The next morning, he dragged himself to work again.
His steps were slow, heavy, still burdened by the old man's face he had seen the day before, the way he had clutched his chest, the way no one had helped.
And now, he would have to deal with his boss too, who would surely bark at him for skipping a day. Maybe he would even go and tell his father, as if he was still a child needing to be disciplined.
As he walked through the cracked streets of the Voidborns, the same familiar sights surrounded him, the crumbling walls, the crooked alleys, the worn-out faces.
He had never once crossed beyond the borders that penned Voidborn like a cage. They said it was for protection, but it never felt like protection. It felt like shame. Like they didn't want people like him to be seen.
He paused under a tree, an old, tired thing, its branches sparse and thin, struggling to survive like everything else here.
He sat down at its base, pulled his knees close, and stared ahead without seeing anything.
His mind spun with heavy thoughts, the kind he wasn't ready for, but couldn't ignore anymore.
For so long, he had lived in the quiet shelter of four walls, his mother's love a soft shield against the world's cruelty. She had kept him hidden, kept him safe. And perhaps it wasn't just kindness. It was fear.
The world outside was so full of suffering it hurt to even look at it.
Why?
Why couldn't people just live and let live?
Why did they always have to tear each other down, to be cruel, to mock, to hate?
Are they devoid of emotions and feelings? Is that why they are able to harm others? Were they truly empty inside, empty enough to ignore the screams, the tears, the pleas?
The image of the woman crying in the street, clutching her children close like they were the only thing left in her world, burned into his mind.
He didn't want to forget it.
He shouldn't forget it.
He wasn't depressed, no, not yet. But the small flame of joy inside him had dimmed.
For the first time, he wondered what the point of it all was, living, breathing, hoping, in a world stitched together by misery.
Maybe that's why his mother had kept him inside all those years. To protect him from the truth.
Maybe that's why Voidborns were trapped here, behind crumbling walls, because they were born different. Born without magic, in a world where magic was everything.
But was that truly a reason?
To cast them aside, to treat them like stains on the earth?
Just because they couldn't hold power in their hands, did it mean they deserved nothing?
The questions dug deeper, roots sinking into his heart.
He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a deep, shaky breath.
There was so much he didn't understand.
So much he still had to learn.
But even now, a small part of him knew: no one is born to suffer.
No one deserves to be made to feel less because of something they never chose.
He stood up, brushed the dust from his clothes, and started walking again.
The world hadn't changed.
But maybe, someday, he would.
And maybe that would be enough.
---
The sun was still dragging itself up the sky when Zehron arrived at the yard.
The usual noise was there, workers yelling, crates slamming down, the rattle of carts over the broken stones.
By the gate, leaning against a worn wooden pole, stood Jorvan, the work boss.
Thick-armed, thick-bearded, his sharp eyes scanned the workers like he was counting sheep — or wolves.
His voice cut through the morning air as he barked orders:
"Get those logs to the west dock! Watch the nails, you idiots, we don't have spare hands!"
Then he spotted Zehron.
The lazy lean straightened.
Veylen crossed his arms, a slow frown dragging across his face.
He jerked his chin up. "Well, well. Look who decided to show up."
Zehron lowered his head slightly, but kept walking toward the tool stand.
He felt the weight of eyes on him, other workers glancing, muttering.
Jorvan pushed off the pole and strode toward him, heavy boots kicking up dust.
"You think you can just vanish for a day and stroll back in like nothing happened?" he barked.
" Boy, you're paid to work, not to mope in the streets!"
Zehron opened his mouth, but the words stuck.
What could he say?
Jorvan scowled harder when Zehron stayed silent.
"Tch." He spat to the side. "Who do you think you are? Don't expect me to treat you any different! Life doesn't care if you're hurting."
He jabbed a thick finger at the heavy carts lined up.
"You want your day's pay? Earn it. Work twice as hard today, or don't bother showing up tomorrow."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned and barked at someone else.
Zehron stood there for a moment, feeling the words settle heavy on his chest.
Life doesn't care if you're hurting.
Maybe Jorvan didn't mean it as anything more than a scolding,
but to Zehron, it sounded like a truth too big to ignore.
He tightened his grip on the rough wooden handle of the cart and got to work.
---
The day wore on.
Sweat clung to Zehron's back as he hauled crates and shifted barrels, his hands growing raw against the coarse wood.
The noise around him faded to a distant hum — all he could hear were Veylen's words, echoing in his mind.
"Life doesn't care if you're hurting."
Maybe it was true.
Maybe the world was just built to keep moving, no matter who stumbled and fell.
He kept his head down, working harder than he ever had, but inside, a dull ache gnawed at him.
Not anger, not really.
Just... a hollow kind of sadness.
He tightened the rope around a crate, muttering to himself.
"Is this what growing up feels like?"
"Learning how to hurt quietly?"
"Oi, oi, don't tie yourself to the box, mate!"
A loud whisper made Zehron blink.
He turned and saw Orien grinning at him, a coil of rope slung over one shoulder.
Beside him was Vaelen, pretending to limp dramatically as if carrying a heavy load had crippled him.
"You keep starin' at the ground like that, they'll think you dropped your brain somewhere," Vaelen said, wobbling closer.
He squinted at Zehron's boots. "Nope. No brain here. Guess we lost it for good."
Zehron didn't say anything, just a blank stare!
Orien elbowed him lightly.
"Don't mind Jorvan. He's just mad the pole he's leanin' on has a better posture than him," he said, smirking.
"Swear the man was born scowlin'. Came outta his mother, gave the midwife a dirty look, and demanded a shovel."
Vaelen snorted. "Aye, probably used that shovel to start bossin' people around at the ripe old age of two."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice in a mock whisper.
"Bet if you shaved that beard, you'd find another, smaller Jorvan underneath. Like some miserable nesting doll."
Zehron shook his head slightly.
Orien clapped him on the back, a little rough but warm.
"Don't let that old crow get in your head, Zehron. He shouts at everyone. Means you're one of us now."
Vaelen waggled his eyebrows. "Welcome to the club of professional screw-ups."
He thrust a hand out dramatically.
"Membership includes: sore backs, bad jokes, and the secret knowledge that none of this makes a lick of sense anyway."
He wiped his brow, feeling the sun still hot overhead, and nodded.
The three of them got back to work, joking, teasing, and lifting.
The sun pressed harder against the sky, and the scent of dust and sweat filled the air.
Zehron moved from crate to crate, his arms burning, his back screaming for rest, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Maybe it was guilt for missing yesterday.
Maybe it was something deeper, something he didn't have the words for yet.
But every fiber of him said: Move. Keep moving.
He heaved a heavy sack onto his shoulder, barely pausing, stacking it onto a cart before reaching for another.
Other workers slowed, glancing his way.
Some nudged each other, eyebrows raised.
Even the chatter in the yard dipped for a moment as Zehron muscled through a load meant for two men, without a word of complaint.
At the entrance, leaning lazily against the pole, Jorvan, the workboss, narrowed his eyes.
His arms stayed crossed, but he watched.
Longer than necessary.
A small grunt left him unreadable.
Approval?
Maybe.
Or maybe just surprise.
Nearby, Orien nudged Vaelen.
"Look at him go," he muttered, half-impressed, half-worried.
"Kid's gonna lift the whole dock if we ain't careful."
Vaelen whistled low.
"Tell you what, when he breaks the ground itself tryin', I'm takin' the day off."
He grinned.
Zehron didn't hear them.
He was too focused, too deep in the rhythm of work, lifting, moving, stacking, again and again, until the ache in his body blended into something else.
A kind of strength, built not from pride, but from pain.
A quiet proof that even when the world turned its back, you could still choose to stand.
As the sun climbed higher, Zehron barely noticed the sweat dripping down his face. His hands ached, his muscles screamed for respite, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He was making up for lost time, or at least, that's what he told himself. His world narrowed down to the rhythm of work, one load at a time, one task after another.
He could feel eyes on him, but it didn't matter. He wasn't doing this for them, anyway. Not for approval, not for praise.
But then, out of the corner of his eye, Zehron caught something different, a subtle movement.
An older worker, one who had been around long enough to be called "one of the old hands" by others, nodded at him from across the yard. The man was weathered, his hands calloused, his face lined with years of hard labor. He didn't stop working, but he did slow down enough to offer Zehron a respectful glance, a kind of silent acknowledgment..
Then, a few moments later, he appeared at Zehron's side, a battered water skin in hand. His voice was rough but gentle.
"You look like you need this," he said, offering the skin. "Don't burn yourself out, lad. The work'll still be here when you're ready."
Zehron paused.
The old man gave a small smile, one that didn't need words, then returned to his task, leaving Zehron with a quiet feeling, not of pity, but of a shared understanding. A simple truth: no one worked alone. Not really. And even in a place where people struggled, there were still moments of gentleness.
For just a moment, Zehron allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, the world wasn't all bad.
—--
Zehron dragged his feet along the worn path, the last of the sun's gold bleeding into the horizon behind him. His fingers, raw and cracked from hours of lifting and hauling, clutched the piece of bread he had grabbed in haste. He chewed slowly as he jogged, each step heavier than the last.
He hadn't even realized how late it had gotten, or how hungry he was, until now.
He didn't even tell his mother that he would be late!
Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow he would visit the old man again.
When he reached home, the door creaked as he pushed it open.
Inside, the small, warm house greeted him: the familiar smell of wool and the quiet scratch-scratch of knitting needles.
Naevira sat at the dining table, her head bowed over a half-finished shawl. She looked up at the sound of the door, and froze.
Zehron stood there, drenched in sweat, his fair skin almost glowing under the dim candlelight, beads of moisture tracing down his face like glistening threads.
His hair clung damply to his forehead, his shirt plastered to his lean frame.
His chest rose and fell with every breath, lips slightly parted as if even breathing had become labor.
For a moment, Naevira just stared, confused and concerned.
He looked... different.
Worn.
Older, somehow.
As if he'd carried the weight of something invisible back home with him.
"Zehron?" she called softly, setting down her knitting. "Why are you so late? And what…what happened to you, my dear?"
Zehron tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
"I just… worked a little harder today," he said simply, voice low, tired.
Naevira rose to her feet, crossing the room quickly, her hands gentle but urgent as she placed them on his cheeks, feeling the warmth of him.
"You're burning up," she said, worry furrowing her brow. "Did something happen?"
He shook his head, partly because he didn't know how to explain, and partly because he was too tired to find the words..
"Nothing bad, Ma," he murmured. "Just... wanted to catch up."
Her gaze searched his face, the same face she had watched grow from a small boy into the young man before her, yet tonight, he seemed to have taken a step further away from childhood without warning.
With a sigh, she tugged him toward the table.
"Sit," she said firmly. "Sit and rest. I'll bring you something warm."
Zehron obeyed, slumping into the chair. His bones felt heavier than stone.
As Naevira moved around the kitchen, humming softly under her breath, Zehron leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment.
He still had so much to learn about the world.
---
Naevira set the bowl in front of him, a simple broth, rich and warm, with a small piece of bread on the side.
The smell of it wrapped around Zehron like a blanket, comforting after the long, harsh day.
He murmured a soft thanks and lifted the spoon, letting the warmth seep into him with each sip.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The small house was filled only with the faint crackle of the fire and the rhythm of Naevira's knitting needles tapping against each other, a sound that always made Zehron feel like he was safe.
After a few quiet moments, Zehron lowered the spoon.
He looked up at her, hesitant, the words catching at the edge of his tongue.
"Where's Father?" he asked quietly.
Naevira looked up, her smile soft and easy.
"He's out for work. Said he might be late tonight," she answered lightly, almost too lightly.
Zehron nodded, feeling a small pang, his father was always working, always distant.
But he didn't linger on it.
Instead, after a small pause, he spoke again, hesitating this time.
"Ma… starting tomorrow… I might be a bit late too."
The moment the words left his mouth, Naevira stiffened.
Her needles stopped their soft clicking.
She set them aside sharply, her brows knitting together in sudden worry.
"Why?" she asked, voice taut. "Is someone bullying you with work? Is it the boss? Those boys you work with?"
Her words tumbled out in a rush, tinged with confusion, anger, fear, and desperate concern.
"If they are, Zehron, you must tell me. You don't have to stay there. We'll find you other work, better work, safer work. You don't have to…"
"Ma," Zehron said, reaching across the table to still her hands, which were now trembling slightly.
"Ma, breathe. Calm down."
His touch was firm, grounding her in an instant.
"No one's bullying me," he said, his voice steady, though touched with a smile. "Really. You don't have to worry."
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling fast.
"Then why, Zehron?"
He thought quickly, spinning an excuse, one that wasn't a complete lie.
"I just… took on a little extra. Voluntarily. To earn a bit more."
Naevira's heart ached.
She didn't quite believe him.
There was something different in his eyes tonight, a depth, a burden he wasn't sharing.
Maybe he had learned to lie.
She nodded anyway, a slow, reluctant gesture.
But her eyes…her deep, mother's eyes…said I'm still watching. I'm still worried.
Zehron squeezed her hands gently.
"I'll be fine, Ma. Promise."
The tension between them dissolved slowly, like morning mist.
Naevira sighed and reached out, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead, a small, affectionate gesture.
"You work too hard for your age," she murmured, half to herself.
Zehron closed his eyes briefly under her touch.
The world could be cruel, could break your back and bruise your heart, but here, under this little roof, there was still warmth.
Still love.
"Go on," Naevira said after a moment, softening. "Get yourself cleaned up."
Zehron smiled faintly and rose to his feet.
---
Zehron entered the small bathing room, carrying a towel over his shoulder.
The house was old, but Naevira always kept it neat, and the simple basin in the corner was filled with warm water she must have prepared.
He stripped off his damp clothes slowly, the fabric clinging to his skin as if reluctant to let go.
Every movement made him aware of his body, the ache in his shoulders, the soreness in his arms, the dull heaviness in his thighs from a day's worth of strain.
When he stood bare, the cool air brushed against his flushed skin, raising small bumps along his arms.
He stripped the rest of the way, unhurried, baring the full reality of himself — tall, graceful, the kind of beauty that seemed almost unintentional.
The warm basin waited, inviting.
He stepped in, hissing slightly as the heat embraced him.
The water lapped high up his thighs, soothing the sore, overworked muscles there.
He sank deeper, closing his eyes as the warmth pulled a sigh from his lips.
For a few minutes, he simply lay there, the water tracing the curve of his collarbone, sliding down the firm plane of his abdomen.
His hand moved lazily over his skin, scrubbing away the dirt and salt of the long day, feeling the old bruises and new aches under his fingertips.
The steady drip of water echoed around the room, mingling with the slow sound of his breath.
It was one of the few moments he allowed himself to just feel, his body, his tiredness, his living heartbeat beneath it all.
After a long, quiet while, he rose, rivulets of water sliding down the strong lines of his legs, the sharp angles of his knees.
He wrapped a coarse towel low around his hips, water still dripping from the ends of his hair.
He wiped his face with the towel's edge, then grabbed a cloth and began briskly drying his hair, ruffling it into damp, wild locks.
He slipped into fresh, simple clothes — a loose shirt and a trouser — and stretched, feeling the slight crack of his joints.
All he wanted now was to fall into bed.
But just as he turned toward the cot, a faint tapping caught his ear.
Zehron looked up.
Perched neatly by the window was a small gray bird, ruffling its feathers impatiently.
His heart skipped.
He crossed the room quickly and untied the small roll of parchment from its leg.
Unfolding it, he read Elvienne's flowing handwriting:
"Dear Zehron,
Today was a day full of laughter and troubles. I tripped over myself again, Riela says I have two left feet, but I think I was just distracted, thinking about our talk..."
Zehron smiled faintly, the memory of her laugh flickering in his mind.
He closed the parchment carefully, pressing it to his chest for a moment.
He fetched a small wooden bowl and scattered some grains and pulses into it, placing it by the bird.
The creature chirped softly in thanks, already pecking eagerly at the food.
Zehron sighed, exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
He stumbled to his bed, collapsed onto the thin mattress with a groan, and shut his eyes, the scent of clean skin and warm bread still lingering around him.
Tomorrow would come.
But for now, there was only the soft darkness, the steady thrum of his heart, and the faint whisper of a girl's laughter tucked somewhere safe in his dreams.
---
The clang of swords echoed through the Veyrin estate's private training grounds, the air crackling with magic as the two siblings dueled.
Mist shimmered around their feet, remnants of the spells laced into their blades, while a group of young soldiers watched wide-eyed from the sidelines. None dared to even whisper. Watching Veyrin blood in action was a rare honor.
Raevira Veyrin, the eldest daughter of the household, moved like a blade herself — swift, merciless, elegant.
Across from her, her younger brother, Sylus Veyrin, was giving everything he had, sweat dripping from his brow, his chest heaving, but even so, he struggled to keep pace.
Their swords blazed with magic, silver streaks splitting the misted air, every strike echoing through the grounds. The soldiers gathered around couldn't help but watch in awe, though none were truly surprised. They were Veyrins, after all, a bloodline of warriors, the sword practically woven into their bones.
Sylus gritted his teeth, trying to read her next move, but Raevira, effortless as ever, outpaced him with a single sweep of her blade that nearly disarmed him.
From the stone terrace overlooking the grounds, their father, Lord Veyrin, stood with his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his sharp eyes tracking every movement.
The silence from him was heavy, tense, until suddenly, he raised one hand.
"Enough!" his voice cracked like a whip.
The two siblings froze mid-step, blades lowering instantly. A hush fell over the grounds.
Lord Veyrin strode forward, his boots making a crisp sound on the training stone. His face was unreadable at first.
But then, his entire demeanor shifted the moment he reached his daughter.
With no warning, he seized Raevira's hand in both of his, his stern expression melting into something horrifyingly soft.
"My jewel," he said, his voice dripping with emotion, "as brilliant as ever. How I have suffered without you! You choose swordplay over your poor, lonely father? After all this time?"
He looked at her with such an exaggerated wounded expression, lip almost quivering, that one of the younger soldiers actually coughed to cover a laugh.
Still holding Raevira's hand, Lord Veyrin turned slightly to the crowd, his voice growing louder and dramatically sorrowful.
"She returns to the home of her blood after so many years of separation… and not even one stroll in the garden with her father! Only clashing swords and bruises! Is this the fate of a loving father?"
He truly looked on the verge of throwing a tantrum.
And just when it couldn't get worse, Lady Veyrin, their sharp-tongued mother, appeared behind him with perfect timing.
Without ceremony, she smacked him lightly on the back of his head with a folded fan.
"Stop embarrassing our house, you ridiculous old fool," she said flatly.
The soldiers stiffened, unsure if they should laugh or hold their breath.
Lord Veyrin turned around with the dignity of a man deeply wounded, rubbing the back of his head where she had struck him, but he said nothing.
Raevira only shook her head with a small, fond smile, while Sylus used the opportunity to sneak a few extra gulps of air, leaning heavily on his sword.
He staggered over to Raevira once their parents had moved a few steps away.
Still panting, Sylus shot her a glare and muttered, "I hope you're proud of yourself. You made me almost vomit in front of the entire garrison."
Raevira laughed under her breath, sheathing her sword. "You need more stamina, little brother. Maybe next time you won't look like a dying fish halfway through."
Sylus wiped sweat from his forehead dramatically. "Or maybe next time, you won't come back after years away and show off like a smug peacock."
"Peacocks are beautiful, you know," Raevira said with a teasing smirk.
Sylus shot back, "So are thunderstorms, but they still ruin everyone's day."
She barked out a laugh, giving him a friendly nudge with her elbow, and Sylus, though exhausted, grinned in return.
Their banter, easy and familiar, warmed the courtyard more than any magic spell could have.
The soldiers relaxed fully then, laughing quietly amongst themselves. It was good to see the heirs of House Veyrin as strong, and as human, as the stories said.
As the laughter settled, Caevira turned to Sylus with a mischievous glint in her eye. Before he could react, she slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in roughly and ruffling his already-messy hair.
"You're getting better, little brother," she teased, flashing him a proud, lopsided smile. "At this rate, you might survive a real duel."
Sylus grumbled but didn't pull away, only shooting her a sideways look. "Yeah, yeah. Wait until I get serious."
Their father, still pretending to be wounded by the earlier mockery, waved them toward the house. "Enough horseplay. You two stink of sweat and magic. Get inside before the neighbors think we've started breeding beasts."
Chuckling, the siblings made their way into the house, the warmth of the Veyrin manor swallowing them.
Sylus and Raevira entered the grand Veyrin manor, the heavy wooden doors creaking shut behind them. The sounds of their footsteps echoed in the vast hall, the air still and cool. Sylus, still catching his breath from the earlier sparring, absentmindedly wiped the sweat from his forehead. Raevira, with a mischievous gleam in her eye, leaned casually against the marble pillar as she watched him.
"So," she began, her voice casual but laced with an underlying teasing tone, "How's life? I mean, it's been a while since we've caught up properly. How's she doing?"
Sylus raised an eyebrow, clearly not following. "She?"
Raevira smirked, her eyes gleaming. "You know who I mean. That Highborn girl you used to play with when you were younger."
Sylus froze for a moment, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Elvienne, you mean?"
Raevira nodded, not missing a beat. "Yeah, her. Are you two still in touch?"
Sylus let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ahh, perhaps you could say that, but….well, we haven't been together for a while now. She's... busy, I'm busy. You know how it is."
Raevira leaned in, her gaze narrowing. "Uh-huh. So... you miss her, then? Should we go see her?"
Sylus groaned, rolling his eyes. "I really don't want to have this conversation with you, Raevira."
"Oh, come on," she pressed, a playful grin tugging at her lips. "You used to talk about her all the time when you were younger. What happened? Did you guys have a fight?"
"What? Nooo." Sylus replied immediately, looking away for a moment. "I'm over it!" He says and then with a pause and knitting brows," And…she's seeing someone, so I really don't wanna talk about this".
Raevira raised her brows. "Wait, someone? Who's this new guy, then?"
Sylus sighed deeply. "He is a friend of mine and…Elvienne too, well not anymore".
"A friend?" Raevira asked skeptically, her eyes scanning him for any hint of hesitation.
"Yes, a friend. A friend that I recently made a few months ago," Sylus repeated, a little more firmly this time.
Raevira got curious. "Well, tell me more about this friend. Who is he?"
Sylus scratched his chin, thinking for a moment. "Well... he's... um, he has green eyes, he's really into nature. Talks to plants, animals, that sort of thing."
Raevira blinked. "He talks to plants?" she repeated slowly, then burst out laughing. "Is he some kind of... plant whisperer. He seems like a weirdo! Bahaha!" then a sudden pause," wait! what? Green eyes???"
"Yeah, green eyes haha right, and yeah it sounds ridiculous with all the 'talking with plants' stuffs, I know," Sylus admitted, laughing along with her. "But he's...a bit different."
Raevira raised her eyebrows,"how?"
Then with a deep sigh,"Vira, let's stop this here."
"Wait, why? Wait, wait, can I see him? meet him?"
Sylus side eyed Raevira," Don't have stupid thoughts Vira, he's already Elvienne's."
"What? Is that what you think of your sister? I was just curious because he's weird and nothing more, and all the more you said he has green eyes, GREEN EYESSSS. You know how bad my curiosity is." Then a pause for his reply, but she was treated with silence. Then with a loud tantrum, "AHHHHHHHH!!! My. Brother. Don't. Even. Understand. MEEEEEE…."
Sylus snapped," OKAY, ENOUGH! Idiot! Go meet him all you want!
Raevira's eyes widened with joy,"Yay! My brother is the best!!!" She says that with the cutest voice she could possibly make, to annoy him even more, Sylus is cringing so hard, he can barely contain his anger, it's as if she's the younger one and he the older, and then blamed all of it to his father for spoiling her too much."
Raevira didn't stop with it yet, she's clearly enjoying his reaction and expression he's making, "Yayyy yayyy..my broth…" then suddenly sylus screams, "Aaaauuuuuggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh….."
Raevira flinched, barely containing her laughter and then just like that, their bickering continued, which only deepened their siblings' bond!