The stench in the air was acidic, the kind that made breathing feel like a chore. Nod Krai’s beauty was undeniable, but it was lost here. Mauve skies hung heavy with soot-stained clouds, and visibility rarely stretched past a few meters. The only reprieve came from the cold winds sweeping down from the frosted peaks, thinning the ever-present fog just enough to see what mattered.

The Abyssal forces in Nod Krai were nightmarish. Eons-old, corrupted monsters still wandered aimlessly, whispering remnants of the Cataclysm, trapped in their eternal unrest. Between the poisoned terrain and the beasts that stalked the shadows, patrolling here was no easy feat.

But the graves needed tending.

The Lightkeepers who fought deserved that much. Their final resting place was at the very edge of Nod Krai, where they once stood vigilant. The graveyard, quiet and half-forgotten, sat on the borderlands of war. Keepers rotated shifts, guarding the fallen from the Wild Hunt that sometimes crept too close.

Today, Flins was on duty.

He never liked the graveyard. What use was there in dwelling on the dead, when so much of the living was still at stake? The war against the Abyss would never end. That was what the Lightkeepers swore: to fight until the last flicker of light. And Flins…Flins was nothing if not faithful to that oath.

Still, he didn’t mind the quiet. Sometimes it was better that way.

Just the wind. And the occasional sound of scrubbing.

Even the softest steps couldn’t escape his trained ears. Centuries of war had sharpened every sense, left him honed to an unnatural degree. Flins already knew you were here before your boots found frost. Every month, you came to tend the headstones, wiping off the grime and soot that clung to them like sin.

He rarely worked the same shifts as you. Never saw your face, but he’d seen the way your hands moved. Careful and caring, the last shrewd of kindness these fallen soldiers deserved. And that was enough to know you.

His eyes followed your crouched figure as you worked, his gaze steady, unreadable. Those hollow yellow eyes had long since lost their shine, but there was a hardness in them; one that still burned with purpose. Then he noticed the grave you were cleaning.

A familiar name.

The blue glow of his lantern lit the engraving, and for just a second, something flickered in his expression. Recognition. A memory. This was a comrade, one of the few he remembered without effort. Not many made it into that category.

Flins muttered a quiet prayer. A brief silence for the past.

And then, finally, he turned to you. You didn’t say a word, but you shifted, just enough to make space for him to kneel beside the headstone. He took the invitation for what it was.

“I knew this person.” Flins murmured. His voice was rough, dusted with age, yet soft—like the breath of wind that stirred the snowdrifts behind him. One or two fractal flakes clung to his long purple hair. He didn’t bother brushing them off.

He stared at the grave for a while.

“…Perhaps one day, one of these headstones have will have my name on it.”