With the speech done, there were no more words left to say—just the silence of understanding, the burden of uncertainty shared by everyone.
Theron walked back to his room, flanked by Garlan and Brude. The three of them cloaked in heavy silence as they left the central square behind.
The sky had slowly started to change.
The sun was giving way to the darkness of night.
Above them, countless stars shimmered, and two bright moons hung in the sky, glowing faintly with an almost magical light.
Their silvery glow painted their path, casting a soft shine over Underwood Village with an eerie yet peaceful beauty.
A cool breeze swept past, brushing through their hair and rustling their cloaks. It became the only sound breaking the tense quiet as they moved forward.
As they neared Theron's home, he noticed the warm orange glow coming through the windows. Someone—probably Elira—had already lit the lamps.
The scent of burning oil reached his nose as he stepped into the room, followed by the other two men. None of them spoke a word as they entered.
As he walked forward, Theron's eyes landed on a mirror placed near the door.
He hadn't taken a proper look at himself since arriving in this body, though the memories of the previous Theron had given him a rough idea of his appearance.
But seeing it now with his own eyes—it felt different.
He had short, curly white hair, vivid green eyes, and a well-defined jawline. His face was quite handsome, even noble in a way.
But right now, that handsome face was marked with tiredness, and his eyes showed clear signs of fatigue.
Theron sighed at his reflection for a moment but didn't stay there long.
The effects of the tonic were wearing off, and pain was returning quickly, like waves crashing against a dam.
Without wasting time, he headed straight for the bed and slumped down with a heavy breath, his hand moving instinctively to his side.
'I really need to get this body back in shape, he thought, furrowing his brows.
But with the village's herb supply running low, he doubted Elira had anything strong enough to help him recover quickly.
As for magic? That was out of the question.
Elira barely knew the basics of healing magic, and healing magic wasn't something you found often in a place like this—tucked away so far from the rest of the world it felt forgotten.
Even Theron himself, with his fire element, only had access to a few beginner spells. And that was fire magic—one of the easiest spell to access. Healing spells were a whole different matter, much harder to come by.
Theron rubbed his forehead, frustration and helplessness settling in like dust in an old wound.
Garlan and Brude still stood near the doorway, watching him.
To them, it seemed like he was dealing with the heavy weight of leadership. And maybe he was—but not in the way they thought. Right now, he was more concerned with his own survival. The village's future just happened to be tied to his, since he was their leader.
After a long pause, Garlan finally broke the silence. "So… what do we do next? Do you have a plan?"
Brude turned to look at Theron too. The same question was clearly on his mind.
Theron looked up at them and let out a soft chuckle under his breath.
He did have a plan.
---
Meanwhile, at the outer wall of Underwood Village…
A man moved quietly along the edge of the wall, his footsteps light. He looked to be in his late twenties, dressed in a worn black robe with frayed and muddy edges.
"Yarik? Is that you?" a voice called from one of the watchtowers attached to the wooden outer wall.
The robed man looked up.
"Yeah? It's me. Who's there?" he asked, staring toward the source of the voice.
"It's me, Kelric," said the guard—a broad-shouldered man with tired eyes. He leaned over the railing, staring down at him.
"Oh, how's it going up there?" Yarik called out, recognizing the man.
"Nothing much, just the usual stuff," Kelric replied with a tired shrug. "What about you? What are you doing out here, Yarik? You're not on shift tonight."
Yarik gave a weak smile. "Couldn't sleep. Feels like I've got a better chance of staying alive walking the wall than lying in bed."
Kelric let out a grunt of agreement. "Ain't that the truth. Every little noise outside makes me grab my spear. Feels like one of these nights, I'm gonna wake up with a sword at my throat."
They shared a short, nervous chuckle. Hollow and tired.
"You think they'll come tonight? Or maybe sometime soon?" Yarik asked, his voice quiet.
Kelric paused before answering.
"Could be. Could be tomorrow. Hell, might even be right now while we're talking. We all know it's coming eventually. Just don't know when."
"That's the worst part," Yarik said. "The waiting. Makes a man age faster."
Kelric nodded slowly in agreement. A silence stretched between them for a few moments.
"Well, I'm just gonna walk around a bit. Don't mind me," Yarik said, breaking the silence.
Kelric waved him off. "Suit yourself. Just stay alert out here. You never know."
"Yeah, sure thing, man," Yarik replied, giving a faint smile before continuing his walk. Kelric turned back to resume his patrol above.
As Yarik walked, his expression slowly changed. The calm face he wore seconds ago hardened into something cold.
He didn't move any farther for a moment. Instead, he waited—counting seconds in his head. Listening carefully. No footsteps followed. Kelric was gone, and no other guard was nearby.
Now was the time.
Like a shadow slipping away from the light, Yarik quietly moved to the village gate. He pulled up the hood of his cloak, covering his head, and stepped outside. His pace quickened as he left the village behind, his boots making barely any sound on the dirt path. He was heading toward the enemy.
A traitor.
The night was quiet, save for the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant chirps of insects. But Yarik paid them no mind. He moved with purpose, guided by the silver light of the moon.
Then—he heard it.
A soft crunch. A footstep behind him.
Someone was there.
Yarik froze, heart pounding. Panic surged in his chest as he reached for the hilt of his sword—but before he could grab it, something touched his neck.
Cold.
Sharp.
The unmistakable touch of a blade.
He stopped breathing.
How? How had he been caught? He had always been careful. Never left signs. Never repeated patterns.
As he fought to steady his breathing, a voice came from behind. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the night like a knife.
"Fucking traitor," the voice cursed, low and sharp, but filled with rage. Burning hatred dripped from each word.
Yarik flinched at the tone alone. He tried to speak, but before he could say a word—something heavy struck the back of his head.
Everything went dark.
His body dropped like a sack, limbs folding awkwardly beneath him. He hit the ground with a dull thud.
Moonlight caught the glint of the blade now held by the one who struck him.
It was Garlan.
Garlan stood over Yarik's unconscious form, boots pressing softly into the grass below. His face was calm at first—but then his expression changed.
It twisted.
Dark.
Full of hate.
He stared down at Yarik, eyes burning with fury. His hand clenched the sword tight. He wanted nothing more than to end this now.
One swing. One clean cut to the neck. That's all it would take.
But he stopped himself. He took a deep breath.
He remembered Theron's orders.
For weeks now, they had suspected there was a traitor. Every time they had planned a surprise attack or set up an ambush—the enemy had known. Not once. Not twice. But every single time.
What should've been victories had turned into massacres.
Good men had died.
Garlan had known something was wrong. Someone was leaking their plans—but he had no proof. Accusing someone without evidence would only make things worse. And with morale already low, it was too risky.
So, he had waited. Until now.
After returning to Theron's room earlier that night, Theron had told him he believed the traitor would move tonight. He had sent Garlan to intercept them—if they showed up.
And here he was.
He had caught the rat.
But still… he couldn't kill him. Not yet. Theron had made it clear—if Garlan managed to catch the traitor, he had to bring him back alive. Theron had a use for him.
So Garlan sighed heavily and slowly sheathed his blade, though his fingers twitched with anger.
"Lucky bastard," he muttered under his breath, voice shaking with rage.
He pulled a rope from his side and quickly tied up Yarik's hands and feet. The knots were tight and firm. There would be no escape.
But Garlan didn't leave just yet.
Instead, he dragged Yarik off to the side of the path and hid in the shadows, eyes sharp.
He needed to be sure.
Yarik might not be the only traitor. There could be more.