25. The Only Way Forward #3
Zander stands beside me, his face hard, his eyes scanning the damage with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. His jaw clenches as he takes it all in, but he doesn’t say anything. There is nothing to say. No words can capture the devastation that lies before us.
Oberon and Ash emerge next, their expressions equally grim.
Ash looks as though he hasn’t slept in days, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion.
His gaze moves over the wreckage with a quiet fury, but he remains silent, perhaps unsure of how to even begin processing the scale of what has happened.
Oberon’s shoulders are slumped, his earlier strength gone, replaced by overwhelming weariness.
He runs a hand through his damp hair, looking out at the destruction as though trying to make sense of it.
The storm has taken everything, everything except the people who managed to survive. And now, we are left to rebuild, but as we stand amidst the wreckage, that task feels impossibly distant, almost unreachable. The scale of it is overwhelming. The weight of the loss presses down on us.
None of us speaks. We just stand there, motionless for a moment, taking in the ruined landscape around us. There is no comfort in the aftermath, no relief in the fact that we have made it through. The world has been altered, and there is no way to undo it.
The eerie quiet of the town intensifies as we move through the village, our footsteps the only sound breaking the stillness. Zander warned us what it would be like, prepared us the best he could, but seeing it firsthand is a different kind of shock.
Toro, the village leader, steps up beside us.
I met him before, alongside Oberon. He is everything this village has been: bright, full of life, with sun-kissed skin, golden hair, and light eyes that seem to carry the warmth of the sun.
But now, there is only grief in his gaze, his posture slumped with the weight of his town’s loss.
Oberon did most of the talking when they discussed the alliance. But now, I see a different side of him, too, the same hurt that is etched into Toro’s face. This isn’t just a failure of diplomacy. This is personal.
Oberon takes a step closer to Toro, his voice steady despite the turmoil. “If you will accept it, we would like to help,” he says, his words simple but heavy with meaning.
There is no hesitation in Toro’s nod, but his eyes, those same light eyes that once sparkled with hope, now look tired, drained from the devastation. He gives Oberon another brief nod in response.
“We will do what we can while we are here,” Oberon continues, his gaze never wavering from Toro’s. “I will send troops to help rebuild, however many I can spare. We will not leave you to face this alone.”
Toro’s expression softens, the corners of his mouth lifting in a small, grateful smile, his eyes narrow on Oberon, sharpening slightly while he fits the missing pieces together.
His posture shifts, a breath of hesitation before he lets out a quiet, knowing chuckle. “Elias?” he says, not as a question but as a statement laced with meaning.
Oberon doesn’t react, but the silence between them is enough.
Toro studies him a moment longer before exhaling, his voice quieter now. “You were just a boy the last time I saw you. I often wondered where you stood in all of this . . . what had become of you, Oberon.”
Oberon meets his gaze without flinching. “The name Elias is a shield. For my safety and for yours. I’m here now, and that’s all that matters.”
A flicker of understanding passes through Toro’s expression. He nods, accepting the truth for what it is. “Looks like we have a lot to discuss.”
Oberon inclines his head slightly. “Later.”
We stay longer than we planned, helping in any way we can. It feels like a futile effort at times, the endless task of trying to clear the streets of debris, finding shelter for the displaced, and attempting to make sense of the chaos.
Zander has always been practical, and I see him working tirelessly, organizing what is left of the town’s resources and directing people to safe places.
But it isn’t the rebuilding that is the hardest part.
The hardest part comes when we have to lay the dead to rest.
There are no words for that kind of grief. The bodies we find are laid gently in makeshift graves, their faces marked by the storm’s violence, but still somehow peaceful in their final rest.
We bury the villagers’ fathers, mothers, children, those who didn’t make it through the hurricane’s rage. It is a solemn and exhausting task, each burial a reminder of how fragile life truly is.
As I stand beside the graves, watching the last of them being covered, I feel a deep ache in my chest. This is what war has always looked like in the end, not battles, not swords clashing, but moments like this.
When the world has been torn apart by forces beyond our control, and all that is left is the need to heal.
I want to help them rebuild, but I know it will take more than just labor. It will take time, patience, and something that feels in short supply currently.
Hope.
But it is all we have left to give, so we work together because that is the only way forward now.