The refugees were ushered to a camp at the farthest reaches of Valoria, a makeshift town of tents. The Wanderer moved through the dozens of refugees, his eyes scanning the rows of tents until he spotted a familiar silhouette.
Captain Zeek was already there, a ledger in one hand and a charcoal stick in the other, directing the flow of broken families to their assigned plots. He caught sight of the bright mask and waved the Wanderer over.
Bypassing the long line, the Wanderer approached. "Where did you go after the execution?" Zeek asked, his smile as warm as it had been at the gate.
"It was too much," the Wanderer lied, his voice muffled by the mask. "I took a walk around the city for a while."
Zeek laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You are such a kind-hearted man. Even after what those mages did to you, seeing them die is still unsettling to you."
The kind response left a bad taste in the Wanderer's mouth. He hated lying to Zeek, but he knew the truth would only bring the executioner’s blade to his own neck.
"You shouldn't feel bad for those heretics," Zeek continued, his tone turning firm. "They lost their way. Killing them is the only merciful thing left to do." His face softened back into a smile. "We didn't have time to properly add you to the records. Do you have any family left that I can pair you with?"
"No," the Wanderer said. "I have no one left."
Zeek sighed, his eyes full of pity. "Those damn mages. Fear not, my friend. You can consider me your first friend in Valoria. Stay here while I find a spot for you."
Time bled away as the storm finally stopped. Zeek worked tirelessly until the last refugee was accounted for. Finally, he stood in the center of the camp, signaling for everyone to gather.
"Usually, refugees are given better accommodations, actual homes for their stay," Zeek began, his voice carrying over the crowd. "I’m going to be blunt with you. Most of the refugees in Valoria are here because of the atrocities Draemir committed. I understand most of you had no hand in it, or that you fled here for a fresh start. But a mourning father won't care about that; he just wants someone to blame. So, you will stay here, at least for now."
A man’s voice rose from the back of the crowd. "The people in the city refuse to sell us food! We’ll starve in isolation!"
"That is the second part of my speech," Zeek replied. He looked back at the anxious faces. "Our wise king has a plan. Food and water will be served to you by the guards daily. However, giving you everything for free while you lay back will only make the citizens hate you more. You will build your own homes here. Plans and materials will be provided by us, but the construction work will be yours, under our supervision."
"We don't know anything about construction!" a man called out.
"We will teach you," Zeek countered.
"What about the children?" another asked. "They can't work."
"Anyone fifteen and older will take part. Below that is exempt."
A voice from the side muttered, "What if I don't want to work?"
A flash of annoyance crossing Zeek's features. "We will not force you," he said coldly, "but we cannot give you food for free, either."
Zeek scanned the weary faces around him. "Any more questions?"
The crowd remained silent. "Good," Zeek said, snapping his ledger shut. "Now, rest. Construction begins tomorrow."
He turned back to the Wanderer, his expression softening with a touch of concern. "I’m afraid that mask of yours will give you a hard time out here. Would you like to stay at my home until the construction ends?"
The Wanderer hesitated, thinking about the mage seekers. "You have already done more than enough, Captain. Special treatment might cause more harm to your plans. It won't help the refugees blend into Valoria if I am set apart."
Zeek nodded slowly, considering the point. "You are right. However, come to me anytime. We are friends, remember that."
The Wanderer smiled behind the painted mask and thanked him. He turned away, searching, until he found his assigned tent. Inside, two other men who had also had no one to pair with, sat on their bedrolls. They went silent the moment he entered, their eyes fixed on the bright colors of his festival mask.
He moved to his sheets and lay back.
"You won’t remove the mask before sleeping?" one of the men asked in suspicion.
The Wanderer tried to find an excuse - a lie about his face or a vow of silence - but his mind was too tired to weave a story. He remained silent.
The other man leaned toward his companion, whispering in the small tent. "Valorians might have planted him to spy on us."
The Wanderer let out a laugh. The absurdity of being a spy while wearing a painted child’s mask was the only thing that felt light in this place. The men continued to stare, their distrust thick in the air, until he turned onto his side and closed his eyes.
The laughter died instantly. In the darkness behind his eyelids, Draemir returned. He saw the pink lake, the singular moment of the Void Well’s collapse, spitting the remains. He found himself wondering: what if he had found Valoria first? What if he had never been to Lythra or Draemir?
He drifted into sleep, imagining himself as a simple Valorian citizen, living in a world where everyone he had killed was still breathing.
Morning arrived with a warmth he hadn't felt in weeks. The Wanderer stepped out of his tent to find the camp bathed in sunlight. Zeek and his men were already positioned near the center of the camp, standing alongside a massive, strange vehicle.
It was shaped like a giant cart, forged entirely of dark metal that almost made it look Draemiran, sitting on four thick wheels. It was piled high with massive chunks of raw stone. The refugees stood in a wide circle, watching in stunned awe as the machine groaned and moved forward with a mechanical roar, rolling steadily without a single horse to pull it.
The Wanderer approached Zeek, his eyes fixed on the metal beast. "What kind of sorcery is this?"
Zeek laughed, gesturing proudly toward the vehicle. "This, my friend, is Valorian technology. It’s called a 'wheeler.'"
"How does it move?" the Wanderer asked, unable to find any trace of a mana signature or an animal’s tether.
"Pure science," Zeek said. "I’m no scientist to give you the exact details of the gears and pistons, but I can teach you how to drive one if you’re interested."
The Wanderer listened to the mechanical grinding. The sounds were oddly reminiscent of the Spiral’s internal roar, a calculated, relentless force. He shook his head slowly. "I don’t think I’d enjoy it, but it looks amazing."
"It’s nothing compared to our war machines," Zeek added offhandedly.
"War machines?"
"We don’t use them much, we are a peaceful kingdom after all," Zeek explained. "But when someone tries to invade, how do you think we survive against the likes of Draemir and other hostile cities? Pure human innovation. Without magic to rot our heads. We use them."
The Wanderer stared at the wheeler in a mix of amazement and grief. A memory of Kuma’s inventions flashed through his mind.
A few men approached the center of the camp. They wore practical clothing and carried rolls of parchment along with strange, metallic instruments. These were the architects of Valoria. They began the long process of teaching the refugees how to use their tools.
The following days were a blur of learning cycles. It was a difficult transition, like trying to teach a monk how to use magic. However, the Wanderer found himself fascinated by a specific device called a "shaper."
The shaper was a small, handheld tool featuring four metallic spikes arranged around a central nullstone. The concept felt hauntingly familiar; it didn't change the nature of the matter, but it altered its form. It was a mechanical echo of his own dismantling technique.
Wielding a tool to build instead of one to kill, was a hard transition for him.
But the familiarity of the tool, and the will to start a new page stabilized his hand.
He used it to reshape the raw chunks of rock brought in by the wheelers, carving them into blocks. Another refugee would then follow behind him, using a separate tool to smooth the surfaces and ensure the measurements were precise. Slowly, the awkward movements of the refugees began to synchronize, and the skeletal frames of their new homes started to rise from the mud.
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Till one day, the Wanderer was moving across the city, observing the buildings and their designs. The more he understood the principles of construction, the more he was amazed by the architecture of Valoria, how stone and logic could create such enduring beauty without a drop of mana.
A man’s shriek shattered his concentration. "That’s him! The man with the mask!”
The Wanderer’s neck snapped toward the voice, his heart hammering against his ribs. He thought he was recognized. He expected a survivor from the ruins of Draemir to point a finger and scream "Executioner," but instead, he faced a stranger and two guards he didn't recognize.
"This Draemiran scum stole my pouch in the market yesterday!" the man shrieked, spit flying from his lips.
The Wanderer held up his hand, trying to keep his voice steady. "Calm down, please. There is a mistake. I didn't even go to the market yesterday."
The accuser laughed harshly, gesturing to the crowd that was beginning to gather. "How could I misidentify a Draemiran in construction rags with a bright mask and one arm? You’re a beacon of filth!"
One of the guards stepped forward, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Unlike Zeek’s disciplined unit, these men had a loose, cruel air about them. "Let us search you then, if you’re so sure of your innocence."
The Wanderer hesitated, then leveled his single arm. "Fine. Do it."
As the guard patted down his rough tunic, the Wanderer felt a subtle weight slide into his pocket. He moved to grab the guard’s wrist, but the man was faster, pulling away and shouting to the onlookers, "Trying to hide it now, aren't you?"
The guard plunged his hand back into the pocket and pulled out a leather pouch, the coins inside jingling. He turned to the accuser. "Is this your pouch, dear citizen?"
"Yes! The Draemiran was caught red-handed!" the man yelled. "He must be punished!"
A low murmur rippled through the crowd.
"I don't know what game you're playing," the Wanderer said in anger. "I have never seen this man, and you just planted that pouch on me."
"Now you dare to accuse a man doing his duty?" the guard barked. "Shame on you!"
"This is what we get for harboring the filth of Draemir," the other guard added, playing to the crowd.
The Wanderer’s eyes darted between the frowning faces. He saw the trap. "Fine. Let's go to Captain Zeek. He is responsible for the refugees, and he can confirm I didn't leave the camp yesterday."
A flicker of fear crossed the trio's faces. Their carefully constructed play was beginning to crack.
"Trying to flee now? How obvious!" the first guard shouted, lunging forward. He grabbed the Wanderer’s tunic, and together, the two guards slammed him into the white marble street, pinning him to the ground.
"Everyone must witness your punishment!" the guard yelled to the public. "We won't wait for some judge you can trick with your lies!"
The beating began.
Heavy boots slammed into his ribs, and the steel hilts of their swords rained down on his back. The Wanderer curled into a ball, gritting his teeth. He felt the Spiral roar in his chest, hunger demanding he dismantle the street and everyone on it. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the power back. Never again. I won't let you out.
He endured the pain as the crowd watched, their whispers of "thief" and "heretic" cutting deeper than the blows.
Then, a heavy sword hilt crashed directly into his face, breaking the mask.