Almost everyone knows the tale of my origin.
But not everyone knows me.
I exist as a footnote in history, a name murmured only when convenience demands it. My story lies buried in the shadowed aisles of forgotten libraries, pressed between crumbling spines and yellowed parchment, where dust settles like a final benediction. Scholars pass me by without pause. Children never hear my name spoken with wonder. Time moves on, and I remain in this space—unchanging, untouched. Unheard.
And yet.
When that spirit exhales warmth into the hollow places of my past, when he threads my history into something living and offers it to the child who now carries the same grimoire, something long dormant stirs. It is not pain. Not quite joy, either. It is a tangled sensation—elation braided with confusion, hope clashing against disbelief.
I do not expect to feel again.
I cannot feel the summer sun anymore, cannot bask beneath its golden spill as it filters through leaves and laughter. Rivers no longer curl around my ankles; their cool rush is a memory worn thin. The aroma of roasted fish does not reach me, nor does the hush of night ever bring comfort. Death is a cold without end—one that seeps into everything, leaving nothing untouched.
And still, as I watch them journey farther from the only home they have ever known, something inside me twists.
They move with careless youth, with unbroken spirits and clumsy hope. Each step they take stirs emotions I believed erased, scraping softly against whatever remains of my heart. It flutters—uncertain, unfamiliar.
How long has it been since I last felt anything that belonged to the living?
I am not like them. I never will be again.
Yet their light reaches even here.
It spills past the boundary between worlds, illuminating the place where I linger, forgotten and half-formed. Their laughter carries farther than it should. Their resolve burns brighter than the sun I no longer remember.
I will protect you.
The promise is not loud. It does not need to be. When that unseen force calls my name, when fate tugs at me with gentle insistence, I follow without hesitation. I always do.
I watch them say goodbye.
It has been so long since tears last traced my vision that the sensation startles me. My sight blurs, heat pricks behind my eyes, and for a moment I am forced to remember what it was like to grieve openly, freely. The children's faces crumple as they cling to one another, their sorrow unguarded and raw.
Don't cry...
The words drift through the air, soft and tender. Perhaps they are not meant for the children alone. Perhaps they are meant for me—for the one who watches, aching for something he cannot reclaim.
Their voices scatter into the wind, woven with promises and unfinished dreams. Each farewell settles heavily in my chest, pressing into that small, hollow space I keep hidden. Longing stirs there, unwanted and cruel. An echo of something I am no longer permitted to feel.
I have no right to it.
Not anymore.
They face forward, eyes fixed on the winding road ahead. The future stretches before them, uncertain and vast, veiled by distance and possibility. No one can say what waits beyond the horizon.
Not even me.
The satori seers once peered into fate itself, and even they chose silence. Some truths, after all, are too heavy to speak aloud.
But humans are strange creatures.
I watch them march toward uncertainty with their chins lifted, as if the future is something to greet rather than fear. The unknown does not halt their steps; it sharpens them. Their courage is not loud, not polished—it is clumsy and sincere, born from hope rather than certainty. I cannot help but wonder, fleeting and wistful, if peace would one day take root in this world where more souls like theirs are allowed to walk it freely.
I linger just behind them, drifting close enough to catch every careless word, every unguarded laugh.
"The royal capital, huh?" one of them wonders aloud, his eyes wandering toward the distant line where earth dissolves into sky. "I wonder what it's like."
He is an odd one, this boy. Ashen hair catches the breeze, strands refusing to stay neatly in place, as though even the wind conspires to test his patience. His eyes—green and vivid—reflect the endless fields before us, untainted by the bitterness the world has shown him. Cast aside, yet never diminished. There is resilience in him that refuses to crack, an optimism that should have withered long ago but somehow did not. A rare soul. A good one.
My gaze drifts to his side.
A girl walks there, steady in her stride, unhurried yet purposeful. Something about her unsettles me—not with fear, but familiarity. Looking at her is like peering into a reflection distorted by years I can no longer count. A mirror stands between us, warped by time. Her eyes carry the open sky—limitless, bright—while mine once bore the weight of the sun itself.
"There'll be plenty of nobles," she says, her tone calm, certain. "That much is guaranteed."
A fox rests upon her shoulder, its presence quiet but unmistakable. The sight tugs at something buried deep within me. A memory brushes past my thoughts, elusive and fleeting, like a name on the tip of my tongue. I have known someone like this before. I am certain of it. I simply cannot remember who.
The third child hums as he walks, steps falling into an easy rhythm. He stands taller than the others, his posture composed, his presence grounded. His features are sharp, deliberate—like they were sculpted rather than born. Midnight-dark hair frames his face, stirred gently by the breeze, and his eyes—
Gold.
Not dull, not passive. They gleam like amber warmed beneath the sun, alive with ambition and something fiercer beneath it. I have not seen such a gaze in a very long time.
Before I realize it, my lips curve upward.
It startles me.
It has been ages since anyone has drawn even the faintest reaction from me, yet his eyes linger in my thoughts. They burn with intent, with possibility.
"I wonder if we'll meet the Wizard King!" the shorter boy says suddenly, excitement spilling freely into the open air.
"I see someone's fired up," the girl replies, nudging him with a grin that softens her sharp composure.
Their voices overlap, light and unrestrained. Easy. Alive. They fit together in a way that feels deliberate, as though fate itself took care in weaving their paths side by side.
Perhaps this journey will not be as dull as I first assumed.
I let out a chuckle and drift ahead, curiosity pulling me toward the bend of the path. Trees sway softly at the road's edge, their leaves whispering secrets to the breeze. Wildflowers dot the ground like careless brushstrokes, and the road curves invitingly into untamed beauty, daring me to wander further.
I take a few more steps—
Pain flares.
Heat surges through me without warning, sharp and commanding, as though an unseen hand has seized my form. The farther I drift, the stronger it grows, until my essence recoils, dragged backward by a force I cannot fight. An invisible tether snaps taut, hauling me back toward them.
I stop.
So much for wandering.
There is little hope in a state like mine—suspended between existence and oblivion, bound by rules I never agreed to. Even with all my knowledge, all my years, I have no name for what I am now.
I release a quiet sigh, thin and hollow, the sound almost unfamiliar.
And I follow them once more.
Something is clinging to the girl and the fox—an old current, thin but persistent. It glimmers faintly, like motes of dust caught in a slanted beam of light, brushing against the edges of my awareness. I know it. I am certain of that much. The recognition coils just beneath my tongue, taunting me with a truth I should already possess.
And yet—
It slips away every time I reach for it.
What am I missing?
What answer hides just beyond my grasp, laughing mockingly at my ignorance?
Ahead of us, the shorter boy suddenly bolts forward, legs pumping wildly as he sprints along the road, laughter trailing behind him like sparks from flint. Dust scatters beneath his boots. I watch closely, bracing for that familiar pull—the heat, the resistance, the invisible leash tightening around my form.
Nothing happens.
No searing warning. No force is dragging me back.
Curious.
That can only mean one thing. I am not bound to him.
My attention shifts instinctively to the two who remain behind—the girl and the fox perched upon her shoulder, tails brushing against her hair as though they belong there. The tether hums faintly then, unmistakable, vibrating beneath my skinless form.
So, it's them. One of them, at least. Or perhaps both.
A crease forms between my brows.
So much for freedom.
I had once believed that was what I desired above all else—that liberation was the wish etched deepest into what remained of my soul. But watching them now, feeling the chains still wrapped around me in silence, I understand the truth with aching clarity. Freedom was never mine to claim. Not like this. Not as whatever I have become. A being suspended between definitions has no right to choice. To believe otherwise was nothing more than foolish hope.
My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp, shrill outburst.
"Honestly! I cannot entrust a useless whelp like you with my master's safety! The audacity—to treat her with such disgrace! You should be groveling in gratitude that I have not reduced you to ash, you insufferable little brat!"
I pause mid-drift.
...What in the world are they arguing about now?
"Inari, no real harm's been done," the girl replies, her voice smooth and practiced, like someone long accustomed to calming storms. There's an edge of tired fondness to her tone, as though she's weathered countless outbursts like this before and survived every one. "Why don't you take a breath—and maybe not throw a tantrum for once?"
"Huh?" Inari snaps, bristling as he pivots toward her, wounded pride radiating off him in waves. "Master, you are far too radiant to be surrounded by mediocre fools! A being of your refinement deserves only the most exceptional of companions—certainly not this shameless boy!"
Inari.
Inari Uka no Mitama no Kami.
The name forms instinctively in my mind, resting there with unsettling ease. I try to speak it aloud, to test it against the air, but nothing comes. My voice—like so many things—is lost to this in-between existence. Still, I study him closely now, the golden-eyed fox standing boldly before her.
So that is his name.
"I shall personally conduct a strict screening process," he declares, puffing himself up. "That way, you won't have to waste even a glance on imbeciles like this one!"
The insult lands with a sharp smack to the boy's head.
That paw carries more force than its size suggests.
I watch with interest as his demeanor shifts. When he faces the girl, his posture is immaculate—measured, dignified, almost reverent. But when his attention turns to the boy, all refinement dissolves into drama and venom. It is like watching a nobleman descend into a petty squabble with a street urchin over spilled tea.
I find it... amusing.
The short boy—Asta, they call him—possesses a truly impressive talent for yelling. He shouts something about the Wizard King again, voice ringing loud enough to rattle the air itself. Over and over, as if repetition alone will carve the dream into reality. He is small, yes, but that voice could shake mountains if given the chance. I suspect it already has.
The taller one—Yuno—is his opposite in every way. Quiet. Controlled. His presence flows like a steady breeze beside Asta's thunder. I find myself appreciating the balance. Had I still possessed functioning ears, I imagine prolonged exposure to the loud one might have rendered me deaf long ago.
And then there is the girl.
She unsettles me.
There is something deeply uncanny about her—something that pulls at old memories and leaves them aching. She moves the way I once did. Carries herself with a familiarity that feels stolen from my past. When I look at her, it is like gazing into a warped mirror and seeing a version of myself shaped by a different fate.
She is not me.
And that knowledge sits heavier than I expect.
They are an odd trio, these three—unbalanced, loud, stubborn, strange.
But interesting.
Undeniably so.
"Who said I'm going out with Xierra now?" Yuno says, pulling the girl in front of him and gently squishing her seemingly soft, fair cheeks between his fingers. "We've got time. No rush." The way her face scrunches up under his teasing makes the moment oddly endearing.
"See? Take a page from Yuno's book," the fox says, voice laced with exaggerated elegance. "Such grace. Such patience. Learn from him."
"I-I'll make it work! I'm sure I can get Sister Lily to go out with m—!"
"Huh?! Make it work?!" Inari snaps, eyes wide with offense. "There are no second chances with me, you impudent youth!" And once again, his paw smacks Asta square on the head. Honestly, I'm starting to feel grateful for Inari's interventions. That boy's voice is beginning to test my limits—even in this undefined state.
"I'm not even talking about Xierra—why are you mad?!"
"You should be talking about her!"
"What?! Why?!"
"X—err—," I try to say, the name slipping from my lips like a whisper. Of course, a broken sound follows. Still, it feels natural—like I've spoken it a thousand times before. Strange how her name comes to me so easily... and yet, I can't even remember my own.
I watch the way they interact—the bickering, the teasing, the laughter in between. There's no blood tying them together, but the bond they share is something stronger. A chosen kind of closeness. They care deeply for one another.
And I remember when we had something like that, too.
I trail behind them in silence, drifting like a shadow through rivers that glimmer under moonlight and mountains that claw at the sky. The nights are tranquil—if one overlooks Asta's loud snores and his sleep-mumbled nonsense.
But the days are far less forgiving. Even as they trek across scorching deserts and wind their way through perilous ravines, Mother Nature shows them no kindness. She hurls trials in their path—storms, shifting earth, and near-misses with falling boulders, as if testing their will at every step.
For me, the journey is effortless. I'm weightless, untethered by hunger or exhaustion. I drift wherever I please, unbothered by the elements.
But they—flesh-and-blood beings with weary limbs and beating hearts—they must endure. And they do. When the rocks fall, they run. When the skies weep or the land cracks beneath their feet, they press forward.
Across wild meadows and tangled forests, over mountains that pierce the skies and deserts that burn beneath the sun—they move with stubborn, beautiful resolve.
It's something to behold. Something quietly magnificent.
They endure—somehow—with no training to speak of, no lessons carved into muscle or instinct. They stumble through the wild with nothing but stubborn resolve, a sputtering bonfire, and whatever luck brings into their hands by noon or dusk. Hunger gnaws at them in quiet, relentless waves. Fatigue settles into their limbs like lead. And still, they move.
At night, they collapse beneath skies stitched with constellations, stars scattered like careless promises across the dark. Dawn greets them with birdsong and the low sigh of wind brushing through leaves, as though the world itself is urging them onward. Every moment feels unfiltered, unsoftened—raw struggle woven seamlessly with wonder. A living tapestry, shifting with each step.
And I envy them.
The living.
Yet, just as fiercely, I envy the dead.
Because I am neither.
I linger in a hollow between states, a presence without weight, a ghost in all but name. I do not breathe, yet I am not still. I do not sleep, yet I am never truly awake. Existing like this is... quiet. Too quiet.
I envy their bonds—the ease with which they speak, bicker, collide into laughter as if the world has no teeth. I envy the way they share glances that say more than words ever could. The trust that passes between them without question, without ceremony.
I ache for sensation. For warmth. For the simple gravity of touch.
I envy their chaos, their fleeting joys, their fragile, incandescent mortality.
And still, I walk beside them—unseen, unheard, unwavering. Their path curves forward, winding and uncertain, barely begun. The thread of their fate stretches far beyond any horizon I am allowed to reach.
I see no ending waiting for them.
Only a beginning—the starting line ever so brilliant and blinding.
They burn with a light I can never hold, their futures flaring like stars in a sky forever out of reach. When I imagine the sun bathing their skin as they crest the mountain's peak, something long dormant stirs within me. A loosening. A quiet, aching release. If I could name it, I would call it relief.
Ahead of us, the royal capital unfurls—vast and imposing, its stone and gold steeped in centuries of breath and blood. I know this place.
Or fragments of it.
Memories surface like broken glass beneath still water—sharp, indistinct, sealed away where even I cannot reach them. I do not know what history binds me to these towering walls.
But when I see their faces light up—eyes wide, shimmering with awe and anticipation—I feel something shift. I think I smile. I cannot see myself, cannot feel the curve of lips or the pull of muscle, but something flutters where a heart once beat.
If I had to name that sensation, I would call it happiness.
And I want—desperately—to believe it is real.
I want to believe that I can feel again.
More than that, I want to believe I can stay. That I can remain at their side as they carve their names into this boundless world, step by step, mistake by mistake.
I cannot recall when it happened—there is no single moment, no clear fracture—but somewhere along these restless weeks of wandering, these three human children etch themselves into me. Deeply. Permanently. They stop being strangers.
They become something rare.
Something cherished.
I smile. Then I smile again.
And then—I laugh.
The sound, always so broken and distorted, startles even me. It's soft and soundless, echoing only within the confines of my being. How long has it been since laughter belonged to me, even in solitude?
I trail behind them, offering quiet prayers—not to gods, nor to forgotten spirits, but to the universe itself. Let them thrive. Let them stumble and rise. Let them reach heights I never will.
I do not care that I walk without breath.
I do not care that I exist between life and death.
I do not care that they cannot see me, cannot hear me.
I am still here.
And I am still with them.
So please—if nothing else—let me remain by their side. Let me watch. Let me guard them with every silent step...
...until the very end.