Hollowmere was already dying when Aerin and Nyxara arrived.
Smoke drifted from shattered rooftops, and the scent of ash clung to the air.
Doors hung open, broken. The silence was worse than screams.
Aerin felt the Moon Crest throb sharply, reacting to the remnants of violence soaked into the ground.
"They were here," Nyxara said grimly. "The Wardens."
As they moved deeper into the village, survivors emerged thin, frightened faces etched with loss.
An old woman collapsed at Aerin's feet, clutching their cloak.
"They took our children," she sobbed.
"Said it was for the king. Said the Moon would judge us."
Aerin froze.
The Crest burned.
Nyxara helped the woman up, fury flashing in her eyes.
"This is Morreth's justice."
That night, as they sheltered in the ruins of the village hall, Aerin struggled to rest.
The Crest would not quiet. Images of fire and chains filled their thoughts.
"They suffered because of me," Aerin said finally.
Nyxara met their gaze. "No. They suffered because tyrants fear what they cannot control."
A distant horn sounded in the hills.
Nyxara stood instantly. "They've found us."
Wardens poured into Hollowmere under torchlight, steel gleaming.
Aerin rose, silver light spilling from their hands. The villagers scattered as battle erupted.
This time, Aerin did not hesitate.
The Crest surged not wildly, but with purpose. Shields formed. Strikes landed true. Wardens fell back, unprepared for resistance.
But victory came at a cost.
When the last soldier fled, Hollowmere was still broken.
Aerin stood amid the ruins, realizing power could defend but it could not undo what had already been lost.
The Crest pulsed heavily, as if sharing the weight of that truth.