The girl didn't flinch as Sora approached her, standing like a tough statue amidst the ruins. Her expression hinted at a blend of tired amusement and cool indifference, as if she'd seen life's dark play unfold enough times to be bored by this latest act. The scene before her felt like a routine she'd memorized long ago.
"What are you supposed to be?" she asked, her voice flat, eyes assessing him like a critic flipping through lackluster reviews of forgettable performances.
"I'm a preacher," he said, adjusting his stance slightly, attempting to project some pride—like a man trying to wear a tattered badge that once stood for something great but is now frayed.
"And what do you preach about?" she shot back, her eyebrow raised in skepticism, her curiosity tinged with a hint of disdain, lingering in the air like a bad taste.
"Power," he stated firmly, letting that word linger between them like a challenge tossed into the desolate winds around them.
She let out a derisive snort, a sound filled with raw disdain that cut through the moment. "You don't look like a god."
Sora's smile was thin—like a wire stretched tight, ready to snap. "That's exactly what makes me dangerous," he responded, his words hanging heavily, intensifying the atmosphere.
They wandered around the crumbling ruins in silence, the stones underfoot whispering stories of a forgotten past, of a time when this place echoed with life and laughter, vibrant and full of untold tales.
Eventually, the girl—Nyx, a name she was just beginning to accept, settling over her like the dust that coated her surroundings—pulled back her hood. Her ash-blonde hair framed a face marked by past violence, her pale skin showing smudges that hinted at survival in a harsh reality, rather than the finesse of an artist. But it was her eyes that revealed her deeper sorrow—cracked amber, a shade too worn for her youth, cutting through the thick fog of despair encircling her.
"What's your name?" he asked, caught between genuine curiosity and the familiar dance of introductions often laden with hidden histories.
"Nyx," she replied simply, a name heavy with shadows from her past, a single syllable packed with meaning.
"Is that really your name?" he inquired, intrigued.
"That's dead, just like the last guy who actually mattered to me," she replied flatly, her tone revealing how easily she had severed ties to her history.
Sora nodded, recognizing the complex layers in her words, a realization settling within him.
"I specialize in giving new names," he suggested, playing with the idea of identity like it was a knife, testing to see if she'd be interested. "Do you want one?"
But their discussion took a dark turn when they stumbled upon the horrifying sight of half-buried skeletons behind a collapsed wall—bodies shackled and stacked like discarded firewood, a gruesome display of lives torn apart, each bone echoing untold suffering. Nyx stood unfazed, her gaze steady and sharp enough to pierce stone.
"I buried my mother here," she murmured, the weight of her words wrapping around them like a heavy mist, both oppressive and stifling.
"Did you dig the grave yourself?" he asked, an unsettling curiosity bubbling up against the grim backdrop of their discovery.
"No." She spoke with a confidence that rang true, her tone firm and resolute.
Sora watched her closely, hoping to see a glimpse of the playful spirit he was seeking, but instead, he sensed a heavier darkness lingering between them, thick and foreboding.
"I had the guards do it. Used their own teeth," she said, her words hissing like poison, each one cutting through the suffocating silence with a shocking intensity.
Sora let out a rough laugh, raw and unfiltered, a response mixed with admiration and something more twisted—a dark sense of humor bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.
They continued their grim work in silence, burying the remains not out of respect, but out of sheer necessity. After all, graves could double as effective markers, especially when the whispers of rebellion started to creep through the heavy cloak of tragedy.
Sora pulled a piece of charcoal from his pocket and began to scratch symbols onto the stone—not to honor a legacy, but to create meaningless designs, lines marked in a landscape of despair. Yet, those symbols might carry meaning once the ashes settled and the world ached for a new story.
Nyx watched him quietly, her silence a steady presence as his charcoal strokes formed an unspoken conversation threading through the ruins, tying the remnants to a new, clearer purpose.
Once he finished, she looked at him and asked, "What's our next move?"
"Now," he replied, casting a contemplative glance over the crumbling remnants of the past, "we build a stage."
Amid the ruins, they would transform the site into a formidable stronghold, emerging defiantly from the shadows. It would become a breeding ground for monsters—some born from sheer desperation, others emerging from the cold depths of cruel intellect and wicked ambition. In this dark theater of creation, Nyx would become the essential first believer in Sora's twisted vision. With a heart heavy from loss and ash, her fierce faith would take root, marked by blood yet undeniably resolute.
That night, Sora sat at the makeshift altar, its worn stones hinting at the passage of time. Above him, the stars peeked through a gap in the roof, looking down like anxious spectators eager for a twisted tale to unfold. Each twinkling star was a gentle reminder of the promises he'd made to the night—a dance of light alongside the creeping darkness wrapping around them like a shadow.
Soon enough, Nyx made her way to him, dragging along a tattered sack that scraped against the ground, the noise reverberating through the eerie stillness of the ruins. It sounded strangely ordinary yet starkly out of place in this haunting backdrop.
With a dramatic flourish, she emptied the sack onto the cold stones. Its contents gleamed ominously, clattering together in a jarring symphony: six daggers catching the dim light, three flasks filled with mysterious, ominous liquids, and a severed hand still gripping a coin pouch as if trying desperately to hold on to life in a last act of defiance.
"I just got back from the slavers' camp," she said flatly, her tone surprisingly casual. There was no excitement, no fear—just the straightforward manner of someone used to moving through a world filled with chaos.
Sora raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Did you run into any trouble?" he asked, a flutter of anticipation stirring in his gut.
"A lone guard," she said, a playful smile curling at her lips as the firelight flickered, giving her a dangerously captivating look.
"Still breathing?" He leaned in closer, the air between them buzzing with tension, the inquiry tinged with a thrilling sense of possibility and risk.
"Not anymore." Her tone was sharp and decisive, a wave of satisfaction washing over her face that reignited the dark humor within Sora.
Sora nodded thoughtfully, pulling out a cloth from his pocket—originally meant for something noble but now a tool for their grim reality. "Take this and clean the blood off your boots," he said, the simple act of giving her a task solidifying their bond, their lives intertwined amidst ambition and chaos, surrounded by ashes and deepening shadows.
In this harsh world filled with pain and destruction, connections were built not just on shared moments but also through the stark, brutal truth of survival, shaped by the darkness they faced together.