The soft creak of old wood. The scent of herbs and smoke.

  Yoru stirred, her body aching, her vision hazy. She blinked slowly as sunlight slipped through the cracks in the wooden walls of the healer’s hut.

  She wasn’t dead. That realization came first.

  Then the second—Yuki.

  She tried to sit up, but a gentle hand pressed her shoulder.

  “You should rest,” said the old village healer kindly. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “Yuki… Where is he?”

  The healer’s gaze softened.

  “He saved you,” she said. “Saved us all.”

  Yoru’s heart pounded. “Tell me everything.”

  And so the healer did.

  She told her how Yuki had fought like a demon—how the villagers watched in stunned silence as he cut through the horde. How the behemoth nearly crushed him. How Yoru herself had jumped into the battle and fallen. And how—

  —he carried her.

  Bleeding. Limping. Refusing help.

  They described the trail of blood he left through the streets, Yoru cradled in his arms. How the villagers, once doubtful of him, parted silently as he passed—some dropping to their knees in shame.

  They told her how he collapsed only after laying her gently on the healer’s bed.

  Not a second before.

  Tears welled in Yoru’s eyes.

  “That idiot,” she whispered, clutching the blanket. “That stubborn, selfless idiot…”

  She wiped her eyes and stood, despite the healer’s protests.

  “I need to see him.”

  Darkness.

  It swallowed everything—light, sound, breath.

  Yuki stood in the hallway of a house long gone, walls cracked and stained with old memories. The scent of blood hung in the air.

  He was small again. Helpless.

  “Why won’t you fight back, you worthless brat?!”

  His father’s voice slammed through the dream like thunder. He saw the belt swing. Heard the crash of glass. Felt the bite of the cold floor as he fell.

  He ran.

  Room to room.

  Calling for her.

  “Mom?” His voice cracked. “Mom?! Where are you?!”

  Then, he saw her.

  Slumped against the kitchen wall. Her dress soaked in crimson. Her eyes wide, still, unblinking.

  “No…”

  Yuki dropped to his knees beside her. He screamed. He shook her. He begged.

  “Please… wake up…”

  Footsteps behind him. Laughter.

  His father stood there, shadows cloaking him like a crown. “She died because of you.”

  “NO!” Yuki cried, curling around her body. “Don’t take her—don’t take her—MOM!!”

  His body jerked awake.

  A gasp tore from his throat. He couldn’t breathe. His hand clawed at his chest, as though trying to rip the pain out from beneath his ribs. His heart was pounding—too fast, too loud.

  “Mom… no—don’t—don’t leave me again—!”

  “Yuki!”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  A voice. Soft but firm.

  Yoru.

  She was beside him in an instant, grabbing his shoulders. “Yuki—it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re safe now. You’re here. I’m here.”

  His eyes were wide, glassy. He struggled to focus.

  “Breathe,” she said, her forehead pressing against his. “Just breathe with me.”

  She took a slow, deep inhale. Exhale.

  He tried to mimic her. His chest shuddered. Another breath. Then another. Gradually, the world stopped spinning.

  Tears slid down his cheeks. His voice came out as a whisper.

  “…She was all I had.”

  Yoru didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to.

  Instead, she wrapped her arms around him.

  “I know,” she whispered, holding him tightly as if she could sew together every crack in his soul with nothing but warmth. “I know.”

  Silence fell again—this time not cold, but close. She didn’t let go, even as his tears slowed and his breath came easier. Her hand rested gently over his, grounding him.

  “…I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” he murmured.

  “Don’t be.” Her voice was quiet but certain. “We all carry something, Yuki. But you don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

  He turned his face slightly, her hair brushing his cheek. The warmth of her was real. Alive. Solid. And right now, that was enough.

  He leaned into her, just slightly.

  And for the first time in a long, long time—

  he didn’t feel alone.

  The morning sun bled softly through the window, golden rays cutting through the dust-filled air of the healer’s hut.

  Yuki stirred.

  His body ached. Deep, heavy aches in places he didn’t know could hurt. His hand throbbed faintly beneath its fresh bandages, and his ribs ached with every breath.

  But the warmth next to him reminded him he wasn’t dreaming anymore.

  Yoru had fallen asleep in the chair beside his bed, arms crossed on the edge of the mattress. Her ears twitched gently as she breathed, her hair falling like midnight silk across her face. Even now, even after everything, she stayed close.

  Yuki sat up slowly.

  Pain bit at his muscles, but he welcomed it. It reminded him he was still here. Still alive.

  He carefully pulled the thin blanket off and rose to his feet. The room was quiet. Yoru stirred but didn’t wake.

  Slipping on a shirt left folded beside the bed, he made his way toward the door.

  Outside, the village was quiet—but not asleep.

  The streets were filled with villagers repairing broken carts, reinforcing fences, checking on wounded livestock. Life was moving on. Slowly. Cautiously.

  But when Yuki stepped out into the sunlight—

  they stopped.

  One by one, heads turned. Tools lowered. Voices hushed.

  The boy who had led the charge.

  The one who’d faced the Behemoth and bled for their survival.

  Now stood in their street, eyes sunken with exhaustion, body wrapped in linen and bruises—but standing.

  He didn’t expect anything. Not gratitude. Not praise.

  But the silence… was reverent.

  An old man near the well bowed his head. A young girl clutched her mother’s hand and whispered, “That’s him, Mama…”

  Then—quietly, awkwardly, the village mayor stepped forward.

  “Yuki,” he said gently, his voice carrying across the square. “You should be resting.”

  “I needed to breathe,” Yuki said. His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “I needed to… see.”

  The mayor nodded.

  A long pause. Then—

  “Thank you.”

  Those two words dropped like stones into still water. Small. But heavy.

  Others began to speak too.

  “You saved my husband.”

  “You held the gate.”

  “You carried her through blood and fire…”

  Yuki’s gaze dropped to the ground. He didn’t know how to hold these words. They felt too big.

  Then—

  “Thank you, Yuki,” came another voice. This one is younger. A boy, perhaps ten, stepping forward with a clumsily carved wooden sword. “When I grow up, I want to protect people like you do.”

  Yuki smiled faintly. It hurts to smile.

  “I hope you do,” he said softly.

  A quiet breeze passed through the square. No cheers. No songs.

  Just stillness.

  Respect.

  And maybe, somewhere beneath it all, belonging.

  He turned to head back inside, needing to rest, his body already shaking under the weight of his steps.

  But just before the door closed behind him—

  He heard someone whisper:

  “Maybe… he was sent by the kingdom.”