The tent felt smaller with every passing second.
Varyan lay still, eyes half‑open, listening as the voices outside grew sharper—more divided.
"We should end this now," a man said bluntly. "People don't walk away from that kind of slaughter. Whatever he is, it's not safe."
"He's injured," a woman argued. "Barely breathing when we found him. You don't execute a wounded man without proof."
"Proof?" another voice snapped. "He was the proof. An entire force torn apart, and he's the only one left alive."
Silence followed.
Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Varyan felt it settle into his chest like a weight.
"He saw horrible things," the woman said again, quieter this time. "You can hear it in his voice. That look in his eyes… it's not madness. It's survival."
"Or guilt," the first man replied.
The tent flap shifted as someone paced back and forth.
"If we kill him," the elder finally said, his voice slow and measured, "and he was innocent… then that blood is on us."
"And if we let him stay?" another asked. "If whatever followed him comes here next?"
That fear spread quickly.
Varyan closed his eyes.
He didn't defend himself.
Didn't interrupt.
Didn't beg.
He had learned long ago that mercy rarely came from words.
"We can't keep him," someone said. "The land already whispers. Children won't sleep. Hunters refuse to go near the field."
The elder exhaled heavily.
"Then exile."
A murmur rippled through the group.
"Exile him beyond the border," the elder continued. "Once he can walk. No supplies beyond the bare minimum. If fate still wants him alive… that's not our concern."
The woman hesitated. "That's a death sentence."
"Then it is kinder than a blade," the elder replied.
The tent flap opened.
Light spilled in.
The elder stepped inside, his gaze locking onto Varyan's.
"You heard us," he said calmly.
Varyan met his eyes, unflinching.
"Yes."
"You will not be killed," the elder said. "But you will not stay. When you can stand, you leave our lands. Alone."
Varyan nodded once.
No anger.
No relief.
Only acceptance.
"Very well," he said quietly.
The elder studied him for a moment longer, then turned away.
Outside, the villagers dispersed—some relieved, some fearful, some still unsure they had made the right choice.
The tent fell silent again.
Varyan stared at the fabric ceiling, his bandaged body aching, his future uncertain.
Exile.
Once again, the world had chosen distance over understanding.
He closed his eyes.
And somewhere deep within him, something stirred—patient, waiting for the moment he would be forced to stand on his own again.
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