Ash
Silence came after.
Not peace—just the absence of anything loud enough to matter anymore.
The sky above Terrosia was torn and turbulent—cracked open, split by long scars of smoke and fading fire that refused to close. The skies were finally granted peace from the onslaught of the heavens. Now there was only ash, drifting down in slow, uneven waves, settling into streets, clinging to corpses, coating everything like a final, indifferent verdict.
Craters scarred the city in overlapping rings, some still glowing faintly at their edges, stone melted and warped where the meteors had struck. Roads ended abruptly in sinkholes and twisted metal. Towers leaned at impossible angles, held upright by nothing but stubborn balance, while others had collapsed entirely, reduced to jagged skeletons half-buried beneath debris.
Fires still crawled through the wreckage—not raging, but hungry—feeding on what little remained. Smoke rolled low through alleyways, stinging the eyes and burning the lungs of anyone who breathed too deeply.
People moved through it in fragments.
Some ran without direction, calling names that never answered. Others clawed through rubble with bare hands, ignoring the heat, the blood, the broken bones beneath their fingers. Elders shouted themselves hoarse trying to gather survivors, trying to bring order to a world that had already slipped past it.
Above it all, ash continued to fall.
A small figure stumbled forward through the gray.
Onyx fell.
His legs gave out beneath him, knees striking stone hard enough to steal his breath. He didn't cry. He didn't even gasp. He just stayed there for a moment, palms pressed against the ground, staring at nothing as his mind tried—and failed—to understand the world that had replaced the one he remembered.
He was four years old.
Around him, people ran. Not together. Not organized. Just bodies fleeing in every direction, some burned, some bleeding, some already lost to panic. Whatever had once kept the wild things beyond the city at bay was gone. From the distant districts came new sounds now: guttural roars, the scrape of claws on stone, the wet crunch of something feeding.
Onyx pushed himself upright, unsteady.
His eyes moved slowly, tracking motion without comprehension. Fire here. Smoke there. A shape collapsing. Another person is screaming. Nothing connected. Nothing made sense.
Then he heard it.
Crying.
Not close. Not loud. But wrongly persistent—thin, strained, cutting through the ruin like it refused to be swallowed by it.
Onyx turned his head toward the sound.
Behind a half-crushed transport shell, a small bundle shook violently. A child no older than two lay on his side, face red, chest hitching, fists clenched as he screamed until his voice cracked and came back anyway.
Before Onyx could move—
"STOP!"
The word burst out nearby, sharp and broken, followed by more noise. Another small voice. Higher. Frustrated. Terrified.
"Stop—stop—don't—"
The other boy was barely standing, feet planted wide as if the ground itself might betray him. His words tangled together, unfinished, collapsing under their own weight. He looked from the crying child to the burning street and back again, eyes wild, breathing too fast.
The crying didn't stop. If anything, it got worse.
Onyx took a step forward—
—and was knocked flat.
Someone slammed into him from behind, hard enough to send him skidding across the ash. He hit the ground again, air forced from his lungs, coughing as dust filled his mouth. The person never looked back. They just ran.
Onyx tried to push up.
A hand caught his wrist.
It was weak. Shaking.
"Onyx…"
The voice was barely more than breath.
He turned.
An old man lay slumped against the wreckage of a wall. Blood soaked through his clothes, dark and spreading, pooling beneath him where the ash stuck and turned black. One eye was swollen shut. The other focused on Onyx with painful effort.
"You—" the man coughed, a wet sound, "—listen… listen to me."
Onyx didn't speak. He couldn't. His throat felt locked, his chest tight, tears began slowly falling.
The man squeezed his wrist once—then weaker.
"Safehouse," he whispered. "You know where… run there. Someone will help you."
Another cough. Blood at his lips now.
"You're strong," the man said, forcing the words out as if they mattered. "Take them. Help them."
His gaze shifted past Onyx—to the crying child, to the panicked one shouting half-words at the fire.
Onyx followed his eyes.
The crying hadn't stopped. The shouting hadn't either.
Something inside Onyx moved.
He didn't understand it. He didn't question it.
He stood.
Still silent, he stumbled toward the others. He grabbed the crying child first, small hands gripping fabric, pulling him close despite the heat and smoke. Then he reached for the other boy, who froze for half a second before clinging back just as tightly.
Onyx turned.
And ran.
The old man watched them go.
His vision blurred, the world smearing at the edges, smoke and sky bleeding together. The boy never looked back. Never said a word.
Strange, the man thought.
He remembered when he'd first met that child—how something about him had unsettled him then too. A quiet that felt too heavy for someone so small. He'd felt it again just now.
And… something else.
The other two.
The crying one. The loud one.
Even through the pain, even through the dying haze creeping up his spine, the feeling lingered—deep and inexplicable.
As if the world had shifted.
As if the sky hadn't finished falling yet.
The man exhaled, slow and shallow, eyes drifting shut as ash settled on his face.
"Change is coming," he murmured to no one.
And then Terrosia took what was left of him.
What Stayed Standing
Two years later.
The shelter still smelled wrong.
Not rot anymore—something sharper. Smoke that never quite left the air, clinging to breath and cloth alike. The district had rebuilt what it could with scavenged metal, fused stone, and the bones of old structures. Walls stood crooked but stubborn. Gates leaned, reinforced with plates hammered into place by hands that had learned how to survive, if not how to live.
Onyx worked near the front gate of the shelter.
Six years old. Too young for the weight of the bucket in his hands, too used to it to complain.
Ash-stained water sloshed as he scrubbed dried grime from the stone floor, movements slow and methodical. He liked chores that stayed the same. The gate didn't scream. The ground didn't lie.
Above him, the sky remained a dull, sickened gray.
Three moons hung overhead.
Or at least, that's what it looked like.
Two were real—uneven, scarred, circling lazily. The third was the sun, pale and distant, its light diffused so heavily by the poisoned sky that it resembled another cold satellite rather than a source of warmth.
Onyx paused, squinting up at them.
Then something wet smacked into the side of his head.
Splatch.
Black paint slid down his temple.
For half a second, he just stood there.
Then came the laughter.
High-pitched. Breathless. Proud.
Onyx closed his eyes.
Of course.
He turned slowly.
Four-year-old Ryu stood several paces back, clutching another dripping ball in both hands like it was treasure. His clothes were already stained with paint and pond water, hair wild, face split with a grin far too wide for someone who should have known better.
Onyx felt irritation rise hot and fast.
"RYU," he shouted, voice cracking with the effort. "What are you doing?!"
Ryu blinked, then beamed.
"Play," he said, words tumbling over each other. "Play now. You clean too long."
Onyx stared at him.
"Who gave you that?" Onyx demanded, pointing at the paint sliding down his face. "What even is that?"
Before Ryu could answer—
"Technically," another voice cut in, far too calm, "it's not paint."
Luto stepped out from behind a stack of crates.
Four years old as well—but nothing like Ryu. His clothes were neat. His hands were stained with ink, not dirt. He held a thin, battered book tucked under one arm, eyes already flicking between Onyx, Ryu, and the black splatter on the ground.
"It's a mixture," Luto continued, matter-of-fact. "Charcoal residue, binding oil, and sap. I was testing adhesion."
Onyx's eye twitched.
"You let him throw it at me?"
"I didn't let him," Luto said defensively. "I just needed him to try it on one of the gérmons. They don't mind. And I didn't know he'd—"
Another splatch.
This one missed Onyx entirely and exploded across the freshly scrubbed floor.
Silence.
Onyx slowly turned his head.
Ryu froze, ball-less hand still raised.
Onyx dropped the bucket.
"That's it."
Ryu squealed and bolted.
Onyx chased him.
They tore through the compound—past startled kids, past stacked supplies, past a pair of gérmons who barely flinched as the boys thundered by. Onyx was faster. He always was.
Ryu tripped near the pond.
They went down together in a spray of filthy water.
Onyx surfaced first, soaked, furious, and immediately wrapped an arm around Ryu's neck in a sloppy headlock.
"Say sorry!" he snapped.
Ryu didn't.
He started crying.
Loudly.
Right on cue.
"ONYX."
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Lady Destra stood at the edge of the pond, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. She took in the scene in a single glance—the mess, the water, the paint, the crying child in Onyx's grip.
She sighed.
"Let him go."
Onyx obeyed instantly, shoving Ryu away and scrambling to his feet.
"He started it," Onyx said, teeth clenched.
Lady Destra knelt, already checking Ryu over. "You were on chores duty," she said without looking at Onyx. "Again."
Ryu sniffed, clinging to her sleeve.
Onyx stared at the ground.
Of course she believed him.
Again.
Time moved the way it always did after a disaster.
In uneven pieces.
Onyx learned the rhythm quickly.
Every morning, something was missing.
Sometimes it was food—dry rations gone from the communal crates. Onyx would be the one standing closest when it was noticed, bucket still in hand, stomach already aching. He learned not to look surprised when Lady Destra's eyes found him first.
Ryu would be nearby, cheeks smudged, trying and failing to look innocent.
Onyx never said anything.
During water runs, Ryu had a habit of darting underfoot at the worst moments. A foot hooked. A stumble. A spill that sent precious water sloshing into the dirt. Onyx took the scolding. Ryu laughed until someone told him to hush.
At night was worse.
Sleeping mats were laid edge to edge for warmth, patched blankets pulled tight against the cold that crept in once the fires died. Onyx would carve out his space carefully—back to the wall, pack tucked close, everything where he could feel it.
It never stayed that way.
He'd wake to weight on his side, a small body sprawled half across his chest, legs tangled with his own. Ryu snored softly, one arm flung over Onyx's stomach like it belonged there.
Onyx shoved him off.
"Move," he hissed.
Ryu rolled once, mumbled something, and five minutes later crawled right back.
Onyx tried pushing harder. Shifting positions. Even dragging his mat away.
It didn't matter.
Ryu always ended up there.
Luto, at least, asked before borrowing things. He didn't trip people unless he was distracted. When Onyx snapped at him, Luto just frowned, thought about it, and adjusted.
Ryu didn't adjust.
Ryu just… existed.
Loud. Hungry. Always touching things that weren't his. Always moving. Always getting away with it.
Onyx stopped expecting fairness.
Time kept grinding forward anyway.
The gates pushed outward. Patrols held longer. Beasts were driven back far enough that children were allowed beyond the inner walls of Braetan, escorted at first—then not.
Somewhere in that stretch of days, Onyx noticed something had changed.
He walked ahead without thinking.
Ryu stayed close enough to bump his heels.
Luto trailed behind, counting steps under his breath.
When a noise came from the ruins, Onyx reacted first.
When fear hit, Ryu shouted without restraint.
When they needed to decide what to do next, Luto spoke—quiet, precise.
No one agreed to this.
No one named it.
It just settled into place, like everything else that survived.
Onyx realized one night—lying awake with Ryu draped across him again—that he couldn't remember when he'd stopped trying to shove him away.
That was the dangerous part.
That was how it began.
Bond Without Speech
Three years changed the distance they were allowed to walk.
Not the danger.
Onyx was nine when the shelter gates opened without escort for the first time. The border had shifted outward again—scrap walls reinforced, warning markers planted deep into the ruins. Beyond them lay twisted ground and half-buried structures, places the adults called salvage zones and the kids called freedom.
They crossed the line together.
Ryu walked ahead that day.
Seven years old. Too confident. Eyes sharp, scanning constantly, head tilting at sounds Onyx barely noticed. He moved like the world belonged to him, feet light, hands always ready to grab or throw something.
Onyx noticed the way Ryu slowed whenever he did. How he drifted just enough to stay in front—never behind.
The first real threat came fast.
Metal shrieked somewhere to their left. Rubble shifted.
Onyx reacted without thinking—stepping forward, shoulders squared.
Ryu moved at the same time.
He slammed into Onyx's side, hard enough to knock him back a step, arms spread wide like he meant to block the entire ruin with his body. The movement was clumsy, instinctive, wrong—and it worked. Whatever lunged from the debris snapped at empty air instead of Onyx's throat.
Ryu didn't look back.
Onyx didn't tell him to move.
Behind them, Luto swore under his breath and grabbed Ryu's collar, yanking him backward before he could charge again. Ryu resisted for half a second—then stopped, recognizing the pull.
They stood there breathing until the sound faded.
No one spoke.
That was when Onyx started to realize it.
Ryu wasn't just reckless.
He was strong.
Too strong for seven.
His grip hurt when he grabbed on to you. His balance recovered faster than it should have. He noticed things early—movement, pressure, shifts in the air. Onyx noticed something else too.
The same things were happening to him.
He didn't hesitate anymore. Violence didn't scare him—it answered him. When danger came, his body stepped into it before fear could arrive.
Luto watched all of it.
He said nothing.
He adjusted.
—
They started going farther.
Legal distances. Approved zones.
It didn't matter.
Trouble followed them anyway.
Ryu climbed where he shouldn't.
Onyx hit things first and asked later.
Luto dismantled half the ruin looking for parts, vanishing into shafts and tunnels with a book tucked under his arm.
People started talking.
"Those three again."
"Devil-spawn kids."
"Daredevils."
The word stuck with Luto.
He'd seen it somewhere before—ink-stained page, margin note, something about recklessness and refusal. He couldn't remember the context. Only that the word felt… accurate.
—
The day it almost ended, they were beyond the new border.
Still legal. Still stupid.
Luto was down in an abandoned extraction shaft, rummaging through scrap and muttering calculations under his breath. Onyx and Ryu waited above—Ryu poking at a half-buried carcass with a stick, Onyx scanning the treeline.
The ground vibrated.
Onyx turned just as it burst from the rubble.
A massive reptilian shape hauled itself from the rubble—scales layered like broken armor, jaws stretched too wide for its skull, eyes flat and predatory. Venom dripped in slow strands from its teeth, hissing where it struck stone.
A Dravok.
Onyx stepped forward.
Too slow.
Its tail whipped around, catching him across the ribs and hurling him into stone. Pain exploded through his side. Something burned where the claws scraped him.
Toxin.
His legs locked instantly.
He hit the ground and didn't get back up.
The beast lunged.
Ryu screamed—not in fear, but fury—and ran straight into it.
"IDIOT—" Onyx shouted, voice breaking.
The jaws snapped shut around Ryu's forearm.
Bone creaked.
Ryu screamed once—then grit his teeth and stayed standing.
Onyx felt something cold settle in his chest.
Ryu tore himself free, staggering, arm hanging uselessly as venom crept through his veins. He didn't retreat. He charged again, leaping onto the beast's back with what strength he had left.
He couldn't use his arms.
So he used his teeth.
He bit down on the base of the creature's neck as hard as he could.
The beast roared, thrashing wildly, slamming Ryu into a tree hard enough to crack bark. Ryu fell, unmoving.
Onyx forced his body to respond.
Pain screamed. Muscles locked. He dragged himself forward anyway, hands clawing dirt, vision tunneling as the beast turned back toward Ryu.
"RYU!" he screamed.
Ryu coughed, laughed weakly, blood on his lips.
"It's… fine."
The Dravok never reached him.
Something hit it from the side like a living battering ram.
Lee.
The gérmon, a squat, thick-limbed beast exploded from the brush, fur bristling, frame stretched and reinforced beyond anything natural. It moved with the confidence of something that had learned long ago that nothing in this land was worth fearing.
Lee hit the beast again.
And again.
When it finally stopped moving, Lee stood over it, chest heaving, then trotted straight to Ryu and sat down beside him like this was normal.
Onyx collapsed next to them.
He grabbed Ryu by the collar and punched him weakly in the chest.
Then pulled him close.
Tight.
Too tight.
Onyx didn't notice he was crying until his face was wet.
"Don't do that," he choked.
Ryu didn't answer.
He just leaned into it.
"Uh."
Luto's voice cut in, flat and confused.
Onyx looked up.
Luto stood at the edge of the clearing, scrap in his hands, eyes darting between the dead beast, the injured boys, and Lee licking blood from his muzzle.
"…What happened?"
No one explained.
They never did.
But from that day on, something shifted.
They didn't choose each other.
They never had.
They survived because separating them meant someone didn't come back.
And the district learned to keep an eye on the DareDevils.
Because when those three were together—
Trouble followed.
And lived.
The Nine-Year Mark
Nine years left marks that didn't fade.
Onyx carried them openly—thin scars along his arms, one at the edge of his jaw where bone had once met stone. He moved with purpose now, taller, broader, eyes always forward. Eleven years old and already treated like someone who could be relied on when things went wrong.
Ryu wore his damage differently.
Nine years old and restless, never still, never quiet. His knuckles were perpetually scraped. His grin showed a missing tooth he refused to let anyone fix. He climbed higher than he should have, ran farther than he was allowed, and came back bleeding just often enough that no one could stop worrying.
Luto, also nine, looked like he belonged somewhere else entirely.
Ink stained his fingers more often than dirt. His pack rattled with parts no one recognized until he explained them—usually too fast. He watched the world like it was something to be solved, cataloged, or reassembled into something better.
Together, they were a problem.
The district of Braetan had learned that.
People muttered when they passed. Doors closed a little faster. Someone always seemed to be missing a tool or a ration after the boys had been through an area.
Still—when things went wrong, eyes turned their way.
Lady Destra noticed it most.
She stood near the shelter gates one afternoon, arms folded as she watched them leave again—packs slung, weapons improvised, route argued over quietly between them. She didn't stop them. She hadn't in a long time.
For a moment, memory intruded.
A boy standing alone at the gates years ago.
Ash in his hair.
Two smaller children dragged behind him.
Silent. Determined. Terrified.
She exhaled slowly.
They'd grown far beyond that day.
Too far, perhaps.
They disappeared into the ruins as the sun dimmed, the sky already shifting into its false-night glow. Three moons emerged overhead—two true, one only pretending—casting pale light across broken stone.
They returned late.
Dirty. Bruised. Successful.
They sat together on the edge of an old structure, legs dangling over empty space, packs discarded. The air was cold. The sky was clear in the way Terrosia allowed.
Ryu stared upward for a long time before speaking.
"…You know," he said, voice quieter than usual, "we're not really—"
He hesitated.
Onyx glanced over. Luto didn't.
"—like, not really brothers," Ryu finished, suddenly unsure. "I know that. I just… you're all I remember."
Silence stretched.
Then Luto snorted.
Onyx laughed.
Not a sharp laugh. Not mocking.
Real.
"Ryu," Onyx said, shaking his head, "you thought that wasn't obvious?"
Ryu blinked.
"Wait—really?"
Luto finally looked up. "You steal my food, follow Onyx everywhere, and get us chased by Dravoks weekly. That's family behavior."
Ryu grinned, relief flooding his face.
Onyx slung an arm around his shoulders without thinking.
They sat like that for a while—watching the broken sky, listening to distant movement, content in the way only people who had survived together could be.
They didn't know what was coming.
They didn't need to.
This wasn't the beginning.
It was the last moment before it.