PactBound

The words struck like a hammer, shattering the last fragile threads of his old reality. Klein's knees buckled, his hands pressing into the dirt—cold, real, and so far removed from the home he had known. The ground beneath him felt alien, the texture of the soil coarse and unyielding, as if it too rejected his presence. He stared at the overgrown ruins of Falkridge, the once-thriving village now reduced to a graveyard of memories.

"T-three hundred years," Klein muttered, his voice trembling. He couldn't believe it. Everyone he had known—his daughters, Jen, Kar, even his wife—were gone. The weight of the revelation pressed down on him, crushing his chest until he could barely breathe. His hands dug into the dirt, fingers curling around clumps of earth as if anchoring himself to the present. But the present was no longer his. It belonged to a world that had moved on without him.

The damp air tasted of loam and decay, cool against his lips as he sucked in shallow breaths. The dirt beneath his nails felt gritty, a harsh anchor to a world that had slipped through his fingers. Falkridge, once alive with laughter and warmth, was now a skeletal remnant of its former self. Only the stone foundations of the village remained, half-buried under a tangle of vines and moss. The roads he had walked countless times were now nothing more than overgrown animal trails, their cobblestones cracked and swallowed by the earth. Trees loomed where houses once stood, their roots breaking through the remnants of walls as if nature itself had claimed the village as its own. The wind sighed through the hollow ruins, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and the distant rustle of leaves. It was as if the world had forgotten Falkridge, leaving it to crumble into obscurity.

Images of his daughters chasing fireflies in the twilight, their giggles mingling with the soft hum of summer nights, flashed through his mind. Elizabeth's gentle hands brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, her eyes crinkling with a smile, felt as tangible as the earth beneath his fingers. But the visions crumbled as quickly as they came, leaving behind only the cold ache of absence.

A hot spike of anger flared in his chest—at fate, at the cruel twist of time, at Lina for speaking the truth without a shred of empathy. But it fizzled as quickly as it came, leaving only the hollow ache behind. He clenched his fists, the faint hum of energy beneath his skin grounding him in the present. Even his breath—steady, measured—seemed more controlled, less real. It was a cruel reminder of all he had lost.

Lina stood silently beside him, her expression unreadable. She didn't offer comfort or reassurance, only the cold, unflinching truth. Yet, for the briefest moment, her gaze flickered away, as if the weight of his grief was too much even for her. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak, the fabric whispering as it shifted. She exhaled softly, a sound so faint it was almost lost in the wind. It was the closest thing to vulnerability Klein had seen from her, and it made him wonder what lay beneath her stoic exterior.

Klein could feel the tears forming in his eyes, hot and unrelenting, as he rose to his feet, shifting his weight back onto his heels. He looked out over the ruins, the place he had once called home, and felt a hollow ache in his chest.

"M-my girls," he whispered, his voice breaking. "What kind of lives did they live?"

Lina's voice was calm, almost detached, as she began to speak. "Emily was a scholar, like your wife. She attended the Royal Academy in Ravengarde. There, she met the youngest son of a merchant house." She paused, as if allowing the words to sink in. "They were married during her final year at the academy and settled down in the capital."

Klein couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest despite the grief that threatened to consume him. Emily had lived a life her mother would have been proud of. She had found love, pursued knowledge, and built a future for herself. The thought brought him a bittersweet comfort.

"And Anna," Lina continued before Klein could say anything, "she became an adventurer. The first person from the Tovar Woodlands to reach B Rank. That was before she fell in love with one of the guild trainers."

Tears welled up in Klein's eyes, spilling over as he listened. He may not have been there to see it, but from what Lina was telling him, both of his daughters had lived lives to be proud of. They had found happiness, love, and purpose. It was more than he could have hoped for, even if he hadn't been there to witness it.

"You talk like you knew them," Klein remarked, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand.

"That's because I did," Lina said curtly. She reached into her cloak and pulled out a small, weathered photograph, handing it to Klein without another word.

Klein's hands trembled as he took the picture. The photograph's edges were worn, the ink slightly faded. His thumb traced the curve of Emily's smile, the sharp angle of Anna's determined brow. The paper was cold against his skin, a reminder that these images were echoes of a life he could never reclaim. It was a family photo, but not the one he remembered. Two couples stood side by side, their faces filled with warmth and life. On the right was Emily, her hair tied in a braid that fell over her shoulder, her elegance unmistakable. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, her face radiant with the kind of quiet confidence her mother had always carried. Beside her stood a man with long, flowing hair pushed back just above his shoulders, his expression kind and gentle. Around them stood three children—two girls and a boy—their faces alight with laughter and mischief. "Emily," Klein murmured, his fingertips brushing the image as if he could reach through time and touch her.

On the other side of the picture was Anna, her short, spiked hair giving her a fierce appearance, though her beauty still shone through. She stood beside a man with a buzz cut and a face marred by scars from countless battles. His arm was draped protectively around her shoulders, and around them stood four children—two boys and two girls—each one a perfect blend of their parents' strength and spirit. "Anna," Klein whispered, his voice barely audible.

A weight lifted from his chest, replaced by a bittersweet ache. His children had lived wonderful, fulfilling lives. They had grown, loved, and built families of their own. Even if he hadn't been there to see it, the fact that they had been happy was more than enough for him. "Thank you," he said to Lina, his voice thick with emotion.

She took a step forward, standing beside him as he knelt in the dirt. For the first time, a shadow of something human crossed Lina's face. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak, knuckles pale against the fabric. "For the first hundred years after your death, I was tasked with watching over your children," she said softly. "They were both truly wonderful people. You should be proud."

Klein nodded, though the tears still streamed down his face. He was proud—proud of Emily, proud of Anna, proud of the lives they had lived. But the ache in his chest remained, a hollow space where their laughter should have been, where their voices should have echoed. They were gone, and he had missed it all.

Lina seemed to sense his turmoil. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle. "They never forgot you," she said quietly. "Emily kept a journal, filled with stories about you and Elizabeth. Anna carried a locket with your picture in it, even on her most dangerous missions. You were always with them, even if you weren't there."

Klein closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him. It would never be enough—but it was something. His daughters had remembered him, carrying his memory forward, even when he had been lost to time. And now, he would do the same for them.

He drew a slow breath, the faint hum of energy beneath his skin grounding him in the present. He couldn't reclaim the years, couldn't hold his daughters in his arms or see the lives they had built. But he could honor them—could make sure that the world they had left behind was worth saving.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice no longer a shatter but a forge, hammering his grief into purpose.

As he took his first step forward, the ruins of Falkridge seemed to breathe around him. The past lay in ashes, but his path lay ahead—in the shadows of the future.