The city slept under a shroud of ash and silence. Its walls, once proud and alive, now seemed to sag under the weight of centuries, as though every brick carried the sorrow of those who had lived—and died—within them. Sora stood at the edge of the square, the cold wind tugging at her hair and the edges of her coat, and for a moment, she wondered if the city even noticed her presence.
A single lamp flickered weakly in the distance, casting long shadows that twisted like reaching hands. She traced them with her eyes, and in that darkness, she saw fragments—faces of people she had loved, memories that clung to her like smoke. Her chest tightened, and she let her hands fall to her sides. One trembling motion, one tiny shiver, and a tear broke free, tracing a line down her cheek.
It felt wrong to cry here, in a city that had known so much grief, so much hunger and fear. Yet the tears came anyway, each one a silent testimony to the weight she carried. And as they fell, the city seemed to lean closer, listening, holding its breath.
She pressed her hands to her pendant—a simple trinket, smooth and cold—and whispered a name she had not dared speak aloud in years. Mother.
The wind stole the word before it could reach anyone, scattering it across the ash-strewn streets. But Sora felt it linger, a faint echo curling around her like a warning. Something was coming. She did not know what it was, only that it would be cruel, inevitable, and impossible to ignore.
Her eyes scanned the empty square. The shadows moved just beyond the lamp's glow, twisting unnaturally, and she realized they were no longer just shadows—they were a reminder of what the city demanded from those who dared walk its streets. Survival would not be enough. She would need strength, cunning, and perhaps a part of herself she had yet to discover.
Sora drew a deep breath, tasting the cold night air. She wiped her face, though she knew more tears would come. They always did. They were her map, charting every loss, every failure, every fleeting victory that had brought her here. And yet, as much as the tears burned and stung, they also reminded her of something else: she was still here. She had not yet surrendered.
The city exhaled around her, quiet, waiting. And beneath the flickering lamp, with the wind carrying the weight of the past and the promise of what was to come, Sora took her first step forward.
The ash stirred at her feet. The night held its secrets close, but it had begun to speak. And she, the heir of its silence, was listening.