Requiem of the Forgotten

Lydia stood at the entrance of the hall, her golden eyes calm, unreadable. The kind of expression a queen might wear before stepping into a war council.

Behind her, the hall loomed—larger and sturdier than anything Dragontown had managed to build. Thick beams arched over the ceiling, the scent of fresh-cut wood still lingering in the air. Rough banners hung from the walls, some featuring symbols that were clearly unfinished, while others were more refined, their craftsmanship leagues ahead of anything we could manage.

It was impressive. Too impressive.

Lydia's gaze swept over us—not just our group, but also the other human leaders who had traveled with us from Seatown. She gave a short nod before turning on her heel.

"Follow me."

We entered together.

And the moment we did, I felt the silence.

Not an ordinary silence. This was deliberate. Heavy. The kind that settled over a room when people had already decided something about you—and you were the last to know.

At the center of the hall stood a massive round table. The surface was polished dark wood, almost unnatural in its sheen. The chairs around it were occupied by representatives from every major faction.

The humans were seated together. Seatown's leader sat stiffly, his broad frame and sun-worn skin giving him the appearance of an old soldier. Behind him, Nikita stood at attention, his stance sharp, disciplined. Delunia's leader, a wiry man with a perpetual calculating expression, drummed his fingers against the wood. Gynsk's leader, a woman with a face carved by hardship, leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, her gaze flicking between the others.

And then—the Elves.

At their center, the Elven King.

He was tall, unnaturally so, even for an elf. His robes were deep emerald, lined with gray, his long golden hair cascading over his shoulders like flowing silk. His face was impossibly sharp, elegant, the kind of beauty that didn't belong to normal mortals.

Vaelion stood behind him, slightly to his right, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. Seris stood on the other side, her dark gaze wary, cautious.

Further down, the dwarves. Their leader was a thick-browed man with a silver-streaked beard, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression already one of mild impatience.

Beyond them, the other races. Orcs. Reptilian beings. A few I didn't even recognize—some humanoid, some barely so.

And then there was us. The Dragontown group.

The air shifted the moment we stepped forward. The Elven King's gaze barely flicked toward us. Vaelion didn't even bother to hide his smirk. The dwarven leader exhaled slowly through his nose, as if he had already made up his mind about us.

Lydia took her seat. Then, without preamble, she spoke.

"Dragontown."

That was it. No introduction. No formal welcome. Just one word. Like we were an afterthought.Carmen didn't let it shake her. She pulled out her chair and sat, her expression smooth, composed.

"Thank you for having us," she said, her voice steady.

She started strong. She spoke of Dragontown's growth. How we had built homes, organized defenses, started trade. How people had come together in the face of nothing, creating something that wasn't just survival—it was progress.

She was good. Too good.

Which is why the first laugh hit like a knife to the stomach.It wasn't loud. Just a slow exhale of amusement. Then another. A ripple of chuckles.

And then—the Elven King finally looked at us.

"Children."

The word landed like a stone. Not an insult. Just a fact.

Carmen's jaw tensed.

The dwarven leader let out a short breath, his thick fingers tapping the table. "A city run by teenagers," he mused. "Impressive." The sarcasm was undeniable.

Vaelion chuckled softly. "I fail to see why we are here," he said smoothly. "It is one thing to discuss alliances between established cities. It is another to entertain a settlement that is, at best, a temporary camp."

Carmen refused to falter. "We're not asking for permission to exist."

The Elven King tilted his head slightly.

"No," he said, "but you are asking to be taken seriously."

The words cut through the air like a blade.

Silence.

Then—they tore us apart.

They dissected everything. The lack of political structure. The inexperience of our leadership. The unstable economy. The weak military force. The simple fact that every single one of us was under eighteen.

It wasn't an argument. It was a demolition.

And the worst part?

They weren't wrong.

It had all felt too easy. The founding of Dragontown. The way people fell in line. The sense that we were actually building something real—

But the moment we stepped into the wider world, it collapsed.

A pit formed in my stomach. The air around me thickened, pressing against my lungs. The walls felt closer, the voices louder, the room tighter.

My pulse slammed against my ribs. I couldn't breathe.

Carmen was still speaking. Someone was still laughing.

The walls were closing in.

I barely remember leaving the meeting hall.

One second, I was sitting there, feeling the walls close in, the voices hammering down on us like a relentless tide. The next, I was outside, moving blindly, the night air pressing against my skin like something tangible, something heavy. The world felt muted—like I was walking underwater, every sound distant, every movement sluggish.

Somewhere behind me, I could hear the others gathering around the fire. Their voices were quiet, subdued. No one was celebrating. No one was even talking much. The air was thick, suffocating.

I didn't sit with them.

"I… I need a break," I muttered, barely recognizing my own voice.

No one questioned it. Not Carmen, not Nikita, not Amina. Daisuke glanced up, but for once, he didn't say anything.

They let me go.

I walked.

And kept walking.

I wasn't going anywhere, not really. Just away. Away from them, from the fire, from the city. Away from everything. My feet carried me toward the treeline, the darkened mass of the forest swallowing me whole. The moment I was inside, the sounds of the camp faded, replaced by the distant rustling of leaves, the occasional snap of a branch. The air smelled damp, earthy, fresh—like the world didn't give a damn about the meeting, about Dragontown, about me.

I stopped.

And then, finally—I broke.

The breath left my lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp, my shoulders heaving, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. I staggered forward and caught myself against a tree, my fingers digging into the rough bark. My head spun. My vision swam.

It was never real.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut.

It was all a lie.

Dragontown. The way everything had come together so easily. The way people had fallen in line, as if we were actually building something real, something that mattered.

But it didn't.

Because they were right.

We were just kids playing in the sand, pretending we belonged.

I pressed my forehead against the tree, squeezing my eyes shut. My hands were shaking. My whole body was shaking. I could still hear them—the laughter, the condescension, the way they had dismissed us so completely, so effortlessly.

They were right.

It wasn't just Dragontown. It was everything.

I never processed any of it.

The war. The invasion. The destruction. The way the sky had split open, the way the world had been swallowed whole. The way I had stood there, watching as my home—my life—was erased.

Mom. Dad.

I couldn't even picture their faces anymore. Just blurred images, voices already fading.

Because I hadn't let myself think about them. Not once.

Not when we ran. Not when we arrived in this world. Not when we started building.

I had kept moving, kept pretending like none of it mattered.

Like I was fine.

But I wasn't.

I never had been.

I gasped for air, but my chest felt tight, like something was crushing me from the inside. My pulse pounded in my skull, too fast, too erratic. The world tilted.

I can't breathe.

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms—and then I swung.

My knuckles slammed into the tree, sending a sharp jolt of pain up my arm.

It wasn't enough.

I hit it again. Harder.

Again.

Again.

The bark split under my fists, rough and unforgiving, biting into my skin. Warmth trickled down my fingers, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.

I just wanted to feel something real.

Something solid.

Something that wasn't slipping through my fingers.

I kept swinging, even as my breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, even as my arms trembled from exhaustion. My vision blurred. My knees buckled.

I was so tired.

So tired.

I wanted to stop.

I wanted to let go.

But I couldn't.

Because if I stopped now—I'd have to face it.

All of it.

The truth.

That I wasn't strong. That I wasn't some leader. That I wasn't anything.

That I was just some kid who had lost everything, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.

I pressed my forehead against the tree again, breath hitching, blood dripping from my knuckles. The world felt like it was caving in, pressing down on me, suffocating me.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I just wanted it to stop.

"…Aleks."

I tensed.

The voice was quiet. Measured. Familiar.

I turned my head, and through the haze of exhaustion, of pain, I saw him.

Caelith.

He stood a few feet away, watching me with those unreadable silver eyes. His white hair shimmered faintly in the dim moonlight, his face as expressionless as ever. But there was something different in the way he looked at me.

Something almost… careful.

I wiped at my face with the back of my sleeve. "What do you want?" My voice came out hoarse, raw.

Caelith didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate, calculated, as if approaching a wounded animal.

Then, finally—

"I have not properly thanked you."

I blinked. My brain barely processed the words. "What?"

He sat down beside me, his posture eerily perfect, like he was carved from stone. He didn't look at me. Instead, his gaze remained forward, unfocused, as if looking at something only he could see.

"I have never thanked you," he continued, his tone flat, almost mechanical. "For taking me in."

I let out a weak, humorless laugh. "Yeah, well. You never seemed the type."

Caelith was silent for a long moment. Then—

"I was afraid."

My breath caught.

I turned to look at him, but he still wasn't meeting my gaze. His hands rested on his knees, fingers curled slightly, like he was holding something invisible.

"I have always been afraid," he said. "But I did not understand what it was."

His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it. Something fragile.

"I was born unwanted. A mistake. A Rein-Elf is not meant to exist. Our births are accidents, anomalies. Our parents do not wish for us. Our people do not claim us."

A muscle in his jaw tightened.

"My mother did not want me."

He said it like it was nothing. Like it was a fact, not a wound.

"But she kept me long enough to teach me one thing," he continued. "That emotions are weaknesses. That I should not have them. That I should not be able to feel them."

He exhaled slowly.

"She was wrong."

The words hung in the air between us.

Caelith finally turned his head, meeting my gaze for the first time.

"I do not know what my emotions are," he admitted. "But I know what fear is. I have felt it all my life."

I swallowed hard, my throat tight.

He looked back at the trees.

"But when you took me in, the fear lessened." He tilted his head slightly. "That is why I thank you."

I stared at him, my thoughts tangled, raw.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then, finally—I exhaled.

The tension in my chest loosened, just slightly.

I wasn't okay.

Not yet.

But maybe… maybe I didn't have to be.

Not alone.

I pushed myself up, my limbs sore, my hands aching. "Come on," I muttered, nodding toward the camp. "Let's go back."

Caelith studied me for a second, then stood.

We walked back in silence.

The campfire flickered in the distance, a warm glow against the darkness. The quiet hum of voices drifted through the air—soft, subdued, nothing like the energy that had once filled our group. I slowed as we neared the clearing, my heartbeat steady but my mind still raw from everything that had happened.

Caelith walked beside me in his usual silence, his expression unreadable as ever, but for once, it didn't bother me.

Because I knew now.

He felt more than he let on.

He was just like me, in his own way.

I swallowed, steeling myself before stepping back into the firelight.

Carmen sat on a log, arms folded, staring into the flames like they owed her money. Nikita stood with his hands on his hips, tense and quiet. Amina sat with her legs crossed, sharpening a crude knife against a flat stone, her movements slow and methodical. Daisuke had his head tilted back, staring at the night sky as if it would give him answers.

No one spoke.

Not until they saw me.

Carmen was the first to react.

Her head snapped toward me, her brown eyes narrowing. In one smooth motion, she stood, crossed the space between us, and grabbed my wrists.

Her grip was firm—not crushing, not aggressive, just steady.

But then her fingers tightened.

I didn't realize what she was doing until I followed her gaze.

Her expression changed the moment she saw my hands. The skin on my knuckles was raw, torn open in some places, dried blood caking my fingers. Some of it had smeared onto my sleeves.

"What the hell did you do?"

Her voice was quiet—too quiet.

I pulled my hands back instinctively, but she didn't let go.

Carmen never looked worried. Annoyed? Sure. Pissed off? Always. But right now, the crease between her brows wasn't irritation—it was something else.

Something that made my throat tighten.

I opened my mouth, unsure of what excuse I was about to pull out of my ass, but she was already moving.

She pulled a strip of cloth from her belt—probably meant for bandages—and wrapped it around my hands without a word.

Her fingers were warm against my skin. Precise. Careful.

I could have pulled away. I should have.

But I didn't.

She tied the knot a little too tight and exhaled, shaking her head.

"You're a fucking idiot," she muttered, but her voice wasn't sharp.

I forced out a weak laugh. "You're not the first person to tell me that today."

Carmen didn't smile.

She just held onto my hands for a second longer, her thumb brushing over the edge of the bandage.

Then she let go.

Nikita sighed, shaking his head. "Holy shit, man. You look like you got into a fight with a tree and lost."

I snorted. "It was a close match, but I think I won on points."

"Sure." He rolled his eyes but didn't push further.

Amina flicked her gaze toward me, her expression neutral. "You know you don't have to deal with everything alone, right?"

Something in my chest twisted, but I didn't know what to say.

Daisuke, who had been unusually quiet, finally lowered his head from staring at the sky. He adjusted his glasses. "There are, better ways to handle stress than punching inanimate objects."

I groaned. "Daisuke, I swear to God—"

"—I'm just saying."

I shook my head, exhaling. The tension in my shoulders eased, just a little.

Carmen sat back down, stretching her legs toward the fire. She didn't look at me when she spoke.

"Next time you need to hit something, let me know."

I raised an eyebrow. "…You volunteering to get punched?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, dumbass. I mean, if you wanna throw punches, train properly. Not whatever self-destructive bullshit you just pulled."

I stared at her, but she just threw another stick into the fire and leaned back against her elbows.

The flames crackled, sending embers into the sky.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

The weight in my chest hadn't disappeared. The exhaustion still clawed at me, the doubts still whispered in the back of my mind.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't drowning in it.

I glanced around the fire—at Nikita, who had somehow become one of the strongest warriors in Seatown. At Amina, who always kept her cool no matter what. At Daisuke, who annoyed the hell out of me but still somehow made things feel normal. At Carmen, whose presence was like a fire itself—burning, untamed, but warm when you stood close enough.

And finally—at Caelith, who sat slightly apart from the rest, his silver eyes reflecting the firelight, his expression unreadable.

We were all different. Messed up in our own ways.

But we were here.

Together.

I exhaled, my fingers brushing over the bandages Carmen had wrapped around my hands.

For the first time in a long, long while—

I felt it.

A beautiful emotion.

Named love.