Human nature is always fascinating. Among its many strange patterns is the sadness that settles over people at sunset and the quiet joy that greets a new dawn. But in this forest, there were no joyous faces. Irene sat on a bunk, cradling Lili in a bed of sorrow. Tears had not fully dried on the girl's cheeks, leaving pale tracks across her skin. Irene's brow was furrowed as she held her, offering what comfort she could.
Outside, near the blackened circle where fire and blood had mixed with dirt, Peter, Ren, and Shin still sat exactly where they had been when the nightmare ended. Their eyes were red and dry, lids heavy, stares fixed on nothing. They looked like hollow people—bodies frozen by trauma, minds stuck in the moment a head turned into a cube.
By the trees near the tower, Bjorn stood apart, a shovel in his hand. At his feet lay a fresh grave beneath a broad trunk, the soil still loose and dark. A simple stone rested against the bark, marking the place where their companion—what remained of him—had been buried. Bjorn turned from the grave to look back at the others, sadness shaping his face. They sat so still they may as well have been buried with Jonathan.
He picked up Jonathan's threadless bow and held it. Memory struck: the hours at the forge, hammering the curve true; the day he had finally handed it over; Jonathan's crooked, quiet smile as he took the weapon in his hands. Bjorn shook the image away.
He walked, tossed the shovel aside, and took up his massive hammer instead. Back at the tree, standing over Jonathan's grave, he lifted the bow and laid it gently across the trunk. Then he gripped the hammer, swung with all his strength, and drove the weapon into the wood. The bow sank deep, pinned and fused into the living trunk, fixed above the grave as if the tree itself would hold Jonathan forever in its embrace.
By the courtyard, the others stirred. The sight of the bow embedded in the tree pulled their minds back into the present.
Bjorn set the hammer upright on the ground and began to strike the earth with its face in a steady rhythm. The dull thuds rolled like distant drums. The others understood: Bjorn was calling them. One by one, they stood for the first time in hours and walked toward the grave.
He kept tapping the ground gently. Inside, Irene and Lili heard the drumlike sound and stepped out, drawn by it. Soon everyone had gathered beside Bjorn, who stood taller than them all. He stopped and rested a hand on Shin's shoulder, nudging him forward.
Shin took a slow step, then another, and turned to face the grave with a heavy heart. "I don't know what to say," he began. "Peter knew him better than I ever did. As his leader, I failed to protect him, and that weighs on me. But I know one thing." His voice steadied. "I know he can finally rest without his past hunting him. A better sleep. Like he used to say: 'I wish to sleep like the dead do.'" A short, cracked laugh escaped him. "Ahaha."
The others laughed with him, the sound rough and fragile. Ren watched in silence, confused by a joke that hurt and healed at the same time. The laughter thinned, stretched—and turned into tears.
Peter dropped to one knee, scooped a handful of earth, and let it crumble through his fingers onto the grave. "Rest well, brother," he said, voice shaking. "Rest well. You earned it."
Heads bowed around him. Shoulders trembled. Shin lifted his chin, staring up, trying to hide the wetness in his eyes. Ren's gaze stayed on the grave as tears finally slipped free and fell.
Hours later, the horses snorted and breathed hard, hooves pawing at the ground, eager—or anxious—to move. Bjorn loaded supplies into the wagon. Peter sat astride a horse with Ren behind him on the same saddle. Shin checked his gear and mounted his own.
Irene walked up to them. "Are you sure you can't stay the night? You still need rest," she said.
"The Duke is waiting for us," Shin replied. "I can't keep him delayed."
Irene nodded. "Then it's farewell."
Shin returned the nod. "Farewell."
They turned their mounts and wagon west, toward Erbil City. They had lived through a nightmare and left a companion behind. On the hill by the watchtower, Jonathan's bow remained fused into the tree above his grave, catching the rising light as the sun climbed—a single, quiet marker shining over the place where he finally slept.
Silence became their guide as the party traveled. No words were exchanged; only the horses spoke, their hooves knocking out a steady language on the road. Each rider turned inward, replaying the nightmare and wondering what could have been done differently. Loss, though, is only softened by acceptance, and the long road gave them the time they needed to begin accepting and moving on. Yet human nature is strange—beneath the numbness, each of them still nursed the same buried desire: revenge for their fallen companion.
By late afternoon, Crowmere came into view—the nearest town to Erbil City. Paved roads, sturdier houses, and the 64th Watchtower rising at its center marked it as safer land. It was the party's last checkpoint. Night travel here had become relatively safe; chimeras had not reached this far west in years. Shin caught the restless, sleepless look in his companions' eyes and chose to stop instead of pushing on.
Peter argued that it would be better to continue and cut a day off the journey. "We need supplies," Shin answered. "We've been living on the bare minimum since Maarath. We rest, and that's final." Under his breath he added, "It should clear our heads a little."
They turned toward the watchtower. Peter sighed. "I'll go take a look around," he said. Ren, still riding behind him, said nothing and did not object. Shin let him go without arguing. Bjorn and Lili headed the other way with instructions: "Get supplies, and find us a couple of rooms at an inn. We need a bath," he added, glancing at the dried blood that no amount of rough washing had fully removed.
Peter rode through Crowmere's streets under the weight of staring eyes. He glanced down at his clothes—the blood stains still clear—and sighed. "Hey, Ren, we need to wash up again. Maybe change clothes," he said.
Ren didn't answer.
He just kept staring in one direction.
"Ren? Hey, Ren. What are you looking at?" Peter followed his gaze and saw a graveyard at the edge of town.
Ren slid off the horse and started toward it. Peter reined the horse in, dismounted, and followed.
Ren walked between the stones until he stopped at one particular grave. The marker was simple, but a cube had been carved into the stone. He reached out, running his fingers over the grooves of the carved shape, feeling every edge.
"We should avenge his death," Ren said.
Sadness clouded Peter's eyes. "We can't," he replied. "It's not what he would've wanted. He saw too much blood spilled. I don't think he'd want more."
"What about his killer, then?" Ren shot back, anger tightening his voice. "Let him roam free?"
Peter's jaw clenched. "What do you know about vengeance, huh? Tell me. What do you know about Jonathan? You've been with us a few days. You know nothing."
Ren lowered his head. "It's true I didn't know him like you did," he said quietly. "But I know everything about vengeance. I've been chasing it for years but People keep dying around me before I can achieve it ?."
Peter's expression softened for a heartbeat. He put a hand on Ren's shoulder. "you can't avenge everyone , Forget it," he said. "It's not like we can face his killer anyway."
Ren frowned. "Is it fear?"
Peter snapped. "It's not fear, it's impossible!" he shouted. "You think I wouldn't go after him if it were possible? You know nothing of this world. You're just clueless. So drop it—and leave it to those of us who actually knew him."
He turned, stalked back to the horse, mounted with a sharp movement, and rode away, leaving Ren alone among the stones and the carved cube watching over the dead.