Qapphire walked.
He had walked since the first fracture of the world—since the moment balance was deemed a threat and harmony a resource to be harvested. The unbalanced earth breathed beneath his bare steps, corrupted and restless, as it always had been. The rain fell heavy that day, soaking the forest in a cold that even stone could feel.
At the center of his chest, the Vitalis Core pulsed faintly—embedded there since his first existence. A gift. A curse. A beacon the world had once worshipped and later tried to cage.
He was a Harmon.
Once.
Centuries ago, they had called him a living savior. A kind demon who restored what wars and greed had ruined. Wherever he walked, deserts softened into soil, rivers remembered how to flow, and forests returned from ash. Entire civilizations rose because he passed through them.
Now, he was only a legend.
A myth spoken to children.
A fiction buried beneath newer lies.
And he preferred it that way.
Qapphire hid not because he feared the world—but because the world feared what it could not control. He learned long ago that salvation was just another chain.
The forest deepened around him as the rain thickened. The trees creaked uneasily, their roots shifting beneath the soil. Stones that had rested warm for centuries turned cold beneath his touch.
He paused.
His blind eyes saw nothing, but his senses stretched far beyond sight. He laid a weathered hand against the bark of an ancient tree.
"What troubles you, old friend?" he asked softly.
No words answered him—only resonance.
The soil trembled.
The stones whispered.
The trees leaned, guiding him.
Something had been abandoned.
Qapphire followed the pull instinctively, every step heavier than the last. The forest led him to a break in the undergrowth, where rain pooled and mud swallowed sound.
There—wrapped in worn, tattered cloth—lay a child.
Small.
Fragile.
Silent.
The baby's face was twisted in a cry that made no sound. Its lips trembled, but no voice emerged. Bruises marked its tiny body—dark stains against pale skin. Its heartbeat fluttered weakly, fading with every breath it struggled to take.
A trap, perhaps.
Qapphire stood still, unmoving. His heart—once warm, once open—had long since frozen shut. He had seen this before. Too many times. This world discarded what it could not afford, what it did not want, what it deemed inconvenient.
Even if he intervened, the child would not survive long. It had been days without food. Days exposed to cold and rain.
Left here as bait.
A low growl cut through the rain.
A wolf-like monster emerged from the shadows—mangy, wounded, starving. Its eyes burned with hunger as it stared at Qapphire, then the child. Its stance was defensive, territorial.
As if Qapphire had come to steal its meal.
He took a step back.
This was not his burden.
Not anymore.
The beast crept closer to the baby, saliva dripping from broken fangs. Qapphire turned away, staff lowering at his side. He had learned not to interfere. Mercy only prolonged suffering in this world.
Then—
The baby's heartbeat faltered.
Not slowed.
Faltered.
In that final flicker, something brushed against Qapphire's senses. A resonance—weak, instinctive, reaching blindly for warmth.
The child's eyes dimmed.
And something inside Qapphire cracked.
Before thought could form, before resolve could stop him, he moved.
A shadow sliced through the rain.
The wolf lunged—but its jaws closed on empty air.
The baby was gone.
Qapphire stood several paces away, the child cradled against his chest, one arm shielding it, the other gripping his martial staff. Rain slid down his hood as his presence darkened the forest.
The beast howled and attacked.
Qapphire met it without hesitation.
Steel and resonance collided. He moved with lethal precision, every strike measured, every step controlled—even as the child lay limp against him. The wolf dissolved into blackened ash that scattered into the rain.
Then another came.
And another.
They swarmed him, drawn by blood and desperation. One tore into his robe; another raked claws across his side. Still, he fought—leaping, striking, countering—never once loosening his hold on the child.
One by one, the beasts fell, fading into dark mist that vanished into the sky.
Silence returned.
Qapphire staggered.
He had won the battle.
But he had lost the war.
The baby's heartbeat was barely there now—fading, slipping, almost gone. Its eyes were dull, glassy, moments from emptiness.
Qapphire looked down at the fragile life in his arms.
And something inside him broke completely.
He pulled the child closer, pressing it gently against the warmth of his Vitalis Core. If nothing else, he would give it comfort in its final moments. If nothing else, it would not die alone.
"I'm sorry," he whispered—to the child, to the world, to himself.
His body trembled. Centuries of solitude weighed down on him at once. His strength drained, his knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the soaked earth, the child still protected in his arms.
As consciousness faded, one thought lingered:
Let me save this silent child… even if it costs me my last breath.
Soft fingers brushed his chest.
The baby's tiny hands rested over his Core.
Then—
Light.
Brilliant, golden light erupted between them, warm and gentle. The rain ceased as if the sky itself had held its breath. Clouds parted, and sunlight poured through the canopy.
Qapphire gasped as strength surged back into his body.
He looked down.
The baby's cheeks, once purple with cold, flushed a healthy red. Its skin warmed beneath his touch. Its heartbeat steadied—stronger, brighter.
A small, silent coo escaped its lips as it nuzzled closer to his chest.
For the first time in centuries—
The world gave back.
And Qapphire, the forgotten Harmon, held the beginning of something he thought long dead.