The road to Phaendar was dust and silence.
Each step stirred the dry earth, clinging to his boots, mixing with the filth and dried blood already caking his skin. The weight on his back was familiar now—his pack, heavier with the last remnants of his past life. The sword slung between his shoulders jostled against him with every movement, a presence both comforting and accusatory. His long white hair, unwashed and tangled, hung in strands over his sunken face. His shirt, once a deep brown, was now a tattered ruin of soot, sweat, and blood.
Ahead, Phaendar sprawled before him, untouched.
He stopped at the edge of the market, where the smell of fresh bread and roasting meats twisted something deep in his gut. The sight of children laughing as they ran between the stalls, the hum of merchants calling out their wares, the casual conversations between neighbors—it was as if the world had not burned.
How?
His cracked lips parted, but no sound came. His body swayed where he stood, the exhaustion of days on the road warring with the quiet fury simmering in his veins. Phaendar had not suffered. The war had not yet touched it. There were no ashes in the streets, no screams in the air, no bodies left unburied.
My home burned.
He took a step forward, his fingers brushing against the hilt of his father’s sword. His stomach clenched at the scent of roasting meat. His throat was dry, but the thought of drink barely registered. These people—these farmers and traders—walked through their day as if nothing had happened.
My family is gone.
A cart rumbled past him, stirring the dust in his face. He did not flinch. His limbs ached with the memory of swinging that blade, too slow, too weak. His ribs still bore the deep bruises of that fight, and the ghosts of his children’s cries clung to him more tightly than the grime on his skin.
A woman bustled past, glancing at him with barely concealed concern. Her nose wrinkled at the scent. She said nothing, moving on.
His fingers curled into a fist.
How do you go on?
The weight of his blade pressed against his back. The familiar hollow feeling of hunger clawed at his insides. He did not know why he had come here. Maybe to find something to cling to. Maybe because there was nowhere else left to go.
Iskender stepped forward into Phaendar, the war still clinging to his skin.
