May 20th, 1810 — Birmingham, Great Britain
Time moved as it always did. Indifferent. Unbothered by grief or hope.
And so, the story shifted.
Far from the heart of the ever‑expanding conflict, away from the clashing wills and looming calamities, it settled upon a quieter place—one rarely touched by prophecy or war.
What unfolded here was the life of one of the Great Heroes foretold by the Blind Oracles. One destined to stand against the doom threatening all creation.
The Great Hero—Caelan Durandal.
Nearly a month had passed since the destruction of London. Though reconstruction had begun, it would take years before the city could truly be called whole again. In the aftermath of that tragedy, the boy had at last been reunited with his long‑lost mother—the woman he had been torn from when he was still too young to understand what family truly meant, or what it was worth.
Memories of that time were fragmented at best. Faces blurred. Voices faded. Love felt more like a distant warmth than something he could clearly remember.
And yet, despite all odds—despite cruelty, loss, and the unyielding hand of fate—mother and son were together again.
Fate had torn them apart.
But destiny, stubborn and defiant, had brought them back.
Now they lived in Birmingham, far from their ruined home in London. An ordinary, lower‑class life. Quiet days. Simple meals. No grand halls or burning skies—just survival, one morning at a time.
Adam—the man who made this reunion possible—was gone. His absence lingered in every unspoken word, every empty space. Their hearts still ached for him. Yet even with that wound, their lives were lighter than before. The burdens fewer. The trauma no longer pressing down with the same crushing weight.
For now.
The scene opened upon Caelan in deep slumber.
Sweat clung to his skin. His brow twitched. His breathing came uneven, labored.
A nightmare.
One born of cruelty.
Visions dragged him back into the realms governed by Percival—his abductor. His jailer. His tormentor. They played out like a grotesque orchestra, each memory striking in rhythm with his suffering.
Starvation.
Beatings.
Endless mistreatment.
Cruel words meant to hollow him out from the inside.
Slow, deliberate tortures—designed not to kill, but to break.
He was treated worse than a slave. Reduced to a tool.
The incident that took his left arm resurfaced as well. Pain sharp and vivid, even now. But even that loss mattered little to those who held him captive. What mattered was his worth.
His ability.
The power to forge high‑grade weapons. To shape Ethereal Instruments—given time, suffering, and silence.
Yet the nightmare did not end there.
Fragments of an earlier life slipped in between the horrors. A complete family. Warmth. Care. Laughter. Love—taken from him before he was old enough to understand its true value.
Then came his father.
Adam.
But not as he once was.
He lay before Caelan—seated, lifeless. A body emptied of warmth. Of breath. Of light.
"No…"
Tears streamed freely as Caelan begged him to wake. Again and again. But it was useless.
That man was gone.
The figure before him was no longer his father—but a shadow shaped by trauma. A chain forged from years of suffering, tightened further by Adam's death.
The nightmare pressed on. Twisted. Suffocating.
Before it could drag him any deeper—
Caelan bolted upright.
He gasped for air, sweat soaking his sheets, heart pounding as if trying to tear free from his chest. His hand clutched instinctively at the chained ring hanging around his neck.
"C‑Caelan!"
A woman's voice cried out.
Miria Durandal.
She lay beside him, having held him close through the night as though he were an infant once more. Her eyes were wide with panic now, hair disheveled, concern written plainly across her face.
"Caelan!" she called again.
He breathed heavily for a moment—then slowly realized it was morning. Sunlight spilled gently through the window, washing away the darkness.
"I'm…" he began, voice shaky. "I'm fine, Mama. It was just…"
Miria tilted her head slightly, expression soft and childlike. "Nightmare?"
"Yes," Caelan answered quietly. "A nightmare."
Without hesitation, Miria pulled him into her arms.
The sudden hug startled him, but only for a second. Her embrace was warm. Firm. Real.
"No be scared, Caelan," she whispered softly. "Mother stay with you. Always."
A mother's love flowed as naturally as time itself—unresistable, unconditional, unmeasurable.
Slowly, Caelan's racing heart eased. His breathing steadied. The storm inside him calmed beneath her touch.
I guess… I'm still having nightmares about Father, he thought.
Of course I would.
The pain lingered.
I just wish… I wish he didn't have to die protecting me. Not right after we finally found each other again…
His thoughts cracked under the weight of it.
Then—his stomach growled.
Miria noticed immediately.
She slipped out of bed in a hurry, already moving toward the kitchen. "Caelan, wait," she said brightly. "Mommy make food. Very soon."
Before he could even respond, she was gone.
Caelan sat there in silence, watching the doorway.
For the first time in a long while, despite the pain…
He felt safe.
Taking several minutes to finally leave his bed, Caelen tidied the sheets, brushed his teeth, and washed himself before heading out to join his mother for breakfast.
When he stepped into the dining room of their modest, cramped house, he froze.
The table was crowded—far too crowded—with plates and bowls stacked one after another, an absurd amount of food prepared solely for him. Caelen blinked, then sighed softly. He wasn't surprised. He had slowly begun to grow accustomed to his mother going far beyond excess whenever it concerned him—always without asking, always without hesitation.
He sat down, and almost immediately Miria began spoon-feeding him, not wasting a single second. Caelen didn't resist, even if it felt strange for a mother to treat her son as though he were still an infant. He didn't complain either.
In truth, he cherished every second of it.
He wanted to preserve as many moments as he could with his only remaining loved one, to take nothing for granted. Fate had already proven how merciless it could be—how easily it could tear everything away. So if it allowed him this fragile peace, then he would embrace it fully. Without shame. Without fear of tomorrow.
Time passed quietly, and before either of them noticed, breakfast had ended.
Miria immediately pulled Caelen closer, fussing over him as she carefully began to tidy his medium-length, sun-colored hair—so similar to her own.
"Y-your hair… is… very beautiful, my dear son," she said, her smile radiant and warm—so bright that even the stars themselves might have envied it.
"Thank you very much, Mama," Caelen replied, returning her smile.
He remained still, not resisting in the slightest, as a thought crossed his mind.
Mother's been speaking more lately… expressing herself more than before.
He paused.
I wonder why…
Then he shook the thought away.
It doesn't matter.
All that matters is that she's trying. That she's feeling again—even if she can't fully shape those feelings into words.
The truth was cruel.
Having her child torn away by a stranger she never knew… watching her husband nearly die and failing to stop it… those scars had shattered Miria's mind. Her will—once strong—had been hollowed out, leaving behind something fragile and incomplete. She lived now with the emotional state of a developing child trapped within an adult body. A wound that no medicine could truly mend.
It was heartbreaking.
A fate that would drive most into despair.
But Caelen refused to let himself sink into that abyss again. He would not surrender to nihilism—not now, not here.
As Miria finished fixing his hair, she quickly moved on, humming softly as she went to wash the dishes they had eaten from. Caelen stood to help, instinctively stepping forward—
Then he remembered.
His left arm was gone.
The wooden prosthetic that once replaced it had long since been discarded—broken, useless, a mockery of what it was meant to be. His chest tightened as that realization settled in, heavy and familiar.
Miria noticed.
She gently shook her head, seeing the defeated look in her son's eyes—the same look he'd worn countless times before. The same words echoed in his mind.
Useless.
Disposable.
A tool meant only to serve.
Words spoken by Percival himself, delivered with utter disregard for Caelen's very existence.
Miria knelt down before him, her hands still wet and covered in soap. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss against his forehead.
"No… be sad, Caelen," she murmured softly. "Mommy… loves you. Too much… to make you work. A-and… worry."
She smiled.
"So… please rest. Mommy… got this."
Those simple words pulled him back.
Back to reality.
Back to the present.
He wasn't there anymore. He wasn't surrounded by monsters wearing human faces. He was here—safe, seated in a small home with the one person who cherished his existence without condition.
Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his cheeks as he smiled—his lips trembling as he forced a grin through the emotion.
"Thank you… Mama," he whispered.
Words he had spoken many times before, yet each time they carried greater weight than the last.
As Miria continued washing the dishes, Caelen quietly returned to his room and began searching through his belongings. His hand stopped when he found it.
A journal.
One of the few items recovered from the old house where his parents once lived, before he and Miria were forced to leave it behind.
It belonged to Adam.
Caelen hesitated, then opened it.
Inside were old photographs—his parents in their youth, smiling during their teenage years. Caelen felt his lips curve upward without realizing it, warmth blooming in his chest as he carefully turned each page.
Then he stopped.
A photograph of a newborn.
Him.
Adam and Miria stood together, young and radiant—likely no older than their early twenties. There were no other faces. No extended family. Just the three of them.
Questions formed in his mind, countless and heavy—but he let them rest.
There was no need to rush.
Time would answer what it chose to answer.
Turning the final page of images, Caelen's breath caught.
Before him lay handwritten entries.
His father's words.
Adam's journal.
———————————————————
Journal Entry
Date: July 5th, 1801
Context: What is Fate? What is Destiny?
Today was my son Caelen's first birthday.
Ironically… it was my birthday too.
What are the chances of your child being born on the very same day and month as you? It almost feels absurd. Phenomenal, even.
It feels like a blessing from the heavens.
No—having you and Miria is a blessing in itself.
Holding my son today, watching him laugh without a single worry in his eyes, my mind drifted—as it often does—to questions far greater than myself.
What is the meaning of life?
What is love?
Is it merely an emotion… or a state of being?
Will my child inherit my powers? And if he does, how should I guide him? How do I prepare him for a world that can be so cruel, yet still teach him to be gentle?
All of these thoughts filled me with a warmth and energy I had never known before. Is this what it feels like—to be a father for the first time? To be the husband of the most beautiful woman to ever walk this earth?
I can hardly steady my thoughts.
Yet despite all this joy, one question continues to trouble my heart.
Were these blessings always meant for me?
Was everything I now hold dear something Fate had already decided long before I was born?
My childhood was anything but kind. My parents never truly cared for me. My mother sold herself night after night while my father was away, and when he returned, he returned with violence. Anger was the only language he ever spoke.
I learned early how to fend for myself—feeding myself most days, working harsh jobs long before I should have, and secretly honing the powers I was born with. Powers I never once dared reveal to them.
And then came that fateful day.
The day I met Miria.
She was a local girl from a nearby town—intelligent, kind, radiant beyond words. Love at first sight feels like a childish notion… yet that is the only phrase that fits.
She was an orphan. Never knew her parents. Sold to the church as a child, where she grew into the brilliant and compassionate woman she is today.
Two souls raised without love.
So I asked myself—why should we continue living that way?
Why not run away together? Why not build the family we were both denied as children?
And so… we did.
Thinking back on it now still makes me laugh. So reckless. So foolish. And yet… it was the best decision I ever made.
Which brings me back to the question that started all of this.
Was this happiness the work of Fate?
If so, then was my suffering also its design?
I struggle to fully grasp it, but this is what I have come to believe.
Fate is an abstract force that exists before birth. A fixed narrative woven into existence itself. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Neutral—neither benevolent nor cruel.
It does not ask for consent.
It does not care for opinion.
It simply declares:
"This will happen."
And so it does.
Without warning. Without mercy. Without possibility of change.
I often wonder—was meeting Miria truly a coincidence? Or was it an event carved into existence long before I ever gained consciousness?
If that is true… then do we truly possess freedom?
I refuse to accept a world where every thought, every action, every love is nothing more than a prewritten script.
And so, I turn to Destiny.
I believe Destiny exists as Fate's counterweight.
If Fate is a cosmic constant, then Destiny is meaning chosen.
It is a fate forged through self-will.
A moral ownership of one's path—something that can only exist after awareness is born.
Destiny is the acceptance, rejection, or reshaping of Fate itself.
And it demands choice.
It demands sacrifice.
For if Fate is what you are,
Then Destiny is what you decide to become.
I was once a boy left to starve in a merciless world.
Now I am a father.
A husband.
A man willing to give up everything he is to protect what matters most.
Miria.
Caelen.
That was my choice.
Abandoning everything I knew to pursue a future built on love. A sacrifice I would make again without hesitation—even if it means being branded a villain. Even if it leads to my death.
My love knows no boundaries, even when the world calls it morally gray.
I do not care.
Because what I choose to make real—
That is what Destiny stands for.
A Fate determined by self-will and sacrifice.
Not one dictated by a higher force beyond oneself.
And with philosophy set aside, I write this with certainty:
I am proud to be a father.
I am proud to have found you, Miria—by Destiny.
Whether our meeting was coincidence or design no longer matters to me.
I chose you.
And I will die an old man content, knowing that choice was mine.
———————————————————
At the very end of the journal, tucked beneath the final page, was something Caelen had almost missed.
A small note.
Carefully folded. Quiet. As though it had been waiting.
It read:
———————————————————
If you are reading this someday, my dear Caelen,
Then I hope life has treated you gently.
I hope you've found warmth in this world, and that you one day discover a love as deep and sincere as the one your mother and I share.
Do not rush it. Take your time. The things that truly matter never come through force.
They come naturally—as long as you continue to seek them honestly.
Just as Destiny intends… through your own will.
I love you, my son.
— Adam Durandal
———————————————————
The moment Caelen finished reading, his vision blurred.
Tears welled up, then spilled freely down his cheeks.
His chest tightened as the weight of the words settled into him—words never meant for the present, but for a future Adam knew he might never see.
Did his father know?
Did he write this expecting Caelen to find it someday?
Was this moment carved by Fate…
Or shaped by Destiny?
Caelen closed the journal slowly, his hand trembling as he pressed it gently against his chest. He took unsteady steps toward the window, the room suddenly feeling far too quiet.
He reached out and shut the window, then drew the curtains closed, dimming the morning light.
His head lowered, shoulders shaking beneath emotions too vast to name.
Without thinking, his right hand rose to his chest—fingers curling tightly around the ring hanging from the chain at his neck.
Out of habit.
Out of longing.
Out of love.