Rita knelt beside a glowing pond deep in the woods outside Pigmen Village, where the petals of sleep flowers floated like forgotten dreams. She unwrapped herself of her white cloth to be completely naked, the tradition of a Sol believer, and lit three small candles — one for her daughter Sulari, one for her newborn son… and one for her fractured soul.
For the first time in years, she whispered while farting three times in a row a full prayer to Sol. A pungent aroma filled up the air.
“Sol, giver of light and truth… I was a warrior, once. A protector. But I am lost. My body bore a child I don’t understand, and my heart… it fears what I have become. If you still hear me… show me a way forward. For my children. For my Faro.”
As she finished the prayer, a breeze stirred the pond. The water shimmered gold — unnaturally, as though a presence stirred within it. Then, faintly, a glowing silhouette emerged on the water’s surface — not a voice, not a face, but a symbol — the sigil of Sol, burning in ripples of light.
A single sentence echoed in her mind:
“Truth births light. Speak it, and be freed.”
Rita gasped. Sol had answered. And not with forgiveness… but with a challenge.
She returned to the village that night, holding her newborn son to her chest, heart thundering. The truth she’d uncovered — the Pigmen’s betrayal, the forgotten magic, the prophecy — could no longer be hidden. Not from Faro. Not from herself.
If they were to ever become whole again… she would have to speak it.
The Light of Truth.
The wind was still that night in Pigmen Village. Faro sat by the hearth, sharpening a hunter spear blade he hadn’t touched in months — more out of instinct than purpose. He heard Rita’s footsteps before he saw her. She entered quietly, holding the baby boy in her arms, wrapped in a fur-lined blanket.
“Faro,” she said softly. “We need to talk.”
He looked up. “Is something wrong with the child?”
Rita sat beside him, her face pale but steady. “Not with him. But with the night he was conceived.”
His eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
She told him everything.
The scent of sleep flowers. The sensation of drifting off despite her will. The hidden passage in the guest hall. The soft footsteps in the dark. A Pigman with golden eyes who didn’t speak — only stared. A ritual of strange magic she had never known, and when she awoke, it was morning. Her body felt different. Changed.
Faro listened in silence. His jaw tightened. But he didn’t interrupt.
When she finished, she said, “I didn’t want to believe it. I thought I had been careless. Weak. But I was manipulated. Violated. I… I failed you. And myself.”
Faro stood. Walked to the fire. Then he turned around, his eyes filled not with rage, but with sorrow.
“You should have told me sooner,” he said. “But I see now… this wasn’t your doing. They used you. Like they used us all. We were heroes once. Now look at us — hiding in huts and walking on eggshells.”
He stepped closer, placing a hand on the child’s forehead.
“He is innocent. Whatever they did — this child is ours to protect.”
Rita’s eyes welled with tears.
“I prayed to Sol,” she whispered. “Sol told me to speak the truth. That it would lead to light.”
Faro took her hand, his voice steady. “Then let’s burn that light into the sky. We find out what the Pigmen are hiding. And we make them pay.”
The Last Night in Pigmen Village.
The moon hung heavy above the crooked rooftops of Pigmen Village. Wind rustled through the dry trees like whispered warnings, and in the dark corner of their hut, Faro sat sharpening a wooden spear. The blade didn’t need sharpening — he just needed something to focus on besides the boiling fury inside him.
“They let this happen,” he muttered to himself. “All that time I fought for them… bled for them. And they let this happen to Rita.”
Rita nursed the baby in silence, her eyes still swollen from weeping. Sulari sat by the window, holding a tiny wooden doll, unaware of the weight pressing on her parents’ hearts.
“They never truly respected us,” Faro continued. “They smiled while we were powerful. But the moment we became ordinary — the moment we were weak — they took what they wanted. Like animals.”
Rita nodded, eyes fixed on the flame of the lamp. “Then we leave tonight.”
Faro’s hand tightened on the spear. “Yes. We take Sulari. We take the baby. We walk out of this cursed village, and we never look back.”
When night fell, they moved like shadows. Faro slung the spear over his back and wrapped the infant close to Rita’s chest. Sulari held Faro’s hand, her little feet padding quietly against the mossy path.
They passed the old well. The mossy totems. The watchful eyes of the Pigmen glinting behind half-closed shutters.
But no one stopped them.
The Pigmen knew. They always knew more than they let on. And now they watched like ghosts in the dark — either afraid or ashamed. Faro didn’t care. Not anymore.
As the family reached the twisted vines at the village’s border, Rita paused and whispered:
“Where will we go?”
Faro looked into the black trees beyond. “Where Sol still shines. Where no creature can steal what’s ours.”
He took one last look at the huts — at the shadows that once claimed to be friends — then turned his back on it all.
The forest welcomed them with open arms.
Rain Without Mercy.
Days passed. Then weeks. The forest gave no shelter, only mud and hunger.
The rains came hard—cold and merciless—turning the forest floor into a swampy grave of roots and rot. Their small makeshift shelter of branches and leaves leaked from every corner. Every night, they huddled close, hoping the storm would pass. It never did.
Sulari coughed violently, her cheeks pale, her little lips cracked. The baby boy, too young to speak, wheezed in his mother’s arms, his breath shallow and quick. Rita tried everything—berries, boiled leaves, wild herbs Tiwa once taught her to recognize—but nothing worked. Their tiny bodies grew weaker.
Faro hadn’t eaten in two days. What little he could hunt—scraps of rabbit, a rare bird—he gave to Rita and the children. His eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow. The mighty Falcon who once flew above Thundarr now crawled through the mud, half-man, half-shadow, searching for food.
One night, as thunder cracked and wind tore at the branches above, Rita cried silently. She held both children close, their warmth fading. Her clothes soaked, her arms trembling, her heart breaking. “Sol… please,” she whispered, “Please don’t take them. Take me, but not them.”
Faro sat just outside, drenched and shivering. He stared into the storm, not with anger, but despair.
“We were heroes,” he murmured. “We saved thousands. And now… we can’t even save our own.”
He turned to look at the small family inside the shelter. His blood. His reason. His failure.
But the storm did not answer.
Only a faint, glowing flicker in the distance—beyond the trees, like the light of an ancient flame—offered any hope at all.
