A yellowy haze swirled around them, like a dream just out of reach. Matthew stood between his parents, feeling the warmth of their presence as the world around them seemed to glow. His father, Ron, ruffled his blonde hair affectionately, a smile dancing on his lips. The man's striking eyes twinkled with a playful joy, like the sparkle of morning light upon a calm sea. His hair, like his son's, was golden, but far shorter and messier than Matthew's.
"You're looking stronger, Matthew," Ron said, his voice light and teasing. He ran his hand through his son's hair once more, making Matthew's cheeks flush. The love in his father's gaze was undeniable, as constant as the sun.
Jena, Matthew's mother, stood with elegance at his side. Her long red hair cascaded down her back in a fiery stream, contrasting with the pale gold of her husband and son. Her eyes glowed with a proud warmth, her lips curving into a smile of motherly adoration. She knelt down, gently placing a hand on Matthew's shoulder.
"I'm so happy you're blessed with the One Power, my dear," she said, her voice soft and loving, as though the very words were a blessing. "It's rare to see someone so young with such potential. You have great things ahead of you."
Matthew, only seven, stared up at them both, his heart swelling with their pride. His small fingers curled into his hands, his pale skin already marked with the faintest flicker of power. The connection between him and his parents was tangible, the bloodline's legacy wrapping around them like an unseen force, unspoken but felt deeply in their very souls.
There, in the glow of the yellow space, the world seemed to stand still, as though even time itself was giving them a moment to cherish their shared bond.
It was a fleeting moment, but it would live forever in Matthew's heart.
Ron then demanded Matthew show them his Fireball Art, the one he was so proud about, he wanted to be sure of his son's gift.
The moment stretched on as Matthew stood there, excitement glowing in his eyes. His small hands trembled slightly as he gathered the blue threads of the One Power swirling around him, trying to form them into the Fireball Art his parents had asked for. His father, Ron, smiled at first, but that smile soon faded as the air grew thick with the weight of time passing.
"Come on, Matthew," Ron said, his voice still light but edged with impatience. "We don't have all day. Show us your Fireball." His gaze, once warm, had begun to shift, brow furrowing as he watched his son struggle.
Matthew's face lit up with determination. "I will! I'm going to be the Red Sage one day!" His voice was full of youthful confidence, though his small hands wavered, unable to hold the delicate strands of power for long. His eyes, normally so full of joy, narrowed in focus as he tried to shape the energy.
The blue threads danced around him, swirling like wisps of smoke, but they were slow to obey his command. His brow furrowed in concentration as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. The effort was more than he had expected, the One Power eluding his grip like trying to catch wind in his hands. His heart pounded in his chest, but it wasn't enough to push the energy to form.
Jena, standing beside Ron, glanced at her husband, her own patience thinning. Her lips pressed into a tight line, eyes flicking between her son's struggle and her husband's growing frustration.
"Matthew…" Ron's voice grew darker, the lightness drained from it as his frustration mounted. "Hurry up. It's just a Fireball. Stop wasting time."
Matthew's small frame stiffened at the harshness in his father's tone. His heart raced, and the threads seemed to dance further out of reach, mocking him in their elusive state. His breath quickened, but the art still wouldn't form.
"Dad, I'm trying!" Matthew exclaimed, his voice rising in a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.
"Trying's not enough!" Ron snapped, his tone now sharper, his patience all but gone. "You want to be the Red Sage? Then act like one! Show us the Fireball! Now."
The demand echoed in the yellow space, suffocating the once-warm atmosphere with its intensity. Matthew's eyes stung, but he didn't stop. He had promised himself, he'd show them, he'd prove himself—but the pressure was building with every passing second. The power was within him, but it felt like it was slipping through his fingers, taunting him with its impossibility.
It was a hard lesson in that moment—one that Matthew would remember for years to come.
Matthew's heart pounded in his chest as he desperately reached for the One Power, the threads of blue swirling around him, mocking him in their slowness. He gritted his teeth, forcing his hands to steady, but the energy slipped through his fingers like water.
"Come on, Matthew," his father's voice cut through the haze, now cold and heavy with disappointment. "Why is it taking so long? You said you were going to be the Red Sage. You can't even perform a simple Fireball. Pathetic." Ron's figure began to blur, his edges dissolving into the yellowy void. The warmth that once radiated from him began to fade.
"Dad?" Matthew whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to focus. But the figure of Ron continued to slip away, his father's form almost translucent now. The smile that had once been there was gone, replaced by a sneer of derision. "Dad, please, just… just wait. I can do it!"
Jena's presence, too, began to fade beside him. Her long red hair turned into strands of smoke, drifting away into the air. "You're too slow, Matthew," she said, her voice growing distant and empty. "This is why we died in the fire… Because you were too weak. You couldn't save us."
"No! No, it's not my fault!" Matthew cried out, his voice rising in panic. "I tried! I tried my best!" But the words felt hollow, the air too thick, too suffocating for them to carry any weight. The yellow space around him was closing in, turning into an abyss, the edges of the world crumbling.
The voices of his parents echoed in the air, now harsh and accusing. "You couldn't save us. You couldn't save anyone..." they whispered, their figures dissolving into shadows.
Suddenly, the sound of children screaming filled the space—agonized, desperate cries that seemed to claw at Matthew's very soul. Their voices were twisted with rage and fear. "Why didn't you save us, Matthew?" they shouted. "Why didn't you stop the fire? Why did you let us burn?"
Matthew's breath caught in his throat, panic sweeping over him like a wave crashing on the shore. He stumbled backward, his mind reeling from the onslaught of voices. His eyes darted around, but all he could see were the burning faces of children—shadows of them, their forms writhing in agony. They reached for him, their burning hands stretching toward him, but every time he tried to move, they vanished, leaving only more cruel words in their wake.
The curses hit him like daggers. "You're weak!" one voice screamed. "You couldn't do anything! You failed!"
"Stop!" Matthew shrieked, his voice cracking with terror. "It wasn't my fault! I—I wasn't strong enough! I'm sorry!"
But their words didn't stop. They burned into his mind, and the pain they caused felt real, sharp, as if the fire was burning inside of him. He had to save them. He had to show them.
He clenched his fists, focusing harder, pulling at the blue threads of the One Power, calling them to him. His small body trembled with exertion, every muscle aching as he tried to bring the Fireball into existence. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wished for it, the power slipped from his grasp, dancing just out of reach.
His heart raced. His chest tightened. His breaths came in ragged gasps as he fought the panic building inside him. The flames of his parents' accusations burned in his ears. "You're weak, Matthew. You're too slow. That's why we're dead."
"No! It's not true!" Matthew sobbed, his voice breaking as he fell to his knees, his hands trembling. "I can do it! I can do it! I'll be the Red Sage, I promise!" But still, nothing.
The threads continued to swirl in the air around him, mocking him, a reminder of how little he truly understood. He was too young. Too weak. Too slow.
The burning children's voices filled his mind again. "You failed us. You failed everyone."
"Please…" Matthew whispered, his voice barely audible, the tears now streaming down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the Fireball to form, willing the power to surge through him.
But the threads of the One Power danced away, like shadows slipping through his fingers.
And the world around him collapsed entirely into darkness.
...
Matthew's eyes shot open, his body stiff and drenched in sweat. His chest heaved in shallow, frantic breaths, the air thick in his lungs, each inhale feeling like it was being ripped from him. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, an erratic rhythm that sent shivers through his entire frame. He moaned heavily, the sound escaping from his throat like a trapped animal, gasping for air, desperate for something—anything—that would make the suffocating panic inside him stop.
His hands trembled, his fingers gripping the cold, unfamiliar surface beneath him, the texture harsh against his skin. For a moment, the images of his parents' faces, the burning children, and the accusations still lingered in his mind, vivid and cruel, as if they were real. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block them out, but they wouldn't fade, still clawing at him, relentless.
Then, slowly, the fog of panic began to lift, and Matthew's breaths started to even out, though they were still shaky. His hands loosened their grip on the surface, and his body began to relax, the tension slowly melting away. The terrifying, suffocating weight that had pressed against his chest started to recede, and with each breath, the nightmare began to lose its hold on him.
He opened his eyes again, the early morning sunlight pouring through the window, casting a soft glow over the unfamiliar room. No fire. No burning children. No accusing voices. He wasn't there, in that yellow haze. He wasn't surrounded by flames, or being torn apart by words. His parents weren't disappearing into nothingness, their disappointed faces fading away.
Matthew blinked rapidly, his heart still racing, but the cold sweat on his brow beginning to cool. Slowly, the fear began to fade, replaced with the realization that it had all been a dream—a horrible, suffocating dream.
He took another shaky breath, deeper this time, and allowed himself to calm, the cool morning air filling his lungs, reassuring and real. The room was quiet, the gentle light of dawn wrapping the space in warmth. He wasn't alone.
It was just a dream.
He wasn't a failure.
No one blamed him.
Matthew let out a shaky sigh, the tension in his body easing as he allowed himself to relax, knowing he was safe.
Matthew's eyes darted around the room, taking in the fine details—the soft curtains, the polished wood, the neatly arranged furniture—but none of it mattered. It was far better than his house ever was, no doubt, but he couldn't bring himself to care about any of it. His gaze flitted over the walls, the floor, the window where the sunlight streamed in, casting everything in a warm glow. But none of it could distract him.
The images from yesterday flashed in his mind, sharp and brutal, like a storm of memories he couldn't outrun. His father's white horse, flames consuming it alive, the children screaming as they… He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the thoughts, but they only grew louder. The village burning, the smoke filling the air, thick and suffocating. His parents' last words.
"No..." he whispered, his voice weak and broken, like the breath was being ripped from his chest. He curled his arms around his knees, drawing his legs close to his chest as his small frame trembled. It was all too much, too painful. His stomach churned, a knot of guilt and fear twisting inside of him. He pressed his hands to his face, trying to hold the tears back, but they slipped through, hot and uncontrollable.
He felt small. So small, like he was drowning under the weight of everything that had happened, the weight of everything he couldn't fix. He had been there. He had seen it all, helpless, unable to do anything.
His chest tightened, and he gasped for air, clutching at his shirt as if the fabric could keep him together. "I couldn't… I couldn't save them…" The words slipped from his lips before he even realized they were there. The guilt was overwhelming, drowning him in a sea of what-ifs and could-have-beens.
He was just seven. He shouldn't have to carry all this. He shouldn't have to remember all of it. But the images wouldn't go away.
Matthew sat there on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest, his small hands gripping tightly onto his arms as if trying to hold himself together. His thoughts spun wildly, a cyclone of emotions too intense for his seven-year-old mind to process all at once. But they kept coming, the memories, the pain. Everything that had been ripped from him, everything that was taken, shattered in front of him, all because he was weak.
I'm weak.
The words echoed through his mind like a drumbeat, relentless and unforgiving. His chest tightened as the familiar sting of guilt flooded him again. I couldn't save them. I couldn't save anyone.
Ronia Village… no more. It was just ashes now. Because I was too slow. I couldn't even stop the fire. The children, the burning houses, his father's white horse consumed by the flames—he couldn't do anything. They were all gone, and it was his fault. If I was strong enough... if I was faster... maybe I could've saved them...
His hands shook, and he squeezed his eyes shut to push away the tears that were starting to rise. But the pain, the guilt—nothing would stop. His parents were gone, his village was gone, everything he'd ever known, the warmth of his home, the laughter of his friends—all of it was taken. All of it because I couldn't protect them.
It was the Black Tower. His fists clenched as the name sliced through his mind like a blade, sharp and bitter. The Black Tower... The Arts Users... They came... and they destroyed everything. They took everything from me.
The faces of the Arts Users, their cold, twisted smiles as they burned everything to the ground, laughing as the world crumbled—they took my home, my family, my life... And I couldn't do anything. His thoughts turned dark, thick with the weight of his hatred. They killed them all. They killed my friends. They took my parents away. And they didn't care. His hands trembled harder, but it wasn't fear anymore. It was anger.
Matthew's breath grew shallow, his heart racing as the darkness in his chest spread, twisting his emotions further. Why did they have to do it? Why did they have to take everything I ever loved?
The face of the leader of the Black Tower flashed in his mind, a shadowy figure in his memories, cloaked in darkness. The Dark Crow. The strongest Arts User in the world. His name was like a curse on Matthew's tongue, a symbol of everything that had destroyed his life.
The Dark Crow is so strong... so powerful... but what good is all that strength if it only destroys everything in its path?
Matthew's breathing picked up as the rage built inside him, the pure hatred for the Black Tower consuming every corner of his mind. I hate them. I hate all of them. His teeth clenched together, and he rocked back and forth, his hands trembling, his entire body quaking with the weight of his fury. I don't want revenge anymore. I don't want to just hurt them. I want to erase them. I want to burn the Black Tower to the ground. I want to take everything from them the way they took everything from me.
His eyes shot open, and his small hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, his breath coming in ragged gasps. They took my parents. They took my home. They took my village. They took my life. His voice broke in his mind, though he didn't speak aloud, the words strangled in his throat. I'll make them pay. I'll make them all pay.
He imagined the Black Tower, towering over everything, its walls standing firm in their arrogance. They think they're untouchable. They think they're invincible. But I'll show them. His heart thudded, a terrible, heavy rhythm, a drumbeat that matched the fury building inside him. I'll burn their tower down. I'll make them regret ever crossing my path.
The memories of the blonde-haired young man who had saved him, of the Marlston sisters—they don't matter. He wanted to forget them, ignore them. He didn't need anyone's help. He didn't need anyone. All that mattered now was destroying the Black Tower.
I hate them. I hate them so much. The words spiraled around his mind, louder and louder, a terrifying chorus of anger and resentment. And I will make them all disappear.
In that moment, Matthew's small frame trembled with something new, something far darker than the fear and sadness that had once controlled him. It was an insatiable, burning rage that consumed every thought, every breath. The Black Tower would pay. And he, Matthew, the boy who could do nothing, would make sure of it.
Matthew's face twisted into something unrecognizable, his small features contorting with an intensity far beyond his years. His eyes, wide and frantic, burned with a fire that was both fierce and terrifying. His lips, once soft and innocent, pulled back in a snarl that seemed too mature for someone his age. It was an expression of pure, raw fury, a look that mirrored the hatred clawing at his chest.
The Black Tower... The thought of them made his blood boil, and he could almost feel the flames of anger licking at his skin. His small fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, trembling with the force of his grip. His whole body was rigid, taut with a desire to do something, anything, to make them feel the same pain, the same destruction they had brought into his world.
He couldn't think clearly, couldn't process how it would be done, but the one thing that echoed in his mind, again and again, was that they would pay. They would all pay.
His eyes, wide with fury, seemed too large for his face as they burned with a wild intensity. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as if he were preparing for something—something massive. They will disappear. They will all disappear. The words repeated like a chant in his mind, his young heart pounding in time with them.
For a moment, Matthew didn't feel like a child at all. He was consumed by the need for vengeance, the need to erase the Black Tower from existence, to take away the power that had destroyed everything he loved. His expression, twisted with this deep hatred, seemed to crack his innocence, and for the first time, Matthew felt the weight of his own darkness stirring inside him.
Nothing else mattered anymore. The village, his parents, his home, everything had been taken away by those terrible people. And in that moment, all he wanted was to make them feel the same pain. To make them hurt. To make them... vanish.
The image of the Black Tower in his mind, standing proud and untouched, only made his resolve stronger. He didn't care that he was small, that he was just a child. I'll make them regret it. The thought was clear, simple, and powerful. And though he was seven years old, his heart filled with a desire so fierce that it felt like he could set the world on fire.
I will make them disappear.
The anger continued to churn inside Matthew, a dark and swirling storm that clouded his mind. His chest tightened with the force of it, his breaths shallow as if the weight of his hatred was suffocating him. His fists, still clenched, ached with the pressure of his own fury, his small frame trembling as the emotions surged.
The door to the room creaked softly, and the sound of footsteps followed. Matthew didn't react at first, too consumed by his thoughts, but then the door opened, and a figure stepped inside.
The young man who saved him—he couldn't remember his name, but the image of his face was clear. He was in his early twenties, maybe younger, with short, blonde hair that framed his handsome features. A red jacket hugged his form, contrasting sharply with the red sword strapped to his belt, its blade reflecting the light from the window.
He smiled as he stepped in, his striking blue eyes lighting up at the sight of Matthew. "Good mor—"
But his smile faltered as he caught sight of Matthew's expression. His words died in his throat, and the young man froze for a moment, his gaze locking on Matthew's twisted face. The boy's eyes were wide and burning with something far too dark for someone so young, a cold, harsh anger that made the man take a step back. Not in fear, but in shock.
A child shouldn't look like this. Not with that expression. Not with those eyes, filled with so much hatred and rage. What happened to him?
The young man's thoughts swirled, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword as his eyes remained fixed on Matthew. The anger in the boy's face was almost palpable, and yet, there was something else—something more fragile, hidden behind it. He couldn't help but wonder if this was the result of the boy's trauma, of everything that had been taken from him.
But Matthew didn't move. Didn't speak. His expression remained locked in that fierce, unnatural snarl, as if the boy's heart had been consumed by something much darker than he should have ever known at such an age.
The young man shook his head, trying to push the unease away. He took a step forward, cautiously. "Matthew?" His voice was soft, like he was speaking to a wounded animal. "Hey... you okay?"
But even his words didn't seem to reach the boy. It was as though Matthew was too far gone, lost in his own swirling vortex of rage and despair.
The young man's blue eyes softened, pity mixing with the shock, but even that couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him.
The young man cleared his throat, trying to shake off the unease that clung to him. He forced a smile, though it came out more strained than he intended. "I'm Asvin Cavias," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil he felt seeing Matthew like this. He hadn't expected much of a reaction, but the boy's eyes didn't leave him.
And then, as if something had clicked, Matthew's twisted expression faltered for just a brief second—just enough for Asvin to catch it. The boy's gaze shifted, and he turned to stare at Asvin for the first time. There was something there, something in his eyes that wasn't just anger. It was surprise. Shock.
Matthew's voice broke through the silence, faint but clear. "Cavias?" he repeated, as though trying to confirm it, his eyes wide and searching.
Asvin nodded slowly, finally realizing why the boy had reacted this way. The name had struck a chord, and he understood. "Yes," he confirmed, his tone soft but firm. "I'm the son of the Fierce Lion, John Cavias."
A quiet pause followed, and for a moment, it seemed as if everything hung in the air, the weight of his words sinking in. Asvin watched Matthew closely, wondering what was running through his mind now that the boy knew the truth.
Matthew's mind raced, memories flashing through him like a chaotic storm. His parents' final moments, their sacrifice, the fire, the screams... They had fought to give him a chance. A chance to escape. He could still hear their voices urging him to run, to survive. He hadn't wanted to leave them. He hadn't wanted to abandon them, but he had no choice.
His heart had been set on one thing: reaching Coupitia City. He had to find him—the Fierce Lion. He was the only one who could save them. The only one who could stop the Black Tower from destroying everything. Matthew had clung to that hope, even as his legs burned with exhaustion and fear.
But that hope had faltered when the flames of destruction swallowed Ronia Village whole. And in the end, it wasn't the Fierce Lion who had come to his rescue.
No. It was his son.
Matthew's mind snapped back to the present, his gaze still locked on Asvin. The boy was still trying to make sense of the situation, but all Matthew could feel was a strange, hollow emptiness deep inside him. He didn't know what to think. Didn't know how to feel.
On one hand, he was relieved. Asvin had saved him, after all. Without him, Matthew would have been lost, just another casualty of the Black Tower's wrath. But on the other, it felt... strange. It wasn't the man he had imagined. The Fierce Lion was supposed to be a hero, a savior. His savior. But now, standing before him, was the son of that legend—a stranger—and Matthew didn't know what to feel.
A part of him felt grateful, but another part of him... resented it. Why him? Why did it have to be his son and not the man himself?
Asvin was just standing there, waiting for a reaction, and Matthew couldn't give him one. Not yet. Not when the world around him was still burning.
He didn't know how to process this. How could he? There was too much pain, too much anger, too much confusion. All Matthew knew was that he was alive, and he had been saved—by someone he didn't know, someone who had a name tied to the very legend he had clung to for hope.
But in the end, it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he was still here. Still breathing. And somehow, in some way, he would make them all pay.
Matthew's mind twisted in a spiral of resentment and confusion. He stared at Asvin, the young man standing there, unaware of the turmoil churning within the boy's chest. The resentment started to creep in, slow but steady. Why was it him? Asvin wasn't strong enough to save Ronia Village. If it had been his father, the Fierce Lion himself, then maybe, just maybe, the village would have had a chance.
If only it had been him.
But no. Asvin had come, had saved him—but that was all. He hadn't saved the village. He hadn't stopped the Black Tower. Matthew felt a cold bitterness rising in his throat, and for a moment, he let himself feel it. Let himself hate Asvin for failing. For not being strong enough. But then, just as quickly, he shook his head, as if trying to clear the thought.
No. No, he shouldn't blame him. If not for Asvin, I would be dead. And so would the Marlston sisters.
That last thought stopped him cold. The Marlston sisters... Terria, the five-year-old, and her little sister, Sonia, just four. The two blonde girls who had been like family to him in those last moments. They had been with him, running to the stables, terrified and clinging to him.
Matthew's chest tightened, a fresh wave of panic hitting him. Where were they? He had seen Asvin save them, had heard him promise to protect them. He remembered Asvin's words clearly: "I'll get them to safety. You're not alone. I'll keep them safe."
But now... now, it felt like everything had slipped through his fingers. Matthew's heart pounded as he tried to piece together the last fragments of his memory. The fire. The smoke. The chaos. The screams. The girls—where were they?
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push through the fog of his panic. He had to know. He had to find out where they were. He had to make sure they were safe.
But something inside him twisted uncomfortably. He hadn't seen them since Asvin had taken them away. And now, alone in this room with the young man, he couldn't help but wonder—Were they okay?
The fear clawed at him, a fear so intense it made his breath come in shallow gasps. What if something had happened to them? What if they were... gone? He didn't want to think about it, but the thought lingered in the back of his mind, gnawing at him, tearing away at the fragile thread of hope he had left.
His hands clenched into fists once more, and for a split second, he felt the familiar cold rage rising inside him again. He needed answers. He needed to know.
His gaze shot back to Asvin, still standing there, waiting for him to say something. And in that moment, Matthew realized something—he wasn't angry at Asvin anymore. The anger was aimed at something far greater, something he couldn't yet reach, but he would.
For the Marlston sisters, for the village, for everyone he had lost. And for the truth about where the girls were.
Asvin's voice broke through Matthew's thoughts, snapping him back to reality. "The two little girls are safe and sound," he said, a slight pause before adding, "They're currently with my older sister, so no worries."
The words sank into Matthew's mind, a fleeting moment of relief washing over him. The Marlston sisters were safe. Terria... Sonia... they're okay. It wasn't the answer he had feared, but for a moment, it almost didn't feel real. Asvin had saved them too. Asvin, the son of the Fierce Lion... He hadn't just saved him, he had saved everyone.
Matthew blinked, trying to focus, but his thoughts were still swirling. Asvin continued, his tone more casual now. "You're in my house, by the way. The Cavias mansion. The Fierce Lion's home."
The words hit Matthew like a wave, and for a moment, he simply stared at Asvin. His mind struggled to process the information. The Cavias mansion? The Fierce Lion's home? The hero he had read so much about—the man he had thought would come to save Ronia Village—was in this very place. This was his home. His father's home.
Matthew's gaze moved around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. The walls, the polished furniture, the fine craftsmanship—all of it felt so... surreal. He had imagined this place a thousand times in his mind, but to be standing here now, in the heart of it, felt like something out of a dream. His heart tightened as the weight of it all settled in.
The Fierce Lion's home. He was inside the house of the man who could have saved everything.
And yet, as the thoughts of his parents—of the fire, of the screams—returned, a part of Matthew wished this was just a dream. That he had woken up from the nightmare of losing everything. That his parents were still alive. That Ronia Village was still standing. That he could undo all of it. But it wasn't a dream. It was real. It had happened.
And no matter how much he wished otherwise, the reality of it hit him all over again. The ache in his chest. The emptiness of loss. But there was something else now—something that had been growing inside him, ever since Asvin's words about his father's home.
It wasn't just hope anymore. It was determination. A fire that had been kindled deep inside him. And this time, it wasn't just for revenge. It was for the future. For the Marlston sisters. For the village. And for everyone else who had been taken from him.
But right now, all he could do was stand there, in the Cavias mansion, and try to come to terms with what had happened. Try to make sense of it all.
It's real, Matthew thought. I'm really here.
Asvin carefully took slow steps toward Matthew, cautious not to make any sudden movements that might startle him. He had been quiet for a while now, and Asvin knew the boy was overwhelmed—lost in his thoughts and emotions, unable to fully process everything that had happened in such a short span of time.
The only words Matthew had uttered since Asvin entered were the simple question: "Cavias?" His voice had been quiet, uncertain, as if confirming the name had been the only thing left for him to grasp. Asvin understood. Matthew was a child, and he had just been through an unimaginable amount of trauma. It was no surprise that words weren't easy for him now.
Asvin took a deep breath and sat carefully at the foot of the bed, not wanting to invade the boy's space. He didn't say anything for a moment, letting the silence linger between them. He watched Matthew closely, his expression softening as the weight of the boy's pain became all the more apparent. Asvin knew he couldn't rush him.
Finally, with a quiet voice, Asvin spoke again. "Are you okay, Matthew?"
It wasn't a question of judgment or expectation. It was a simple, sincere inquiry. Asvin understood that the boy might not be able to answer. He didn't expect anything more than silence, but it was important for Matthew to know that someone cared—someone who was there, who wasn't just part of the chaos.
Asvin's blue eyes softened, and he gave Matthew the space he needed, waiting patiently for any response the boy might give, even if it was just a glance. He would wait as long as it took.
Matthew didn't immediately answer. He just shook his head in response to Asvin's question, the motion small but final. It was a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about the turmoil he was going through. Asvin's heart clenched at the sight, understanding the depth of the pain Matthew was carrying. The boy was drowning in grief, confusion, and loss—too much for anyone, especially a child, to bear alone.
Asvin hesitated for just a moment, unsure of what exactly he could do to ease the boy's suffering. He wasn't good with emotions, not really. He had always been the kind of person to fight and solve problems head-on. But he knew one thing. When things got too heavy for him—when the world felt like it was closing in—his mother, his father, or his older sister would always wrap him in their arms. And in that moment, everything would feel just a little bit lighter.
Matthew didn't have that now. He didn't have anyone to comfort him in the way that Asvin had been fortunate enough to have.
Without saying anything more, Asvin moved closer. He gently placed a hand on Matthew's shoulder, just as he had earlier, but this time he didn't stop there. Asvin carefully pulled the boy into a hug, his arms wrapping around the small, trembling figure.
At first, Matthew tensed in his arms, unsure of what was happening. But then, slowly, the warmth of the embrace began to seep into him. It wasn't much, but it was something—something that reminded him that there were still people who cared.
And that was enough.
Without warning, the dam inside Matthew broke. Tears flooded from his eyes as the weight of everything, everything he had been holding in, spilled out. The boy sobbed into Asvin's chest, the grief, the pain, the helplessness all pouring out in one raw, uncontrollable cry. His small body trembled, his fists curling against Asvin's jacket as he clung to the young man, as though terrified of being alone again.
Asvin didn't say anything. He just held the boy tighter, letting him cry, letting him release the storm that had been raging inside him for so long. It wasn't much, but it was what Matthew needed right now. Just a moment of peace, a moment where someone was there to help carry the weight.
—End of Chapter.