Fifteen winters had passed since the end of the Great War.
Time, relentless as ever, had begun to mend the wounds left behind. Across the continent, scars that once seemed permanent had gradually faded beneath the passing years. Splintered wood became trees again. Rain-filled hollows deepened into rivers. Ruined foundations rose into towers. The world moved forward as it always had, indifferent to grief and eager to reclaim what war had taken from it.
Yet there was one thing that had never returned to where it belonged.
The Alliance Army.
Among scholars, nobles, mercenaries, and farmers alike, it had become an accepted truth that no living person knew what had happened during the army's final march. The most significant military effort the continent had ever assembled had vanished within the Sacred Valley of Tivaria, leaving behind a mystery that fifteen years had failed to unravel.
Many had searched for answers.
None had found any.
Whatever calamity had unfolded there had erased itself with terrifying thoroughness. Though traces of bloodshed lingered in the valley long after the battle should have ended and residual magic still clung stubbornly to the land, not a single clue remained for those determined to uncover the truth. The valley stood as a wound in history itself, one that refused to heal and refused to reveal what had caused it.
Only one remnant of that forgotten day remained.
The burial mound of Asmar.
The Great Hero.
The man around whom the entire alliance had been built.
To most, he was a symbol of sacrifice. A legend laid to rest beneath sacred soil. Yet the truth of what had happened during those final days—the missing years that had vanished from Ersia's history—had not disappeared entirely.
One man still carried them.
His name was Randia. Asmar's younger half-brother.
For fifteen years he had borne a burden heavier than any armor, carrying a grief that had never lessened since the day he buried the only family he had left.
On a moonless night when winter winds swept across the roads with cruel determination, Randia found himself stopping at a roadside tavern. The building stood alone against the darkness, its windows glowing faintly with firelight that leaked through old shutters and weathered cracks.
When he stepped inside, the warmth struck him immediately.
So did the stares.
Randia was a large man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, he possessed the sort of frame that drew attention even before one noticed the travel-worn cloak hanging from his shoulders. His hood concealed most of his features, casting his face in shadow, yet there was something about him that made conversation falter as he crossed the threshold.
"Psst. Look at that one."
A regular seated near the counter nudged his companion before giving the innkeeper a glance.
"Doesn't look like your everyday customer, eh, Elma?"
Several heads turned.
For a brief moment, the tavern grew quieter.
The stranger paid them no mind.
His boots creaked against the floorboards as he made his way toward the counter. The sound seemed unusually loud in the lull that had settled over the room. Up close, his exhaustion became impossible to miss. The hem of his cloak was damp from the mist outside, stained by the countless roads he had traveled. Every movement carried a weariness that went beyond physical fatigue.
When he finally reached the counter, he spoke only a single word.
"Mead."
The simplicity of the request broke whatever tension had formed. A few patrons snorted in amusement at themselves before returning to their conversations. Others shrugged and resumed drinking.
The stranger was merely a traveler.
Nothing more.
Randia took his drink and sat alone.
For a while, the tavern returned to normal. Laughter drifted through the room. Tankards clinked together. Dice rolled across tables. Outside, the wind rattled the shutters.
Then an argument erupted near the back.
A customer had cornered one of the barmaids.
The exchange quickly grew louder.
At first, nobody paid much attention. Drunken disputes were common enough in backwater establishments such as this. The man was heavily intoxicated, and the girl unfortunate enough to catch his attention was struggling to free herself from his grip.
Years ago, Randia would have intervened without hesitation.
This time, he remained seated.
His eyes stayed fixed on his drink as if the commotion did not exist.
"Let me go!" the barmaid cried. "Help me! Please! Anyone!"
The desperation in her voice carried throughout the room.
One of the patrons glanced toward the innkeeper.
"Aye, Elma. He's draggin' her toward the back alley. Ye ain't gonna do nothin'?"
Elma continued wiping a mug.
"The girl knew what she signed up for," she replied without looking up. "The sooner she learns to claw for herself, the better. Otherwise it'll be the same thing every damn day."
No one argued with her as the barmaid's cries continued.
No one moved.
To the people of this insignificant little town, such things had become routine. Unpleasant, perhaps, but hardly worth risking trouble over. For similar reasons, Randia himself chose silence as well.
Then, without warning, he began to cough.
The sound was violent enough to draw several glances.
Randia lurched forward in his chair as another cough tore through him, followed immediately by another. His entire body convulsed. The tankard slipped from his hand and struck the floor as he collapsed beside it.
Most of the patrons merely stared.
A drunken traveler falling ill was hardly the strangest thing they had witnessed.
But the coughing did not stop. It worsened.
Randia clawed at his throat as though something inside him were trying to escape.
"Hoek! Uhak! Urk...!"
The noise was sickening.
Then a thick black substance burst from his mouth and splattered across the floorboards.
Several people recoiled immediately.
It looked like tar mixed with pus, viscous and foul-smelling beyond belief. The stench spread through the room within moments, turning stomachs and driving nearby patrons from their seats.
Now everyone was paying attention.
The drunk who had been harassing the barmaid released her arm and strode forward with a sneer.
"Hey, buddy," he called mockingly. "Feeling sick?"
Before Randia could respond, the man's boot slammed into the side of his head.
"Got a tank of rat piss in yer throat?"
A few nearby patrons laughed.
The thug grinned and gestured toward the fallen traveler.
"Let's beat this freak up and throw him out before he turns this place into a shithole."
Encouraged by the suggestion, several others rose from their seats and approached.
What happened next silenced them all.
One of the men reached down and yanked back Randia's hood.
The reaction was immediate.
Laughter vanished.
The room froze.
Beneath the hood was a head of silver-white hair unlike anything any of them had ever seen. Even under the tavern's dim lighting, it seemed to catch and reflect the firelight with an almost ethereal brilliance.
The nearest thug staggered backward. His face drained of color.
His trembling hand rose toward the long scar running down Randia's right cheek.
"That hair..."
The words barely escaped his lips.
"R-Randia...!"
The name spread through the room like a shockwave. Several patrons instinctively backed away, while others simply stared.
Stories of heroes belonged to legends, not roadside taverns.
Yet there was no mistaking him.
Before anyone could gather themselves, Randia suddenly screamed.
The sound was raw and terrified.
He clutched his face with both hands as though trying to shield himself from something invisible. His legs kicked wildly, overturning tables and chairs in every direction. A barrel rolled across the floor as he scrambled backward.
"No! No! Stay away from me!"
His voice cracked.
He curled into himself, pressing his face against the floorboards.
"Leave me be!"
There was no dignity in the scene.
No trace of the warrior celebrated in countless tales.
Only fear. Pure and overwhelming.
Then, with desperate haste, Randia forced himself upright.
His hood fell back over his head.
Without looking at anyone, he stumbled toward the door and fled into the night. The great hero ran like a hunted animal, his movements frantic and unsteady as he disappeared into the darkness beyond the tavern.
No one followed.
For several moments after his departure, the room remained silent.
The men who had been prepared to beat him stood rooted to the spot. Others exchanged uncertain glances, struggling to reconcile the image they had just witnessed with the stories they had grown up hearing.
Everyone knew the hallmark of the Great Hero Asmar. His golden hair had been compared countless times to the brilliance of the midday sun. Randia, his younger brother, possessed silver hair instead, pale and solemn as winter snow. Together with the scar on his cheek, it was an unmistakable sight.
The man who had fled could only have been him, and that realization changed everything.
News traveled quickly.
Within days, the story had spread far beyond the little town. Merchants carried it along trade routes. Travelers repeated it at roadside inns. Messengers shared it in marketplaces. Every retelling seemed more unbelievable than the last, yet the sheer number of witnesses made dismissal increasingly difficult.
Randia had returned. Not as a hero nor an exalted figure.
But as a man seemingly broken by something no one understood.
The tale eventually reached the royal courts of the continent. There, it was treated with far greater seriousness.
Meetings were convened behind closed doors. Advisors debated the implications. Rulers who had not spoken of the Sacred Valley of Tivaria in years suddenly found themselves discussing it once again.
Among them, none responded more quickly than the Emperor of Aramia.
As one of the most revered sovereigns upon the Seraina Continent, the emperor's attention alone was enough to alter the course of nations. Upon hearing the report, he immediately summoned one of his aides and began issuing orders.
"Bring me the spymaster," he said. "This matter takes priority."
The aide hesitated.
Only for a moment.
But it was enough.
"Pardon my ignorance and nescience, Your Majesty," he said carefully. "Would it not be wiser to verify this... hearsay before taking any significant action?"
The emperor's gaze settled upon him.
"You have grown bold. Perhaps I enjoyed you too much."
The aide immediately paled.
"F-Forgive my impudence, Your Majesty. Your orders shall be delivered faster than the wind."
Satisfied, the emperor dismissed him with a wave.
The audience ended there. Yet the consequences of that brief exchange would spread far beyond the walls of Aramia.
The secret buried within the Sacred Valley of Tivaria remained hidden. The truth of the Silent Twilight had not yet been uncovered. Even so, a belief had begun to spread among kings, scholars, generals, and opportunists alike. Somewhere within that forgotten mystery lay the key to a new age.
The missing hero had returned, and he will not be left alone.