CHAPTER 471: CHAPTER 471: GET EVERYONE INSIDE

It had been nearly a week since Isabella left the village.

But Cyrus wasn’t worried.

Not outwardly, at least.

He still carried that calm, gentle composure that had always defined him—the kind that made people trust him instantly. The same composure that made everyone assume nothing could shake him.

But deep down, something was off.

The necklace he had forged himself—the one that bound him to her—wasn’t with him anymore. It was around Isabella’s neck, exactly where it belonged. Yet even from miles away, he could still feel it.

It was a simple charm: a single golden thread woven with a drop of his own magic, enough to sense her presence.

He couldn’t see her or hear her through it, but he could feel her. When she was safe, it was still. When she was in pain or danger, it burned hot, like a spark pressing against his heart.

Sometimes that spark flared, brief and violent—moments that made his pulse stop.

But before panic could set in, it would calm again.

Each time, the burn faded, the warmth returned, and he breathed again.

"She promised me," he would whisper to himself whenever it happened. "She promised she could take care of herself."

He wanted to believe that. Needed to.

Because if anything happened to her—if he failed her, even once more—he would never forgive himself.

So he stayed.

The days passed in slow, muted rhythm. Cyrus busied himself with work around the village, though his heart wasn’t in it. The sun rose, the wind moved through the trees, people laughed and bartered and lived. But for him, everything felt... distant.

He spent his hours helping where he could. He carved, built, repaired—mechanical motions without thought.

He taught the younger men how to craft door handles from polished stone and wooden beams. It gave his hands purpose when his heart didn’t know what to do.

When the others laughed, he smiled politely. But his eyes never lit up.

When the others ate, he forced down food. But the taste never reached him.

The once-bright spark of joy that had lived in him—the laughter that used to fill their workshops, the gentle warmth of his voice—was gone.

Now, he just looked tired.

Hollow.

Broken.

⸻

Across the open clearing, near the line of half-finished homes, Ophelia stood watching him.

Her hands were covered in wood shavings; she’d been helping Valen smooth out the legs of a new table. But her eyes kept drifting toward Cyrus, her heart heavy in her chest.

He looked like a ghost of himself.

The man who once laughed while teaching children to weave vines for traps was now quiet, mechanical. He moved like a man surviving on duty alone.

And that broke her.

Because if there was anyone in the world who didn’t deserve pain—it was Cyrus.

He was kind. Too kind, maybe. Always helping, always smiling, even when others took advantage of him.

She sniffed quietly, blinking fast to keep her tears from spilling.

Valen noticed.

He stopped sanding the edge of the table and wiped his hands on a cloth before walking over. Without a word, he pulled her gently into his arms.

"She’ll come back," he murmured, his chin resting lightly against her head. "They’ll both be fine."

Ophelia’s voice trembled when she spoke. "I just... I don’t understand what he did. She seemed so angry at the mention of his name that night. And he—he looks like he’s falling apart."

Valen exhaled softly, glancing toward Cyrus, who was still bent over a wooden frame, explaining something to a group of young men. "Sometimes," Valen said quietly, "our mates get angry not because they hate us, but because they care too much. They’ll find their way back to each other. You’ll see."

Ophelia nodded weakly. "I hope so." She hesitated. "He really makes the best soup, you know."

Valen smiled faintly, shaking his head. "I know."

That got a small laugh out of her, though her eyes were still wet.

"I miss her," she whispered after a moment. "I miss Isabella. She was always loud, always scolding everyone—but the village feels too quiet without her."

Valen gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "Then she’ll come back, just to make it noisy again."

She smiled softly at that.

⸻

The village was alive around them. The rhythm of normal life continued as if the world hadn’t changed—children chasing each other through the paths, women carrying baskets of fruit and grain, men shaping stones into tools. Laughter echoed between huts, smoke drifted from the cooking pits, and the air smelled of roasted meat and damp earth.

It was the same day as every day—until it wasn’t.

A sudden, ragged voice broke through the chatter.

"Help!"

Heads turned.

A man stumbled through the village path, barefoot, his chest slick with blood and mud. His breath came in sharp gasps, his hair clinging to his forehead. His skin was carved with claw marks so deep that each breath sent a spray of red down his torso.

The world froze for a heartbeat.

Ophelia’s hand flew to her mouth. Valen’s body tensed instantly, stepping in front of her.

Cyrus was already moving.

He dropped the wooden tool he was holding, the sound of it hitting the ground sharp in the heavy silence. He crossed the open clearing in a few strides, catching the man just before he collapsed.

"What happened?" Cyrus asked, voice calm but low, urgent.

The man’s eyes were wild, darting around, unfocused. He tried to speak, but only a rasp came out. His hand lifted weakly, pointing behind him, toward the forest path.

Everyone followed his trembling finger.

The woods beyond the village border looked the same as always—still, shadowed, thick with mist. But something in the air had shifted. The birds were gone. The wind was still.

The silence was unnatural.

Cyrus’s instincts prickled.

"Get the healers," he ordered, lowering the wounded man carefully onto the ground. "Now."

But before anyone could move, the ground trembled faintly.

A dull, rhythmic thudding began in the distance—soft at first, like footsteps muffled by earth.

Then louder.

And louder.

A ripple of unease moved through the crowd. Women clutched their children closer. The men reached for weapons—wooden spears, sharpened stones, hunting knives.

Valen grabbed a spear and stepped up beside Cyrus, his jaw tight. "That’s not a single creature."

Cyrus didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the tree line.

The wounded man tried again to speak, coughing up blood. His words came out broken. "They—they’re coming—"

And then his eyes rolled back.

He collapsed completely.

Ophelia knelt down beside him, pressing her hands to his wounds, but it was no use. The man was gone.

The thudding grew closer.

Cyrus stood slowly, every motion precise, deliberate—like a serpent uncoiling after too long in stillness.

The calm, soft-spoken man was gone now. In his place stood something colder.

"Get everyone inside," he said.

Valen nodded, shouting orders. Women grabbed children, running toward the stone huts. The younger men fanned out, forming a loose defensive circle.

Cyrus turned toward the forest just as shadows began to move between the trees.

Shapes broke through the mist—men, not monsters. Their bare chests were streaked with ash and red dye. three sharp stripes rested on each one of their arms, displaying their level of strength. They carried long spears of sharpened bone and stone, their faces painted with dirt and blood.

The sound came next: the heavy rhythm of feet against earth, the clatter of weapons, the low, guttural shouts of hunters too used to killing.

Cyrus’s body went still.

Valen’s grip tightened on his spear beside him, and Ophelia’s breath hitched audibly. The villagers who had been standing nearby scattered back toward their huts, pulling children with them, whispering prayers under their breath.

There was no mistaking it. These men weren’t here to trade or talk.

They were raiders.

The air grew heavy, charged with the quiet dread before violence. Dust swirled through the village square.

Cyrus’s hand brushed the necklace at his throat—the one linked to Isabella—and for a fleeting moment, he felt the faintest burn beneath his skin. Not danger, not yet... but something. A warning, maybe. Or a whisper of her heartbeat far away.

He didn’t know. He only knew the feeling sent ice through his veins.

Behind him, Valen shouted, "Cyrus!"

Cyrus’s gaze snapped forward just as the first of the armed men stepped into full view—twelve of them, each with three crimson stripes across their bodies, their eyes cold and wild.

The leader, tall and broad-shouldered, lifted his spear and pointed it straight at the village.

And the air around them shifted—still, silent, waiting for the first strike.