The silent homecoming

A soft groan escaped Ronan's cracked lips as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyelids feel heavy and crusted over, as if he hadn't opened them in days. Wherever he was, it was warm and the air held the familiar musty scent of the camp infirmary tent.

Forcing his eyes to open a sliver, Ronan was greeted by the sight of a canvas ceiling overhead, sunlight filtering through the gaps in the material. He went to rub the bleariness from his eyes but felt a sharp twinge of pain shoot through his right arm. Looking down, he saw it had been bandaged and secured in a sling across his chest.

Memories came flooding back in a jumbled rush - the chaotic battlefield, the blinding lightning strikes, the arrival of the mysterious wind warrior. Ronan's breath caught in his throat as he recalled the unbelievable power and abilities he had witnessed. It all seemed like a fever dream, one from which he had finally awoken.

But the dull aching throb across his body told him it had all been far too real. He must have blacked out from the shard-wielder's attack and the wind master had somehow gotten him to safety.

The tent flap opened and a field medic entered, holding a tin cup and damp cloth. "Ah, good to see you among the living again, lad. You gave us quite a scare out there."

Ronan started to ask what happened but the medic raised his hand. "Easy now, don't try speaking just yet. You took a nasty bolt full in the chest from one of those Tarnished freaks. Damned unnatural is what they are."

He helped Ronan sit up and take several sips of water while briefly checking his bandages. "Don't fret, we got the nastiest of your wounds patched up. Just need a few more days of rest and you'll be fit as a fiddle. That is, if those eyes still want to keep soldiering after tangling with the likes of them."

The medic's words rang in Ronan's ears. The Tarnished...so they were real. He had faced one and lived, seemingly only by the grace of that mysterious wind shard bearer intervention. Questions swirled through his mind, but he could barely put two coherent thoughts together in his addled state.

The medic patted his good shoulder. "Why don't you get some more shut-eye, eh? When you've got your wits back, I'll see if our Tarnished is available to answer some of those questions I can see brewing behind those eyes."

He paused at the tent flap, throwing a look back at Ronan. "One thing's for damn certain - your life is never going to be the same again after crossing paths with one of them Tarnished."

With that cryptic warning, the medic ducked back outside, leaving Ronan alone with his muddled thoughts. His eyelids grew heavy once more as weariness crept back in. Perhaps some more rest would help make sense of it all.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

A few days later, Ronan was feeling well enough to move about the camp under his own power. His wounds were healing, though his arm remained bound up tightly in a sling. As he emerged from the infirmary tent, he squinted against the bright sunlight filtering through the trees.

"Ronan! Over here!" a familiar voice called out. It was Sergeant Casten, the grizzled officer who had been in charge of Ronan's squad. The burly man waved him over to the main command tent with his good arm.

"How's our little lightning rod holding up?" Casten asked with a wry smile as Ronan approached. "Heard you got quite the rude awakening to the Tarnished's powers out on that battlefield."

Ronan nodded somberly. "Aye, that's putting it mildly. I'm just thankful that Windmaster showed up when he did, despite being a Tarnished himself."

Casten's expression darkened slightly. "Aye, having one of those cursed shardwielders on our side is a double-edged sword for sure. But I'll not look a gift horse in the mouth - that crusty old wind-dancer has saved more lives than you could count."

The sergeant paused, studying Ronan carefully. "I reckon his arrival was the first time you'd laid eyes on a Tarnished power firsthand? A rude awakening indeed for a green recruit like yourself."

Swallowing hard, Ronan could only nod again, the memories of the battlefield still so fresh and raw - the blinding light, deafening booms, the excruciating pain. "I...I've never seen anything like it. It was if the laws of nature itself bent to their very will."

"That's the double-edged blade of shard power for you," Casten said grimly. "An incredible gift, but one that far too many wield with cruelty and malice in their hearts. We can only hope men like the Windmaster use that arcane might for nobler purposes."

He seemed about to say more but stopped himself, straightening up again. "But enough philosophizing about the Awakened for now. I'm afraid I've got some other news to share with you."

The sergeant's expression turned somber, and he put a hand on Ronan's shoulder. "Word came in from your village this morning. I'm terribly sorry, lad, but it seems your mother passed two nights ago..."

The discussion about the Windmaster's true nature was put aside as Casten relayed the tragic news about Ronan's mother. Though his world had been shaken by his first encounter with a shardwielder's power, it was now being upended in a more personal, heartbreaking way.

As Casten explained about Ronan's need to return home and care for his sister Eris, Ronan couldn't help but reflect on the Windmaster with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. If such overwhelming abilities could be possessed by one who chose to help others, perhaps there was still hope and justice to be found - even in this new, shattered world they inhabited.

For now, however, his duty was to family first. The bombshell of becoming his sister's sole caregiver weighed heavily. He would need every ounce of strength for the challenges that lay ahead.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The battered supply wagon jostled and swayed as it trundled down the old dirt road, kicking up clouds of dust in its wake. Ronan sat hunched on a crate in the back, his belongings and meager provisions for the journey bundled up beside him. His arm was still in a sling.

As the village slowly came into view through the haze, Ronan couldn't help but feel a melancholy ache in his chest. So much had changed since he left home all those months ago, bright-eyed and eager to make his family proud by joining the military. His mother's passing, his unexpected discharge, the revelation of this new shardwielding threat - it all weighed heavily on his mind.

The wagon ground to a halt just outside the village's boundary. As Ronan went to disembark, slinging his pack over his good shoulder, he noticed a solitary figure approaching from the road ahead.

It was the Windmaster, his weathered cloak whipping slightly in the dusty breeze. He regarded Ronan with a measured gaze, his once inhuman eyes now emanating a sense of calm assurance.

"Well met again, young Ronan," the Windmasters gruff voice carried clearly as he drew near. "Word reached me of your impending discharge, and I decided to offer my gratitude in person before you returned to village life."

Ronan could only gape, stunned by the legendary figure's sudden appearance. Up close, the Windmaster seemed almost...ordinary. Aside from an ornate bracer adorned with strange markings covering his forearm, he could have passed for any typical traveler.

Regaining his composure, Ronan managed a respectful nod. "I...you have my deepest thanks, Windmaster. Your intervention on the battlefield saved my life."

The wizened man waved his hand dismissively. "Think nothing of it, I merely happened upon the right place at the right time to deal with that reckless lightning wielder." He fixed Ronan with an appraising look. "Though I must admit, your bravery in the face of the Awakened did impress me, foolish though your actions may have been."

A slight flush crept into Ronan's cheeks at the compliment. Coming from one who had so thoroughly dominated and subdued a Tarnished, it carried far more weight than from any of his drill instructors.

"How...how is it you're able to wield such mastery over the storm winds?" he asked hesitantly. "If you don't mind my asking, that is."

The Windmaster's expression turned wistful as he carefully weighed his words. When he spoke, his voice carried a tinge of sadness...

"I am like the Tarnished you encountered - a vessel capable of harnessing the primal energies of the shards. An...Awakened, if you will." He held up the bracer, idly running his thumb over the etched markings. "This bracer covers an artifact embedded into my skin allows me to channel my inborn affinity for air and wind. To command the very breath of the world itself as a weapon, shield, or servant."

Ronan felt himself leaning in, hanging on the Awakened man's every word. The Windmaster looked back up, his eyes regaining their intense focus.

"I chose to use this gift to help defend the realms against those who would subjugate and destroy through shardpower. But I am a rarity, I fear..."

He trailed off, leaving the unspoken truth hanging in the air - that most Tarnished welcomed the influx of night-unlimited power, putting the world at risk from their unchecked ambition and greed.

"Unfortunately I must make my way back to the battlefield. I hope you have a prosperous future".

He started to walk back in the direction he came from.