Chapter 28: The Reforged Land
522words
Amy was panting, waving a crumpled map.
“Sand, wind, and wolves howling at night—are you sure?”
I stood on a barren ridge, beneath my boots nothing but cracked, gray dirt.
Far ahead, the mountains stretched like scars clawed by gods.
“This is it,” I said.
“It’s far from the mainlands. No nobles. No flags. No one's problem.”
“And more importantly—completely forsaken.”
Tai rolled his eyes.
“So we’re really here to build a new home… not just collectively die out here?”
I grinned.
“Anyone who crawled out from under a whip doesn’t fear death.”
Killian rode up on his black wolf, looking like he’d swallowed a lemon whole.
“You still sure you won’t stay?” he asked.
“I spoke with the council. You could have a third of the clanlands.”
I met his eyes, my voice steady:
“That third is soaked in blood, tears, and too many bones.”
“I can't live in a place that makes me forgive the past just to breathe.”
He fell silent. Then sighed.
“What do you need?”
I raised my hand, fingers outstretched:
“One—water.
Two—tools.
Three—hands that can work.
Four—timber strong enough for walls.
Five—somewhere as far from your mother as physically possible.”
Killian: “…”
“…Well, I’ve already fulfilled the fifth one.”
And so, we began to build.
We weren’t nobles.
We had no magical relics, no trained guilds.
But we had will.
We had rage.
And we had a future.
By day, we hauled stone.
By night, we roasted yams.
Even Amy managed to boil some gruel that didn’t kill anyone within five days.
Sometimes the wind howled.
I would stand atop the hill, looking down at the rows of tents, the slowly rising stone walls.
And I’d hear someone shout:
“Boss! The well’s come up clean!”
“Boss! Our first grain harvest!”
“Boss! Tai fell off the roof!”
I’d yell back:
“Did Tai die?”
“Not yet!”
“Then leave him there till he learns.”
At night, I sat by the fire alone.
Killian dropped beside me, tossing me a roasted rabbit leg.
“You catch this?”
“Caught it.”
“You—what, barehanded?”
He nodded smugly.
“Alpha hunting class. Didn’t sleep through every session.”
I took a bite, chewed, then said quietly:
“…So you really stayed.”
He blinked. “Didn’t you say I passed the interview?”
“When did I—”
“You said I didn’t look like a bad guy when I smiled.”
I glared at him. “You really hold grudges.”
The fire danced in his eyes.
For a moment, I didn’t speak.
Then he asked, softly:
“Daphne. Have you ever thought…
You didn’t have to do any of this.
You could’ve hidden. Run away.”
“But you stayed. You fought. You led us out of hell.”
“Why?”
I thought for a long time.
Then I whispered:
“Maybe because…”
“Back in the dungeon—I once scratched three words into the stone wall.”
He asked, “What did they say?”
I smiled faintly.
“Not done yet.”
That night, I dreamed.
I dreamed of the slave camps burning.
Of the numbered, the nameless,
—breaking free.
Running through the fire.
Toward me.
And I stood above them, the wind howling behind me, the moon bright and full.
I whispered:
“Welcome home.”
