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Today, the gates slammed shut with the same metallic screech as always.
The townspeople crowded along the street, peering into the exhausted faces of the soldiers, but instead of triumph, there were only wounded bodies, empty gazes, and a silence that spoke louder than any words.
They had returned.
But those words sounded like a mockery to those who had been left beyond the walls. To those who couldn’t even be brought home.
The hooves of the tired, bloodied horses thudded dully against the cobblestones, beating out a mournful rhythm. A woman in the crowd tightened her grip on her husband’s hand, her lips trembling in a soundless prayer. She searched the ranks of the emaciated soldiers for her brother’s familiar face—but never found it.
The sounds around her reached her as if through a wall of water:
— Where are the others?
— Where do our taxes even go?! To useless expeditions?!
— They didn’t even bring back the bodies… What, are we not even allowed to bury them properly?
The words flew at the scouts’ backs like stones.
At the head of the column, unfazed by the shouts, Commander Erwin Smith moved forward with unwavering composure.
His tall, straight-backed figure seemed untouched by fatigue or grief, but those who knew him better could see that the shadow cast over his face ran deeper than mere exhaustion from the long journey. His blue eyes gazed through the crowd, as if fixed on some unreachable distance—a place where there were no walls, no Titans, only endless emptiness. He didn’t turn, didn’t respond to the jeers. He simply led his men through this gauntlet of judgment, through this trial where their sentence had been passed long before their return.
They walked like shadows returning from a battlefield, leaving behind not just their comrades but pieces of their own souls. Their torn, bloodied, dirt-stained uniforms spoke for themselves. In each soldier’s eyes was an indescribable pain, the imprint of horror endured.
And somewhere beyond the walls remained those whose names would never again be called at roll call, whose deeds would fade into mere lines on yellowed report pages. Their bodies would rot on the land they had sworn to reclaim.
— You understand… we couldn’t… retrieve his body…
Oluo’s voice, bitter and desperate, rasped somewhere behind her, lost in the shouts from the crowd. He was half a step behind his comrade, his fingers clenching and unclenching involuntarily—wanting to reach out in support but afraid to cross some fragile line.
Petra walked with her eyes downcast. She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The only sound in her ears was that last, earth-shaking impact as the ground trembled beneath the weight of a falling body. She could have closed her eyes, but then she would have seen it again. So instead, she just stared at her feet, watching droplets of blood from her uniform fall onto the stones, leaving behind a barely visible trail.
Bozado took a step closer, his hand hovering in the air before dropping back to his side. Instead, he clenched his teeth, feeling bitterness rise in his throat. Even now, as his own heart tore between grief for her and unspoken sorrow, all he could do was walk beside her in silence, sharing this void.
The crowd ahead suddenly stirred. Someone recoiled, angry shouts flared up and just as quickly died down. And through this sudden parting sea of people came—
Her father.
She felt his presence before she saw him. His broad shoulders pushed through the onlookers, his face alight with an uncharacteristic joy.
— Petra!
His voice cut through the noise. Slowly, she raised her head.
Her father reached her, breathless, clutching an envelope in his sweaty fingers. His smile wavered, his eyes darting anxiously over the soldiers behind her.
— I… I was looking for you… Well, first— He laughed awkwardly, glancing again at the formation, — I wanted to talk to your… to Captain Levi, but I must’ve lost him in this crowd, — He took a step to the side, as if the captain might be hiding behind the others. His fingers tightened on the envelope, crumpling its edges, — Well, you know… I wanted to talk to him man-to-man. After all, my girl is still too...
— Dad.
He took another step, trying to peer past the soldiers, but froze when he noticed the tremor in her shoulders.
— Petra? What’s wrong?
Ral suddenly stopped. His eyes widened as he finally saw the emptiness in his daughter’s gaze. The envelope slipped from his fingers, landing in the mud.
The man turned to Oluo, bewildered, sweat beading on his temples. Their eyes met, and in the older man’s gaze, the soldier read a silent question. He shook his head.
No. He’s not here. We couldn’t…
The blond man took a barely noticeable step back, giving father and daughter space. His gaze flickered to the envelope, to Petra’s tense shoulders.
Some wounds needed solitude, not prying eyes. But he stayed within reach—just in case.
— Sweetheart… He didn’t come back?...
A scream tore through the air, and Petra flinched. Somewhere behind her, the mother of one of the recruits was wailing hysterically, her cries blending into the roar of the crowd.
Ral hugged his daughter, pulled her close, but she felt no warmth. His hands trembled. She noticed it in the way the folds of her cloak shifted when he embraced her, when his hand brushed through her hair. He was saying something—words of comfort, promises that everything would be alright. But the sounds blurred like ink in water, losing meaning before they reached her consciousness. The only thing she could make out was her father’s ragged breathing, betraying his struggle not to break down in front of the entire city.
They walked in silence for about half an hour. Petra didn’t notice the stares, the whispers behind her back. Everything around her seemed blurred, as if she were looking at the world through fogged glass.
That evening, she spent her time at home.
Her father busied himself in the kitchen—stoking the fire, chopping vegetables, tossing chicken onto a sizzling pan. The smell of oil and meat filled the house, but it made her nauseous. The evening light through the window behind him cast a golden hue on his graying temples. She remembered when those same strands had been dark, when he had first lifted her onto his shoulders so she could see the Survey Corps formation. Back then, as a child, watching those proud soldiers, she had thought them immortal—strong, unshakable, untouchable.
Now Petra knew the truth.
She sat at the small kitchen table, staring blankly at her hands. They were clean—she had scrubbed them raw the moment she returned—but no matter how hard she rubbed, she still felt blood beneath her nails.
Her father set two plates on the table—potatoes and chicken. Steam rose from the golden crust, and beside it sat a mound of stewed vegetables, carefully diced into perfect cubes.
— Come on, eat while it’s hot, — he said, sitting across from her. His fork was already stabbing into the meat, cutting it into neat pieces.
Petra picked up her fork. The utensil clinked against the plate. She speared a small piece of potato, lifted it to her mouth—and stopped. Her throat clenched in a spasm. She pushed the plate away.
— I… I’ll go lie down.
Her father sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping. For a moment, something vulnerable flickered in his eyes—an expression she hadn’t seen since she was a little girl.
— Alright, sweetheart, — he didn’t insist, but his gaze was that of a man who didn’t know how to help his child, — I’ll go to Marta’s for some salt. You rest.
They both knew he didn’t need salt. That once outside, he would stop, press his forehead against the cool wall, and stand there for minutes, clutching an empty herb pouch in his pocket. Then he would go ask the old neighbor for a sedative tea. He always did this when she was hurting—after her first expedition, when she came back bruised and too shocked to speak; after that horrible day when Titans tore apart her best friend in front of her, and she couldn’t sleep without nightmares. That tea had helped, at least a little.
But now…
Now she wasn’t even crying. Just standing there, staring at nothing, and this silence was worse than any tears. Ral threw on his cloak and left, quietly shutting the door behind him.
She was alone.
The room felt foreign, unfamiliar. She stood in the middle of it like a castaway washed ashore, unable to remember how she got there. The last few hours blurred in her mind like ink on a waterlogged document.
Everything was as she had left it—the narrow bed, the writing desk, the shelf of books. Even the rag doll gifted to her in childhood still sat in the corner, as if waiting for its now-grown owner to return.
The redhead slowly ran her palm over the bedspread. The fabric was cool, slightly rough under her fingers. Just like always. That was the cruelest deception: the world hadn’t changed. The room was the same. The leaves still rustled outside. Somewhere in the kitchen, the faucet dripped steadily, marking the seconds—too many of them now.
She took a step.
Another.
And then collapsed to her knees beside the bed as if her tendons had been cut.
A scream tore through the silence—raw, guttural, ripped from the depths of a ravaged soul. Air refused to enter her lungs. Her throat locked in a spasm, but the screams kept coming, soundless, wracking her body with convulsions. Tears streamed down in burning rivers.
She stared at the dusty rug but saw something else entirely—his office at the Scout Regiment headquarters, now forever orphaned. The room steeped in the scent of strong tea and the faintest hint of cleaning supplies, the desk buried under reports that no one would sort through now. She remembered how, once, after an especially hard day, he had let her help him with the paperwork. Their fingers had brushed, and she had felt a spark race through her. She had jerked her hand back as if burned, but something in his eyes had flickered—something she couldn’t decipher. And his cup of cold tea, abandoned in haste before a sudden summons… Someone would carelessly throw it away. Another officer would sit in his chair, touch the same objects, breathe the same air… Erwin would undoubtedly order his personal belongings removed.
And then someone else would take his place.
A stranger.
And he…
He would remain lying somewhere in a field.
No grave. No memorial. No last words. He would just… vanish, as if he had never existed. The man who had embodied strength and discipline would turn to dust.
The captain had never complained of pain. Never asked for help. He had been the epitome of resilience, but she had seen the exhaustion and sorrow buried deep in his eyes, had seen the scars on his body, and she had desperately wanted to heal them, to warm him with her love, to shield him from all harm.
He had spent his whole life underground. In dampness, in filth, among criminals and outcasts, where only the law of the strongest ruled. Levi had seen death and betrayal, blood and violence. He had killed to survive. And when fate had seemingly taken pity on him, letting him escape to the surface, gifting him the sky, the sun, clean air… he had never found peace.
And they… They hadn’t even been able to bring his body back.
— Why? — Her bloodless lips whispered the question to the merciless sky, to cruel fate, to the God she had stopped believing in the day she first saw Titans devouring people. Why him? Why now, when they had been so close to… to what? She hadn’t even had time to understand.
Her memory replayed that final moment—his sharp turn, the strong hand shoving her aside as he took the fatal blow himself. Their eyes had met for just a fraction of a second, but in that instant, there had been more than in all their previous conversations. In his usually cold gaze had swirled so much—resolve, regret, something she might have dared to call tenderness if she hadn’t known him better. And pain, the kind he had always hidden behind a mask of indifference.
She had known he valued her—as a soldier, as a loyal subordinate. He had seen potential in her, praised her diligence. But deep down, she had hoped there was something more between them than duty. Those accidental touches when he corrected her stance. His rare, barely-there smiles that she had collected in her memory like precious gems. The silent understanding that had grown between them in the hardest moments.
Petra, with girlish naivety, had believed they would have time. That someday, when it was all over, they could talk—really talk. No regulations, no orders, just as a man and a woman. She had guarded all those unspoken words, all those unrealized dreams so carefully in her heart…
But now that would never happen.
He had made the choice for both of them. And in that last moment, as he pushed her away, saving her at the cost of his own life, she had seen in his eyes a decision made without hesitation.
The soundless sobs brought no relief. Because tears were for the living. And part of her had stayed there—with him—in that last look that had said more than all the words spoken in years of service. Now that look would haunt her forever. As would the quiet thud of his body hitting the dirt as the wagon raced away. A treacherous, deafening sound that had buried her hopes along with him.
Petra knew that come morning, she would have to get up. Would have to put on her uniform again, take up her blades again. Because she had to. Because someone had to keep moving forward.
The room fell utterly silent. The scream had faded, leaving only a hollow ache behind.
Outside, the leaves rustled, a reminder of time’s relentless march. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed, carefree and happy. Life went on as usual, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in the heart of this small room.
And he was gone.