The ruins were quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the nervous whispers of the children huddled near the doorway. Lantern light danced against the crumbling stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to breathe. Nico clung to Kai's arm, his small fingers digging in. "What is it?" he whimpered. Kai, trying to sound brave, lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "It's a wraith… they say they come out of the mist to take naughty children who wander too far." Nico yelped and buried his face in Kai's tunic, trembling. Ethan, his face pale but set in stubborn defiance, ignored the pain in his leg and grabbed a hunting dagger from the wall. The cloaked figure standing just beyond the circle of light didn't move, its silence more threatening than any sound. Even Luna and Mia, usually so calm, shrank back, their eyes wide with apprehension.
A low, rasping sound echoed from under the hood—a voice twisted into something unnatural and hollow that seemed to seep from the shadows themselves. The children froze. "Huuuungry… little children… where are you?" The words slithered through the dark, cold and unfamiliar. Ethan raised the dagger, his hands shaking but determined. Nico let out a full-blown scream. Luna clutched Mia's hand, both girls backing away silently, their eyes wide. For one heart-stopping moment, the tension was a wire about to snap. Then the figure lurched forward with a sudden, jerking motion, arms raised like claws. The effect was instantaneous. All five children shrieked in unison, scattering across the room in a panic of tangled limbs and terrified yelps. From the shadows, Seres bit her lip hard to keep from laughing aloud. Her plan to teach Ethan a lesson for his reckless, weight-bearing stunt was working perfectly.
Just as the chaos reached its peak, Ardyn finally pulled back his hood. The grimace melted away, replaced by his familiar, handsome features, the lantern light catching the gold in his hair and the faint, amused glint in his eyes. Nico, who had been hiding behind an overturned stool, blinked through his tears. "Ardyn?!" he gasped, his voice a mixture of shock and dawning relief. The others groaned in unison, collapsing where they stood—Kai onto the floor, Mia against the wall. Ethan dropped his dagger with a clatter, his face flushed with embarrassment and residual fear. "That wasn't funny," he growled, scowling. Seres emerged from her hiding spot, arms folded but a wide, unrepentant grin finally breaking free on her lips. She patted Ardyn's shoulder. "No, Ethan," she corrected, her voice light with triumph. "It was hilarious. Consider it payback… for that little cake stunt you pulled on my birthday."
The tension from the elaborate prank finally broke, dissolving into warm, carefree chuckles that echoed in the narrow hallway. Seres and Ardyn leaned against the stone wall, their shoulders shaking with laughter, the sound a rare and welcome music in the usually solemn ruins. The kids, however, stood in a stiff, unimpressed row. Ethan crossed his arms, his expression stern. "Not funny," he muttered, though a flicker of relief was visible in his eyes. Nico clung to Kai's sleeve, his small face still pale from the scare. The night ended not with more laughter, but with grumbles and theatrical pouts as they were herded toward bed. Yet, as the fire died down to embers, Ardyn's rare, genuine smile still lingered on his face—quiet proof that the risky prank had, despite everything, done its job. He had carved out a moment of normal, silly joy.
Ardyn Veythar-POV
The first hint of grey light found me already awake, the deep quiet of the ruins a blanket around the others' sleep. The cold bit at my lungs as I stepped outside, the axe handle fitting into my palm like it belonged there. Each swing was a clean, solid thwack, the sound echoing in the still, dawn air. It was a simple rhythm, a task that asked nothing of me but my strength. No memories, no questions—just the split wood and the growing pile.
I didn't hear them approach at first, lost in the repetition. Then Seres was there, a silent shadow already inspecting the heap of kindling. A moment later, Ethan stumbled out, rubbing sleep from his eyes. But then he straightened, his face lighting up with a pride I rarely saw there. He thrust forward a bow—a real one, sort of. Made from a bent branch, its curve held firm with twine and reinforced at the grip with scraps of leather I recognized from our market trip. It was clumsy, rough, but it was his. He held it out like it was a legendary weapon, not a child's project.
Then suddenly my ears pricked at a faint rustling in the underbrush to our left. There was no thought, only instinct. My hand snapped out, taking the bow from Ethan's loose grip. I notched the crude arrow, drew, and loosed in one fluid motion. The shaft whistled through the air, and a small, solid thud followed. Seres moved forward, pushing aside the dense foliage. A horned rabbit lay still on the ground, the tiny, sharp spike on its forehead glinting dully in the morning light. Seres blinked, looking from the rabbit to me. "Even G-rank adventurers struggle to hit those. They're fast, and their horns make them dangerous to approach," she stated, her tone flat. She wasn't surprised anymore. Just stating a fact. I looked at the small creature. I hadn't known it was supposed to be difficult.
That evening, the stew pot simmered with actual meat, and the house smelled richer and warmer than it had in weeks. The children crowded around, cheering as Seres filled their bowls. They ate greedily, the sound of happy chewing filling the ruins. Nico, his own bowl clutched in his hands, stared at me with wide, shining eyes. "You just… shot it? Without even thinking?" he whispered, his voice full of awe. He'd been clutching a stick he'd sharpened into a crude sword, practicing clumsy, enthusiastic swings in the corner all afternoon.
I noticed Nico's attempts. His stance was shaky, his swings wild, but every movement was filled with an earnest, determined energy. I finished my stew and picked up another stick from the pile by the fire. I moved to stand beside him and silently began to mirror his movements, then gently nudged his small hands to adjust his grip on the 'sword'. "Hold… like this," I said, the words coming out rough and broken. Nico's face split into a beaming smile, his chest puffing out.
Nico tried to wear my cloak, tripped on the hem, and tumbled into a pile of firewood. He emerged grinning, completely undeterred.
A few days later, I took Kai to the market alone. He immediately fell into step beside me, his eyes sharp, already scanning the stalls with a calculating look I recognized. He'd been watching me, and now he was trying to mimic my serious demeanor, my way of moving through a crowd. It was almost funny, this small, purple-haired boy putting on such a stern face. He even tried to wear my cloak, but it swallowed him whole, and he tripped on the hem almost immediately, just like Nico had. I caught him by the hood before he could faceplant into the mud.
As we shopped, I gave him small tasks. "Count the nails in that box," I'd say, or "How many copper for ten apples?" His answers were instantaneous, his mind frighteningly quick with numbers. He enjoyed it, puffing his chest out each time he got it right.
His cleverness, however, soon turned to mischief. While I was bartering for flour, he tried to prank me by swapping the price tag on a bundle of dried meat with a cheaper one for herbs. I saw his reflection in a polished kettle. Without turning, I reached back and caught his wrist. "Bad move," I said flatly, then showed him how the shopkeeper had seen it too, and how it would have cost us trust and coin. I explained that a good trick makes you stronger, not weaker.
The lesson stuck. Later that same day, at a different stall, it was Kai who suddenly tugged my sleeve. His voice was a low, urgent whisper. "The scale's wrong. He's using a weight with a chip in it. He's shorting everyone." I watched closely and saw he was right. I confronted the merchant, who blustered but quickly corrected the measure and returned the owed coin. Kai said nothing, but his smirk was triumphant. He'd learned that his quick mind was a better weapon than any prank.
Luna
I found Luna not in her usual corner, but just outside the ruins, carefully wiping dirt from the cover of a battered book she'd pulled from a discarded pile near the city's edge. The binding was split, and several pages were loose. She handled it as if it were made of gold.
"It was just lying there," she murmured, not looking up. "No book is worthless. Even the broken ones have stories to tell."
I sat nearby, the rhythmic scrape of my knife on a whetstone filling the silence. After a while, my eyes kept drifting to the strange, elegant symbols on the page she was so intently studying. I finally pointed at them. "What does it say?"
She looked up, her dreamy eyes focusing. "It's a religious text," she said, her voice soft but clear. She knew the shapes meant nothing to me. She closed the book gently. "It says our world is made of five continents. We live in the smallest one, Valendra." She saw my blank look and, with a stick, drew a quick, rough shape in the dirt. "Here. That's us." She drew other shapes around it. "In Valendra there are Aethel, to the frozen north. Faiyum, in the southern deserts. Flores, the eastern jungles. The Western Isles, a broken chain no one has fully charted, The Sun Kindgom at the Centre" Her stick settled on the largest shape. "And our neighbor, Khemet."
My interest, a dull ember until now, sparked. "The Sun Kingdom?"
"They worship the Sun God, Amaterasu. Some there call him Magec." Her voice held a reverent hush, the tone she used for the most important stories, the ones she learned from the books Finel brought her and the tales he told. I didn't know that was her source; I just thought she was impossibly smart.
"They say he was the one who introduced magic to mankind," she explained, her words precise. "The tales say he stole it from the heavens and gifted it to humans. It was an act of great love, but also a great crime. He faced divine punishment for it. That's why he is not in the mortal realm anymore. He was cast out." Her finger touched the drawing of Khemet. "One of the major countries that follows his light is the Sun Kingdom, here in Valendra. It's the holy kingdom, where their Pope resides."
I started seeking her out during the quiet hours. I'd point to a word in one of her damaged books, and she would sound it out. But more than letters, I wanted to know the shape of the world. She drew maps in the dirt with a stick, naming the five continents, the kingdoms, the major rivers. I listened, desperate for any name, any border, any event that might trigger a memory. The history meant nothing to the others, but to me, it was a lifeline.
Mia
Mia's kindness was a constant, quiet force in the ruins. She was the first to sneak me an extra piece of flatbread when she thought Seres wasn't looking, her small fingers quick and her giggle softer than the rustle of the parchment. Seres always noticed, of course, but she'd pretend to be focused on her herbs, a faint smile on her lips.
Our real connection began with language. Where others grew impatient, Mia never did. She'd sit with me by the fire, pointing to objects—a cup, a spoon, the fire itself—and say the words slowly, clearly. "Reth," she'd say, holding up the clay cup. I'd fumble over the sound, my tongue feeling thick and clumsy. She'd just smile and repeat it. "Reth." Again and again, until I got it right. When I finally did, her face would light up, and she'd clap her hands together with a soft, proud sound that made the effort feel worthwhile.
Her gentle heart extended to everyone. I saw her find Nico after a particularly frustrating training session where he'd failed to land a single blow on the practice post. He was scowling, on the verge of angry tears. Mia didn't say a word. She just sat beside him in the dirt and broke her precious honey-nut sweet in half, offering him a share. His scowl vanished, replaced by a look of pure gratitude. That was Mia. She didn't solve problems with strength or cleverness; she patched cracks with kindness.
One afternoon, she found me staring at a worn-out practice sword, frustration boiling under my skin because my body remembered moves my mind couldn't name. I must have looked angry, because she approached cautiously, holding out one of her rare sugar-dusted berries. "For you," she said softly.
I took it, the simple gesture deflating my frustration. She didn't try to give advice. Instead, she just sat nearby, humming a little tune while she braided strands of grass together. Her quiet presence was a balm. In a world of survival, her small, sweet offerings of food and patience were a different kind of strength, and without ever meaning to, she became the gentle heart that held our strange, scarred family together.