"Not all heroes shout. Some just keep smiling... even as the world breaks them."
The morning fog drifted like ghosts through the narrow alleys of Caelumaris's Lower Tier. Crumbling stone buildings leaned into each other, their joints weathered by decades of wind and rain. Shouts echoed from distant streets—vendors, quarrels, maybe worse.
Beneath a worn stone bridge, Artha sat with his legs crossed, sharing the last piece of stale bread with a limping stray dog. The crust was hard as rock, but the dog didn't seem to mind. It sniffed at the offering, then took it gently from his palm before settling beside him.
He smiled faintly.
"When he was young... his brother fed every stray in the village before feeding himself."
The memory came uninvited.
He was seven again. Dirty knees, torn kurta. His brother—just two years older—tore a warm roti in half and crouched beside a shivering pup hiding behind a cart.
"That's the last one," Artha had said. "Mama said to eat it."
His brother gave him a crooked grin. "They need it more. I'll eat the wind."
Artha had frowned. "You always say weird things."
"Maybe weird is kinder," his brother replied.
And then he laughed, like nothing in the world was wrong.
Artha blinked the memory away. The dog beside him licked his fingers, tail wagging slowly. He reached out and scratched behind its ear.
From somewhere nearby, a merchant's voice pierced the stillness.
"Thief! Someone took the mana fruit! Stop that street brat!"
Artha looked up.
A blur of movement rushed past him—a boy, no older than eight, clutching a faintly glowing fruit to his chest. He ran barefoot, clothes in tatters, panic written across his face.
Guards gave chase. Metal boots against stone.
The boy stumbled and fell.
"You trash-born scum," snarled a guard as he raised a baton. "You think stealing makes you equal?"
Artha moved before he could think.
His hand shot up, intercepting the strike mid-air.
The guard's eyes narrowed. "This brat your brother?"
Artha met his gaze. "No. But he could be."
The guard hesitated. Then he scoffed, stepping back with a sneer.
"Not worth staining steel."
They walked away, laughter and disdain echoing behind them.
The boy stared up at Artha, wide-eyed. "You… You don't even know me."
Artha sat down beside him. "I didn't know the dog either."
The boy looked down at the fruit, then back up. Slowly, his lips curled into a small, hesitant smile.
"...Thank you."
Another memory stirred.
His brother again—this time gently pressing a bandage over Artha's scraped knee.
"You don't have to win fights," his brother said softly. "Just don't become them."
"You never get mad," young Artha had grumbled. "That's not normal."
"Maybe I'm not normal."
The boy walked away, holding the fruit to his chest like it was gold. Artha watched him go.
He remembered that smile. The one that never argued. The one that loved the tiniest souls.
He leaned back against the bridge pillar, alone once more. The wind swept through the alleys, cold and sharp. It carried the smell of smoke and wet stone.
His hand found the old chain around his neck. He opened the tarnished locket.
Inside, the sketch was almost gone. Just faint charcoal lines now. A face. A smile.
"If you were still here…" he whispered, "this city would feel a little lighter."
His eyes shimmered, but no tears fell.
He stood after a while, stretching his limbs. From where he stood, the towers of Aetherion gleamed above the mist—golden spires piercing the clouds.
The world of the chosen.
The world where he didn't belong.
Not yet.
He didn't want power. Or revenge. Or glory.
He wanted one thing.
To see that smile again.