"MOOOOOOOM, MOOOM, MOOOOM—"
The scream tore through the night, raw and desperate, swallowed by the roar of flames. A child knelt in the wreckage of his home, his small hands trembling as they hovered over the broken figure of his mother.
She lay half-buried in the rubble, her once-beautiful face blackened by fire, her body twisted in ways no living thing should bend. Yet her eyes—her eyes—still burned with defiance, locking onto her son's tear-streaked face.
"Shhh, Kael…" Her voice was a whisper, wet with blood. "Mom's just… resting. I'll be okay."
But she wasn't.
Kael knew it. He felt it in the way her fingers twitched weakly in his grasp, in the rattling breath that escaped her lips. Around them, the world was hell. Fire clawed at the sky, painting the night in shades of crimson. The air reeked of charred flesh and iron, of wood and memories turned to ash. Bodies—neighbors, friends, the old baker who always sneaked him sweets—lay scattered like discarded dolls.
A voice cut through the smoke. "Boss! Found another one!"
His mother's grip tightened—the last of her strength. "Kael… Run. Follow the river. Don't look back."
"No! I won't leave you!" His voice cracked. He tried to lift her, but she was too broken, too heavy. "I can carry you—I can—"
"Well, well…"
A shadow emerged from the inferno. A man, draped in the pelt of a bear, his sword dripping red. His horse snorted, its hooves crushing the bones of the dead beneath it. His teeth—brown, jagged, like a beast's—gleamed in the firelight as he smiled.
Kael froze.
The man's gaze slid over his mother's ruined body, lingered on the boy's clenched fist—on the obsidian shard clutched there. His grin widened.
"Pathetic," he mused, stepping forward.
Kael stood, shaking, fists raised. "Stay away from her!"
The man laughed. Lightning split the sky. The sword rose—
Then fell.
"Gah—!"
Kael jolted upright, drenched in sweat, his throat raw from the scream he hadn't realized he'd let out. His fingers flew to the black shard hanging from his neck—the only thing left of her.
"Every damn night…"
The dream never changed. The fire. The blood. Her.
He exhaled, dragging a hand through his tangled black hair. The scars on his body ached—some from battles, some from hunger, all from survival.
"Mother…" The word was a ghost on his lips.
Dawn hadn't yet broken. The inn was silent, the world still draped in shadows. He dressed quickly—dagger at his hip, shortsword strapped to his back—and pulled his hood low over his face.
Downstairs, the innkeeper's daughter greeted him with a tired smile. "You're up early! Breakfast?"
Breakfast. A luxury. But today… today was different.
"Bread. Cheese. Stew." His voice was rough from disuse. "And water."
"Three silvers," she said.
He flinched but paid. The coins were half his week's earnings, but he was tired of starving.
At a nearby table, a trio of mercenaries were deep in their cups, their laughter too loud for the hour.
"Oi, Jorik, you hear the news?" A lanky man with a scar across his nose elbowed his companion. "Emperor's raising taxes again!"
"Ah, piss on that!" Jorik, a barrel-chested brute with a beard like a thornbush, slammed his tankard down. "Third time this year! What's next, he gonna tax the air we breathe?"
The third mercenary, a bald man with a missing ear, snorted into his ale. "Wouldn't put it past him. Man's got a nose for coin like a bloodhound for a trail."
"Bet he's saving up for a golden privy," Scar-Nose cackled. "Something fancy to match his royal arse!"
Jorik wiped foam from his beard. "Nah, it's war funds. Imperium's got its eyes on the elves again, mark my words."
"Elves?" Missing Ear perked up. "Heard their women bathe in moonlight and smell like roses."
"Bah! More like grass and rainwater," Jorik scoffed. "But I'll take that over another winter in this piss-pot town."
"Aye, let's head west," Scar-Nose grinned. "Find us some pointy-eared lovelies and live like kings!"
They roared with laughter, clinking their mugs together.
Kael ignored them. Their wars weren't his. Their world wasn't his.
His food arrived. He ate slowly, savoring each bite, because in the life of a gutter rat, a full stomach was rare.
And when he was done, he stepped back into the dark.