The chamber smelled faintly of smoke and cedar. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows, muting the last traces of sunlight. The only light came from the fireplace. The fire in the hearth burned low but steady, its orange glow spilling across the chamber like molten gold. The fireplace itself was a towering monument of carved stone, crowned with dark motifs and weathered reliefs. Blackened by years of flame, it seemed less of an hearth than a shrine, its firelight casting long, hungry shadows that danced across the high vaulted ceiling.
Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines faded, their tomes ancient. Dust clung stubbornly to the edges, yet there was a sense of reverence in the way they were kept—treasures of knowledge waiting in silence. Between them hung portraits in gilded frames, their painted eyes watching from the past, the weight of legacy pressing down with quiet authority.
In the heart of the chamber lay a great rug, deep red, its intricate patterns dulled by age and countless footsteps. Plush armchairs and leather couches of the same crimson hue were arranged around a heavy wooden table. The table bore the signs of use: scratches, rings from old goblets, a faint scattering of ash—yet it had the air of permanence, a centrepiece for conversations that shaped generations.
Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines faded, their tomes ancient. Dust clung stubbornly to the edges, yet there was a sense of reverence in the way they were kept—treasures of knowledge waiting in silence. Between them hung portraits in gilded frames, their painted eyes watching from the past, the weight of legacy pressing down with quiet authority.
The air smelled of smoke and old paper, tinged faintly with cedar and the ghost of incense long burned out. The faint crackle of fire was the only sound, broken now and then by the distant sigh of wind slipping past the tall windows.
Despite its grandeur, the room was not ostentatious. Its beauty lies in its unmistakable simple design that is glamorous, without being too much.
Two children sat within that fragile world.
Bari perched on a tall-backed chair, his small body rigid with pride that did not suit his years. At six, he already mimicked his father: the posture of a warrior, back straight, chin high, hands clenched in his lap. But the illusion faltered in his eyes—grey, stormy, uncertain, too young to know what weight was his to carry. His hair, dark with faint silver tips, caught the firelight at sharp angles.
On the floor, Nephis leaned against the side of his chair. Her black hair shined in the fires light, looking white from the occasional perspective. Her knees were drawn to her chest, small hands clasped tightly as if bracing herself against a cold no fire could warm. Her wide eyes reflected the flames, but her attention never left the woman before them.
Their grandmother.
She sat in a cushioned armchair opposite them, her back straight despite her age, her posture betraying no weakness. Time had etched lines into her face, but they did not diminish her presence—they deepened it. Her silver hair, threaded with stubborn streaks of black, was tied in a simple knot at her nape. No jewels adorned her, no sign of wealth or power. Yet when she lifted her gaze, it carried the weight of mountains.
She had no Aspect, no essence, no power. A mundane human.
Yet to Nephis and Bari, she was the strongest person in the world. Her voice was low, smooth, steady—like water over stone. It filled the room without force, demanding silence without asking for it.
"Your father is a man unlike any other. A man of focus, discipline, determination, and sheer will. Remember this, because those four qualities are what set the ordinary apart from the great."
Bari straightened further, his fists tightening. His deep voice carried a child's stubborn demand, far too serious for his age.
"You always tell us this. But never out of the blue. Has… something happened?"
Her lips curved faintly at his attempt to sound older than he was. To her, it was endearing—her grandson acting as though he carried the weight of the world on his small shoulders.
The fire popped. She stilled, drawing in a deep breath. As her gaze shifted toward the flames, the light reflected in her eyes like embers of hell itself.
"Your father has perished while exploring a death zone within the Dream Realm."
Her words were steady, but behind them lay the tremor of despair—the raw ache of losing someone irreplaceable. It was not just grief for a son-in-law, but for the void left behind, a wound carved into the family's very soul. It was the pain of watching a flame being extinguished too soon, knowing no warmth could take its place.
The firelight wavered as Bari forced the tears back, his jaw clenched until it ached, his throat raw with the effort of silence. He stood against the grief like a fortress of stone. He did not cry. He would not. Beside him, Nephis pressed against the chair, her small body shivering as though the warmth of the flames could not reach her.
The fire danced in her wide eyes, silvered by the tears she refused to surrender, yet fell, in silent grief and torment. Her silence was only betrayed by her trembling, as though she were carved from fragile porcelain.
Bari knew his beloved sister was strong, stronger than most. He had always seen what others could not. When she got hurt, he would console her, shielding her as if she were a flame about to be snuffed out. But he would always notice, notice that she always tried, always rose, always endured in silence. She was a burning fire, quiet, relentless, unseen.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, steady and firm, exactly as his father had always done for him.
Their grandmother's gaze lingered on them both, her grief tempered by pride—a pride that weighed heavier than sorrow.
"How?" Bari's single word carried a thousand questions.
The silence stretched. Then, softly, she answered
"Because, my boy… even the strongest sword can break when the weight it carries becomes too much."
Bari's eyes narrowed. "Any normal sword, yes. But our father was anything but normal…he was a saint"
Her smile returned, touched with warmth. Her voice was soft, like the chime of distant bells.
"You're just like your grandfather, Immortal Flame. Sharp enough to see the world, even when it cuts you."
Her smile faded. "You're right, however. He never bent, never yielded. He would never have fallen… if those who should have stood at his side had not turned away."
Nephis spoke at last. Her childlike voice that should have carried joy and laughter, Instead, trembled with fury. "You mean…"
She did not finish. She did not need to. Her grandmother nodded. "Yes. He fell because he stood alone against what no one should ever face—not in the Dream Realm. He fell because those who should have stood beside him not only turned away… they pointed their swords at their own."
Bari's fists clenched until his nails cut into his palms. Their grandmother leaned forward, the firelight gilding her features. Her voice was heavy, unshakable.
"Your father's death will be spoken of as failure," she said at last, her tone sharp as a drawn blade. "His enemies will say he fell because he was reckless, or arrogant, or cursed. But do not listen to them."
The silence thickened, until her words rang like iron.
"Do not let their voices shape his memory. He was of the Immortal Flame Clan. The Saint called Broken Sword. He burned so that you… both of you, could live."
Nephis buried her face in her knees. Bari said nothing. But his silence was not empty. It was a vow.
Revenge.
The fire hissed as a log split. Outside, the night pressed heavy against the windows. But within that room, two children sat together—one trembling with quiet grief, the other frozen in cold resolve. Neither knew it yet, but this was the moment their paths began to diverge.
***
The memory came unbidden, painted by her words of a man they called father.
The doors would open and there he'd be—tall, broad, his black armour pristine. His hair was immaculate, his eyes sharp and unyielding. Yet the moment they found his children, something softened.
He would kneel, pressing a hand to Bari's shoulder. He always apologized for not being there more. And he always say the same words: "You've grown again," while smirking faintly.
Bari, desperate to prove himself, would puff out his chest. "Sure did. And soon, I'll be just like you."
A rare warmth would touch Broken Sword's face. "No," he'd say, shaking his head. "You'll be better. You have to be, for me, and for your sister."
Then his gaze would fall on Nephis, brushing her hair back from her bright eyes. His voice would drop, gentler than anyone else had ever heard it. "My little star. Every time I see you, you shine brighter. How have you been?" He would ask her question after question, his love for them unrestrained.
Once, when Nephis was hurt, Bari remembered—Broken Sword was there, yet instead of tending to her wounds, he told him, "Check on her."
Bari hadn't questioned it.
He had done as asked. And as he was being taught how to bandage her arm, his father spoke, his words carving themselves into his soul: "Protect her. No matter what happens. No matter the odds. You are her shield. Because she is more than just blood. She is your sister. She is family. And as a man, you protect what's your treasure, and no treasure is greater than family."
Bari had always nodded fiercely, swallowing the weight of a promise he could not yet keep. Broken Sword would smile—barely.
"Good. You remind me of myself, you know? In more than you know."