News from the castle spread through the city like ripples on water. It began as whispers among the maids gathered by the wells. Then came the stories of the guards returning from their shifts. By evening, the duke’s heralds were crying the news across every square.
By nightfall, there wasn’t a single soul in Aichenwald who didn’t know the truth.
On the main square — the very place where crowds had once cheered the returning victors — a heavy silence now hung in the air. Hundreds of people stood motionless: market women who had abandoned their stalls, blacksmiths who never reached their forges, children who had forgotten their games. All of them listened to the old herald, whose voice trembled yet remained firm.
“The Keeper has gone,” he said, and each word fell like a stone. “Not from us. Not because of us. She has gone to where the earth closes over your head. To the place where ancient creatures known as the Hungry are clawing at our world.”
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Someone began to cry. Others stood frozen, unable to believe what they were hearing.
“She is the last,” the herald continued. “The last of those who swore the oath at the dawn of time. The oath to hold the gates so that darkness would never break free. Her predecessor, Akley, went underground many years ago. He never returned. Now it is her turn.”
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“But she’s the Keeper!” someone shouted from the crowd. “She’s strong! She defeated the horde!”
“Strength does not always save us,” the herald replied. “Sometimes strength is duty. And duty is a life given so that others may live.”
The square buzzed with uneasy murmurs. Women wept, clutching their children to their chests. Men clenched their fists, staring toward the castle where a golden figure had once shone so brightly.
The tavern “The Weary Traveler” was silent. The owner — an old soldier who had lost a leg in the battle against the mountain clans — stood behind the counter, quietly filling mugs. No one was drinking. Everyone was listening.
“I saw her,” said a young man, the same one who had stood in formation on the day of the battle. “She stood on the cliff. She raised her hand. And the horde ran. And now… now she’s gone to a place from which no one returns.”
“No one returns,” repeated the old soldier.
“And our heir?” asked a girl. Her face was pale, her eyes red from crying. “He went after her.”
“Alone?”
“Alone,” the owner replied. “He said he would return. With her.”
Silence fell over the tavern once more. Only the firewood crackled softly in the hearth.
“She will return,” someone suddenly said. The voice was quiet, but firm. Everyone turned. It was old Viggo — the very scout who had pulled Yui from the burning castle. He sat in the corner, leaning on his crutch, his face stern and weathered. “I saw her in the forest when the horde was coming. She wasn’t afraid. She stood there and stared death straight in the eyes. And death backed down. Someone like her doesn’t die underground. Someone like her comes back.”
“And if she doesn’t?” someone asked.
Viggo looked at him. There was no doubt in his eyes.
“Then we’ll go after her. All of us. Because she saved us. Because she is ours. Because without her, this world will become gray and empty.”
No one argued.