A Fragile's Defiance

The days in the village blurred together, each indistinguishable from the last. Damien moved through them like a shadow, present but insubstantial. The weight of the sky above and the void below pressed against the edges of his mind, but he felt no urge to resist. He simply existed, a leaf caught in a current, drifting aimlessly toward whatever end awaited him.

---

Morning came, and with it, the same routine. Damien rose from his straw mattress in the attic, his body aching from another restless night. He washed his face with the cold water Geralt left in the basin, ate a meager breakfast of stale bread, and went outside to tend to the chores.

The animals in the pen shuffled nervously as he approached. They had grown skittish in recent weeks, as though they too could sense the unease creeping into the village. Damien worked in silence, feeding and watering them, his mind numb to the task.

"What's takin' so long, boy?" Geralt barked from the porch.

"I'm almost done," Damien replied, his voice devoid of emotion.

Geralt grunted and went back inside, leaving Damien alone with the animals and his thoughts.

---

There was a time, years ago, when Damien had felt something resembling desire. As a child, he had dreamed of becoming a hunter like his father, venturing into the forest to bring back game for the village. He had imagined himself strong and capable, someone others could rely on.

But those dreams had died with his parents, consumed by the fire that took everything from him. Afterward, the village had seemed colder, less welcoming. The pitying looks, the whispered conversations — they had all served as reminders of what he had lost and what he would never have.

Now, even the memory of those dreams felt distant, as if they belonged to someone else.

---

Damien finished his chores and wandered through the village. The streets were quiet, the usual hum of activity dampened by the strange events that plagued the village. The rift in the sky had grown, its jagged edges now visible even in daylight. The swirling patterns around it had taken on an almost predatory quality, circling like vultures over a dying animal.

The whispers of the void were louder than ever, their tones fluctuating between despair and anger. Some villagers claimed to hear voices calling their names, while others reported seeing shadowy figures at the edge of their vision.

Damien felt none of it.

Where others spoke of fear and dread, he felt only a hollow detachment. He walked past the council hall, the market square, and the chapel without so much as a glance. The world around him seemed distant, like a play being performed for an audience he was no longer part of.

---

At midday, he sat on the same wooden bridge where he often spent his free time. The stream below was calm, its gentle flow a stark contrast to the chaos above. Damien stared at the water, watching the sunlight dance across its surface.

He thought of the villagers who had disappeared. There had been no signs of struggle, no clues as to their fates. It was as if they had simply ceased to exist, erased from the world and the memories of those who remained.

The idea didn't frighten Damien. If anything, it intrigued him. To vanish without a trace, to leave behind no burdens or expectations — wasn't that freedom in its purest form?

---

The sound of footsteps broke his reverie. Damien looked up to see Mira approaching, a basket of herbs in her hands.

"Here again?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes searching.

"Where else would I be?" he replied, his voice as flat as ever.

Mira set the basket down and sat beside him. For a while, neither of them spoke.

"You're always so quiet," she said eventually. "It's like you're not really here."

"I'm here," Damien said. "Just don't have much to say."

Mira sighed. "Do you ever wonder why all this is happening? The sky, the void, the disappearances... Do you ever think it means something?"

Damien shrugged. "Maybe it does. Maybe it doesn't. What difference does it make?"

She frowned, her frustration evident. "It makes a difference if we can do something about it."

"What could we possibly do?" Damien asked, meeting her gaze for the first time. "We're just villagers. We don't know anything about the sky or the void. We can't even protect our own."

---

Mira looked at him for a long moment, as if searching for something beneath his apathy. Finally, she shook her head.

"You've given up, haven't you?"

Damien didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Mira stood, picking up her basket. "You're wrong, Damien. We might not be able to change what's happening, but we can still try. At least then it would mean something."

As she walked away, her words lingered in the air like the faintest echo of hope.

---

That night, Damien lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Mira's question replayed in his mind: Do you ever think it means something?

He wanted to dismiss it, to let it fade like so many other thoughts. But the question clung to him, stubborn and persistent.

What if it did mean something? What if the sky, the void, and the disappearances were connected in ways he couldn't yet understand?

Damien turned onto his side, trying to push the thoughts away. He didn't have the strength to care. Caring required hope, and hope was something he had abandoned long ago.

As sleep finally claimed him, the last thing he saw in his mind's eye was the rift in the sky, its light pulsing like a heartbeat.