked open behind them, and a tall man entered. Thin hair, worn hands, thick boots caked with dirt. He paused at the threshold, eyes moving over the scene. His wife rose to greet him with a quiet word, then gestured toward the table.

  “Travelers from the capital,” she said. “Refugees.”

  He grunted and sat. No handshake. No introductions.

  “They say the city’s fallen,” he said after a moment, eyes settling on Serenya.

  Her fingers tightened slightly around the wooden spoon. “The city is wounded. Not dead.”

  “The king?”

  Serenya took a breath. “The queen still lives.”

  There was a flicker of something behind his eyes. He glanced at his wife.

  She leaned forward, voice low. “They say the demons have taken the palace. That the guard's broken. That there’s no one left to fight.”

  Serenya’s tone sharpened. “There are still people fighting. Still ground being held. The heart of the kingdom hasn’t stopped beating.”

  The room went silent. Her words hung in the air like embers.

  Takahiro set his spoon down gently. “We’ve come far. The news we bring is incomplete, like everyone’s. There’s no way to know the whole picture anymore.”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Serenya blinked, caught her breath, and softened her voice. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to raise it.”

  The old man shook his head. “No. It’s good, a bit of fire in the voice. We’ll need it, if there’s any hope left. As long as there are young people still believing in something... the kingdom’s not gone yet.”

  They finished the meal in silence, the occasional creak of the roof or snap of firewood the only sounds.

  Afterward, the woman led them to the back of the house. She opened a narrow door with a small window and gestured inside. The room was sparse—two thin bedrolls laid across straw mats, and a curtain hung against the shared wall with the room where Kana slept.

  “There,” she said. “You two can stay here. It’s not much, but it’s dry.”

  “It’s more than enough,” Serenya said, bowing her head.

  The woman lingered a moment, then added, “There’s water in the basin if you want to wash. I imagine it’s been a while.”

  Takahiro offered a tired smile. “You have no idea.”

  She gave a small huff, then turned and left them in peace.

  They stood in silence for a while. The floor creaked as they removed their boots, their cloaks still damp from the last traces of the storm. The faint sound of Kana’s breathing could be heard through the curtain—uneven, but not alarming.

  Serenya crossed the room to the basin and dipped her fingers into the cold water.

  Takahiro sat on one of the bedrolls and stared at the wall.

  “We could stay here for a few days,” she said quietly. “Let her recover.”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  The morning brought clear skies and a soft wind that smelled faintly of earth and old wood.

  Kana was sitting upright, eating bread and boiled roots with slightly more energy than the day before. Her color had improved. She still moved slowly, but there was strength in her eyes again. Takahiro watched her chew with the stubborn focus of someone who had decided, unequivocally, not to die from something as ordinary as a cold.

  After breakfast, the village chief stood by the door, adjusting his belt and pulling on worn gloves. Takahiro set down his cup and stood.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  The man paused, looking him up and down. “You sure you’re up for that?”

  Takahiro nodded. “We’ve been walking for two weeks. I’d rather work than sit.”

  The man gave a small grunt of approval. “Fair enough. You’ve got hands, that’s what counts.”

  Before they left, Takahiro thanked him for the clothes he now wore—a simple tunic and trousers that actually fit. His old ones were little more than rags held together by sweat and spite.

  The man introduced himself as Brann as they walked down the road toward the eastern edge of the village.

  “You and your family got lucky,” Brann said. “That storm crushed a few barns. One caught fire from a lightning strike. But the greenhouse held.”

  “Greenhouse?” Takahiro asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  They arrived at a wide structure of iron and thick glass panels built low into the hill, surrounded by short fencing and rows of bare earth. The greenhouse stood firm despite the storm’s fury—glass intact, frame solid.

  Inside, it was warm and humid. The air was thick with the scent of soil and pollen.

  Flowers bloomed in orderly rows. Bright orange, soft lavender, deep blue. Their petals opened lazily toward the filtered sunlight. A few men worked the rows, some crouched and pruning, others gently tending to the soil. They looked up when Brann entered but quickly returned to their tasks.

  Takahiro stood still for a moment, struck by the sight. “I think I’ve seen more houses than people here.”

  Brann gave a low chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”

  They walked between the rows slowly, Brann’s boots crunching on the gravel path.

  “Most of the young ones left to fight,” he explained. “Volunteers, conscripts, hopefuls. When the demons pushed deeper into the valley, others ran east. Families, children. People who had somewhere to go... or just enough strength to try.”

  Takahiro looked around. The men tending the flowers were older—weathered faces, stiff backs, quiet movements. The kind of people who had nowhere else to go.

  “And those who couldn’t leave?” Takahiro asked quietly.

  Brann’s voice was even. “They stayed. The sick. The old. The ones who wouldn’t have survived the road.”

  A silence hung between them for a moment. Takahiro thought of Kana—her pale skin, the cough that lingered in her chest.

  “What are the flowers for?” he asked.

  Brann stopped in front of a row of deep violet blossoms.

  “They’re medicinal. Extracts, powders, roots. Healers can’t be everywhere. Not with the front scattered like it is. So we do our part from here.”

  “I thought this was farmland,” Takahiro said.

  “It was,” Brann replied. “Used to grow spices. This whole village traded with the central markets. Pepper root, flame basil, smoked thyme. Now?” He shook his head. “No one needs flavor. They need medicine.”

  Takahiro reached out to touch a petal—soft, warm, alive. The thought of these fragile plants outliving soldiers was strangely heavy.

  “You don’t talk much,” Brann said after a pause.

  “I’m still figuring out what’s worth saying.”

  Brann gave a small grunt of approval. “Good answer.”

  They worked the next few hours in quiet rhythm. Brann showed him how to clip the petals properly, how to check for rot, how to bundle the cuttings for drying. Takahiro’s fingers fumbled at first—more used to notebooks than plants—but he picked it up quickly.

  There was something oddly peaceful about the place. Not safe, but suspended. Like the war hadn’t quite reached it yet—only passed by, leaving silence in its wake.

  By midday, they stepped outside for water. The sun was high, and the breeze had picked up.

  Brann leaned on a fencepost, squinting toward the west. “You said you came from the capital?”

  Takahiro hesitated, then nodded. “We were there when the attack began.”

  “You saw it happen?”

  “Not all of it. We... got out early.”

  Brann didn’t press. “You lost anyone?”

  “Not yet.”

  The older man looked at him for a long second, then said simply, “Hope that doesn’t change.”