Ezekiel dreamed of the burning sky again.
The stars were wrong. Countless, too close, each one bleeding with a red glow that made the heavens feel alive and watching.
Ash drifted across broken marble streets, where toppled columns and shattered archways jutted from the ruins of a city that didn't belong to him.
Yet his steps knew it.
His body moved through the decay with the certainty of memory. He turned at the right alley without hesitation, walked across a courtyard covered in cracks like open wounds, and came to the cathedral that still stood despite its fractures.
At the heart of the ruins, she waited.
A girl with long brown hair, her eyes carrying the same familiarity as the ache in his chest. He didn't know her name here, but his soul did. He had known her across lifetimes. Every time the world burned, every time the sky bled, she was the one waiting for him.
"You found me again," he said, voice rough but steady, just like always.
"I always do," she whispered, her gaze soft, unwavering.
The dream always ended the same way. Fire roared high, consuming the cathedral. Screams echoed from collapsing stone. A thousand universes fractured like glass beneath a fist.
Ezekiel jolted awake.
The bed creaked beneath him as his chest heaved, his breath refusing to steady. Sweat slicked his skin, dampening the strands of black hair that had fallen loose from where he had slicked them back the day before. He pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling his pulse race like it was trying to escape. Slowly, he forced himself upright and looked to the right, pushing aside the faded curtains.
Night. The streets below were silent, the tavern's lanterns guttering faintly. Overhead, the sky was darker than pitch until two streaks of light tore across it. Shooting stars. His lips parted, but no words came. He only exhaled, sharp, unsteady, before rolling back onto the mattress.
For a while, he lay still, staring at the ceiling's wood beams. Then he sat up again, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees. Thoughts circled, tightening in his head until exhaustion forced them down. Finally, he dropped back against the mattress, letting the heaviness of the sheets pull him under.
***
Morning came with a pounding knock on his door.
"Wake the hell up!"
Ezekiel groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "Okay, Arthur…" he muttered.
The door swung open just enough for an older man to step inside. Arthur, fifty-three, with graying hair and a face lined like leather, glanced around the room before setting down a plate of food.
He looked every bit the weathered veteran. Broad shoulders, posture straight despite the years, his expression always somewhere between weary and steady. For all his gruffness, he'd kept Ezekiel from starving more than once.
Arthur grunted, "Eat," then turned, heading back downstairs. Already, Ezekiel could hear laughter rising from below. The early crowd of drinkers, gamblers, and wanderers filling the tavern's common room. The sound had become background noise to him, like the creak of the floorboards or the smell of smoke clinging to his clothes.
He rose with a low groan, ignoring the plate for now. His bare feet carried him into the cramped washroom, where a dangling light buzzed weakly from the ceiling. He reached up, holding the glass in place so it would stop swaying.
"This damn light," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the flicker. "If only my family hadn't drunk themselves into ruin…" His voice trailed off, the thought half bitter, half resigned. The Blackthorne line had once carried wealth, titles, influence. All of it crumbled long before his birth, drowned in liquor and wasted ambition. What was left for him was this: mercenary work, tavern beds, and a future he had to carve out of stone with his bare hands.
Still holding the glass, he let out another low complaint. "Shitty, broken thing. Just like everything else."
He let the light swing free again, turned the handle of the pipe, and let cold water cascade over him. The shower did little to wash away the weight in his head, but it steadied him enough to dress and finally drag himself back into the room.
The food was cooling on the plate. He took it with one hand, eating mechanically as he made his way downstairs. The tavern was louder now, voices overlapping, mugs slamming, dice rolling across tables. No one looked at him twice. He was a regular here, a fixture, another mercenary who had stayed too long in one place.
As he stepped outside, the morning light stabbing through his eyes, a single thought circled through his head.
Next week. The college begins.
He was already a year late, his chance postponed by the months it had taken to scrape together the entrance fee. Money didn't come easy to someone of his standing. Lower than dirt, lower than anything that mattered. But at least he had made it this far.
For now, that was enough.