The sky wept in torrents, each drop a tiny hammer against the cobblestones. Wind howled through the alleyways, a banshee's wail clawing at my ears.
I sprinted, feet pounding against the slick stone, my heart a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. Each icy slap of rain felt like the world itself trying to punish me, but I couldn't—wouldn't—stop.
Tucked securely beneath my threadbare shirt lay my prize—warm, buttery croissants, still fragrant despite the downpour.
"Get back here, you little scoundrel!"
The baker's voice—thick with rage—boomed behind me, struggling against the storm. I risked a glance back. There he was—a portly man, his round face redder than a freshly kneaded dough ball, lumbering after me like a roly-poly on a sugar rush.
"Gremlin! Do you think I made these croissants out of thin air?! I'll teach you a lesson you won't forget!"
His words blurred with the wind, swallowed by the village's twisting streets.
Faster.
I tore through the labyrinth of alleyways, my bare feet splashing through puddles, dodging crates, leaping over broken barrels. Adrenaline thrummed through me, my instincts screaming: Run. Run. RUN.
Turn after turn, road after road—I led him deeper into the maze of the village, until...
Silence.
I slowed, my chest heaving, lungs burning from the chase. A few streets back, the baker's angry bellows had quieted, his footsteps lost to the storm. He'd given up.
A smirk tugged at my lips. Not bad for a kid.
I ducked under a half-collapsed awning, shielding myself from the worst of the rain. Carefully, I peeled back the damp cloth around my prize.
A sliver of hope—
The golden crusts of the croissants gleamed, miraculously untouched by the rain. Still soft. Still warm.
A victory. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.
I lifted my gaze to the sky. The storm clouds churned, bruised and heavy, swallowing the last remnants of daylight. Shadows stretched long and menacing, creeping like grasping claws.
One by one, the magical lanterns lining the streets flickered to life, their glow reflecting off the wet stone, a silent herald of nightfall.
I needed to hurry.
With a final glance at the glowing streetlamps, I took off again—stolen croissants clutched to my chest, the thought of her waiting for me pushing me forward, faster than the wind.
I left the village behind, sprinting through the rain, my lungs burning with every step. The storm had softened to a whisper, but the chill in the air clung to my skin like a second layer of rags.
At last, my destination came into view—a withered hill, crowned by a skeletal handful of trees.
And at its peak stood the church—or what remained of it.
The once-sacred place had long since crumbled into ruin. Its stone walls, once pearly white, had faded into the ashen gray of forgotten memories, their surfaces pockmarked with holes like gaping wounds. The stained-glass windows were shattered, their vibrant depictions of saints and angels reduced to jagged remnants. Even the golden bell, meant to call the faithful, had succumbed to time—now a sickly shade of green, corroded and useless.
I pressed my hands against the warped plank that served as our door. The rusted hinges groaned in protest, as if resenting my return. A gust of wind slipped through the gaping cracks in the walls, carrying with it the damp scent of decay.
I stepped inside.
"Gloria Kingdom," I muttered, the words laced with bitterness. What a joke.
The name of the mighty kingdom felt like an insult on my tongue. To those in the capital, Gloria was a beacon of prosperity, a shining city of marble and gold. But here? Here was where its light failed to reach.
Inside, darkness clung to the remnants of the holy sanctuary, swallowing its grandeur whole. The only defiance came from the flickering embers of a dying fire, their feeble glow offering no warmth, only a mockery of comfort.
A child's whimper broke the silence.
I turned my head toward the sound.
A boy, no older than four, curled in on himself near a pile of tattered blankets. His tiny shoulders shook with quiet sobs, his stomach growling louder than his voice.
Near the weak flames, two women bickered, their voices sharp, cutting through the gloom. Their faces were hollow, sunken, but their eyes burned with resentment—not toward each other, not really. They just needed something to fight, someone to blame.
In the farthest corner, a boy my age lay motionless, his body frail and fever-ridden. His breaths were ragged, rattling, as if his lungs fought against every inhale.
The pot beside the fire sat empty, its presence a cruel reminder that tonight, like most nights, there was no real meal.
I clutched the croissants tighter.
They were slightly squashed, damp from the chase through the rain, but they were still warm. Still food.
I forced a grin, stepping forward and hoisting them up like treasure.
"Ahoy, me hearties!" I called, infusing my voice with forced cheer. "Dinner be served!"
No reply.
No gasps of relief. No spark of excitement in the starving children's eyes.
The crying continued. The coughing didn't stop.
The women barely spared me a glance before resuming their argument, their words a distant drone against the storm still raging in my head.
I felt my smile falter. The croissants tipped slightly in my grip, suddenly feeling far too heavy.
It wasn't enough.
It was never enough...
...Why?
The question rang through the hollow chamber, reverberating off the crumbling walls like the toll of a funeral bell.
Why did I endure this gnawing hunger, night after night?
Why did I risk my neck stealing, dodging furious shopkeepers, just to bring back a meal that barely mattered?
What kept me moving forward when even hope had long since abandoned this place?
My ruby eyes, once alight with defiance, now dimmed, clouded over.
I caught my reflection in the stagnant puddle at the bottom of the empty pot—a face too young for the weight it carried, too worn for the years it had lived.
Seven.
That was all I was. Just a child. But unlike the others, who laughed and played, blind to the cruelty of the world, my seven years held the gravity of a lifetime.
From the beginning, life had been nothing but a cruel jest, a bitter tale with no hero. I was the outcast, the discarded, the unworthy.
This church, this graveyard of forgotten souls, was my world. A purgatory I had no choice but to endure.
So why?
Why force myself through another sunrise when every dawn only stretched the torment further?
Why cling to this wretched existence when the sweet release of death loomed so close, so tempting?
A choked laugh tore from my throat—empty, broken, a sound that wasn't really a laugh at all.
How pathetic.
Even death was a luxury I couldn't afford.
A cruel irony, really. Trapped between life and oblivion, longing for freedom, yet too weak to claim it.
"The little hero returns, I see."
That voice—warm as summer rain, soft as a whisper in the dark—sent a jolt through me.
Before I could turn, she was already there, kneeling behind me. Her arms wrapped around my thin frame in an embrace that spoke without words, a quiet symphony of understanding.
Her head rested gently on my shoulder, strands of midnight hair brushing against my skin. Familiar. Safe.
"Welcome back, Ash," she murmured, her breath a ghost of warmth against my ear. A foreign comfort bloomed in my chest, fragile yet undeniable.
She squeezed me lightly, sensing the weight pressing down on me. "You brought something delicious, didn't you?"
The world, always painted in dull grays and muted suffering, shuddered.
A flicker of color, tentative and uncertain, bled into existence. The suffocating void that had been tightening around me cracked, and something stirred beneath it.
Was this existence really so worthless?
She held me tighter, as if anchoring me to this moment, as if urging me to stay.
Drawn by something deeper than thought, I turned.
Pale skin, too gaunt from hunger. Eyes like embers—fierce, unyielding, just like mine.
She smiled, weak but real. Not out of expectation. Not out of obligation. But for me.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled back. A real smile.
I lifted the slightly squashed croissants, my voice steadier than before. "Yeah, I'm back, Mother."
Her smile wavered, flickering like a dying flame, yet somehow, it held the strength of an unspoken promise.
Her smile—the only thing that fueled my existence.
And in that moment, the answer shattered the silence that had loomed over me for so long.
This fight, this relentless clawing against the abyss—it wasn't for me.
It was for her.
She was the ember glowing in the ashes of my world.
She was the reason I would fight this infernal existence.
One sunset at a time.
One stolen croissant at a time.
...
...So tell me—why didn't I end it at that sunset?
Why did I keep breathing when you… when you left me?
At that sunset…
The twilight sky bled scarlet, a cruel mockery of the inferno that devoured my world.
The 'royalties'—blind, wretched tyrants who deemed us nothing more than trash—had unleashed their 'cleansing fire.'
And in its insatiable maw, everything I cherished was reduced to ash.
Everyone I cherished… consumed.
The only one I cherished… lost to the flames.
And there, amidst the crackling pyre, stood you.
Your raven hair, once cascading like a river of silk, now danced in a macabre waltz, flames licking at the strands as if eager to claim what remained.
The heat, like a cruel sculptor, carved away at your flesh, piece by piece. But even as the fire took you… you never looked away from me.
Your eyes—devoid of terror, burning instead with an unsettling peace—held a life I desperately craved but could never grasp.
Our final exchange—etched into my soul.
A gentle, forgiving smile graced your lips, an unbearable contrast to the twisted scowl on my own face—a mask to hide the abyss screaming inside me.
The world collapsed, yet I stood frozen. A boy carved from grief, unable to move, unable to reach you.
And then—you laughed.
Soft. Choked. A melody stolen from the inferno.
A single tear—yours or mine, I no longer knew—fell, shimmering like a dying star.
"You're alright... Thank God..."
Your voice, fragile yet certain, was the final whisper of a life slipping through my fingers. A final comfort… before the silence.
Your eyes fluttered closed.
And I?
I stood, wide-eyed, as the flames consumed the last piece of my world.
She—the one who made life worth living—was gone.
While I—the world's next calamity—was forced to remain.
Darkness consumed me. The crushing blackness lingered for an eternity, or perhaps mere seconds. Time blurred in the suffocating nothing. My body, a numb shell, refused even the slightest movement.
Then, with a jolt, sight returned. Blinding white assaulted my vision, replaced by the sterile expanse of a white ceiling.
An alien warmth cocooned me. Shifting, I discovered myself swaddled in a soft blanket. Glancing right, two figures materialized, sitting on the floor around a short table with the scent of tea teasing my nose, their hushed conversation a muffled murmur.
My breath hitched. Lou and Romeo.
Was this some cruel twist of fate, a dream dredging up fragments of my past life? A bittersweet pang of nostalgia warred with a resurgence of past pain.
A lone tear, cold and unwelcome, traced a path down my cheek. Hastily, I brushed it away before they noticed the flicker of movement.
I gently raised my upper body. The movement, heralded by the subtle ripple of my Flow, drew their attention. Relief flooded Romeo's face as he stood to my side. "Young Lady, you're awake!" His voice boomed, a hand ruffling my already unruly hair. "How are you feeling? Better, I trust?"
I managed a curt nod. "I'm well," I murmured. "Though I never expected to collapse just from sensing a Sponsor's Aura."
My gaze flickered toward the still-sitting Lou, expecting his usual detached demeanor.
Instead—he puffed out his chest, a smug grin plastered across his face, still holding his untouched cup of tea.
"No need for thanks!" he declared, radiating an absurd amount of pride.
Tsk. As if 'thanks' was even on the table, Lou.
An awkward silence settled between us. Lou and Romeo shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting anywhere but at me. Finally, Lou cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head in a rare display of hesitation.
"Uh… Bug," he started, voice unsure. "Your Flow… it's, well, you know the drill. So, uh, maybe you could… tone it down a bit?"
The realization struck me like a splash of icy water.
The moment I shed the cloak—my Flow would surge, unrestrained, a suffocating force pressing down on everyone in the room.
Clearly, a permanent wardrobe adjustment was in order.
Without wasting another second, I strode toward the closet, retrieving the concealing cloak Elza had gifted me. As I pulled it over my shoulders, my eyes landed on something else—a familiar bracelet, tucked away in the corner.
Bruno's gift.
It pulsed faintly, as if whispering my name. A calling. A reminder.
But for now… an impractical one.
Using it would only stir unnecessary concern. And the last thing I wanted—was to become a burden.
With newfound resolve, I approached Lou. "So, about your offer to take me on as an apprentice—were you serious?"
A sly grin stretched across his face. "Absolutely! Who would pass up the chance to have a little fun while training you, right?"
Fun? My brow arched. Did he seriously see me as some kind of plaything?
"Anyway." I exhaled, shoving Lou's childishness aside, and turned to Romeo. "What about you? Would you be alright with this as well? Honestly, being under a Sponsor's guidance seems like the best way to accelerate my growth."
Romeo nodded, his usual calm demeanor masking a flicker of hesitation. "I'll train you for the first six months. Lou will take over after that," he said, though a slight scowl formed as he glanced at Lou. "However, I should warn you—Lou's methods can be… unorthodox. Brutal, even. But," he added, leveling his gaze at me, "I have faith in your ability to handle it."
"Thanks, Romeo!" I beamed, genuinely touched. A simple thank you, and yet Romeo looked as if I had handed him a glimpse of paradise. Strange to think that someone so strong could be so easily swayed by the words of a little girl.
But the moment of peace was short-lived.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Lou cut in, glaring at Romeo. "Six months? There's no way I'm waiting that long!"
"If you don't, I won't help you avoid people or take care of you. I'll also return all your money, granted." Romeo's tone was firm, his attention not even on Lou.
Lou... froze.
Then, with a loud tch, he crossed his arms. "Jeez, fine! She's all yours, Romeo."
Hah. It was oddly satisfying to see Lou with his tail tucked between his legs.
Then my eyes widened. My parents—would they even allow this?
"Romeo! What about my parents? Will they be okay with me training under Lou?"
Romeo let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples. "Somehow… your mom is, well… a fan of Lou."
What?
Before I could even process that, Lou puffed out his chest with a triumphant hum. "So, so," he muttered, stroking his chin as if pondering the secrets of the universe. "Seems your folks recognize greatness, huh?" He leaned in, grinning. "Well, can't blame them! Tell you what—since they're devoted admirers, I might just grace them with an autograph."
Romeo and I exchanged blank, bewildered glances.
This… This was not the reaction I had expected.
I had anticipated a smug remark, maybe a sarcastic quip, but this? This bordered on delusional.
"Actually," I said hesitantly, "after seeing that, I'm having second thoughts about being under your care. You're a little… too much on the immature side, wouldn't you say?"
A frown creased Lou's brow. "Immature? Who's immature? This is the confidence of a champ, Bug!" He puffed out his chest again—though this time, his bravado lacked its usual conviction.
"And arrogant," Romeo muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
I suppressed a groan. Ugh. I'd have to endure this behavior for a while.
Good luck with that, little me.