As they walked, the shadow of the mountain seemed just a little larger than before. It loomed over the valley with a quiet, oppressive certainty—its presence unchanging, unmoving, as if it had always been there and always would be. There was something wrong about it. Not in the way it looked, but in the way it felt. It didn't feel like a place. It felt like something watching—something patient.
The path beneath their feet stretched long and worn, carved by years of repetition, of people who had walked it without thinking, without questioning, without ever leaving it behind. The golden warmth of the afternoon had begun to fade now, slipping into something dimmer, something colder. The air shifted with it. Even the wind seemed to quiet, as though the land itself was settling into silence.
Ahead, the city of Marth slowly came into view. It sat along the edge of a vast lake, its surface reflecting the dying light in fractured glimmers that danced across the water like broken glass. From a distance, it looked… peaceful. Modest towers rose above clustered buildings, lanterns flickering to life one by one as evening crept in. It was almost enough to make the place seem important.
Almost.
"Never gets old," Chubs muttered beside him, letting out a low whistle as he looked toward the city.
Ard didn't answer straight away. His gaze lingered, distant and unreadable.
Marth was large—for people like them. A hub of trade. A place where crops moved, coins changed hands, and travelers passed through without ever staying long enough to care about what they left behind. But even from here, Ard knew the truth. Marth was nothing more than a stepping stone. Beyond it were cities that made this place look like a roadside stop—capitals built around massive Waygates, where entire districts existed just to handle what came through from other worlds. Places where power wasn't something people dreamed about… it was something expected.
Valdyr itself was built on that foundation. A world balanced uneasily between steel and soul—where steam-driven machines stood alongside ancient faiths, and every person eventually chose between power borrowed… or power forged from within.
And at the center of it all—
Gates. Controlled. Stable. Guarded.
And the things that slipped through when control failed—
Rifts.
Ard's jaw tightened slightly.
That was the real world.
Not this.
Not fields. Not dirt. Not survival.
His thoughts drifted again, pulled back—unwillingly—to the voice from before.
Child of the First and the Fallen.
The words lingered in his mind, quiet but heavy, like something just out of reach. He didn't understand them. Didn't know what they meant. But they stayed with him… sitting somewhere deeper than thought, like a truth he wasn't ready to face.
"…You're doing it again."
Chubs' voice broke through his thoughts.
Ard blinked, glancing over. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you stare at nothing like you've just figured out the meaning of life."
"I think."
"You brood."
"It's the same thing."
"It's not," Chubs said with a grin. "Yours just looks more depressing."
Ard exhaled faintly, shaking his head as they continued walking. For a while, neither of them spoke. The path stretched on ahead, quiet except for the soft crunch of dirt beneath their boots and the distant hum of evening settling across the land.
Then—
"Oi… Drunk-ard."
The word hit differently.
Not sharp. Not cruel.
Familiar.
Ard glanced sideways at him, already knowing where this was going. "You're still using that?"
Chubs shrugged, hands behind his head, completely unbothered. "What? It fits."
"It doesn't."
"It does," Chubs insisted, grinning. "Full name and everything."
Ard snorted quietly, but something in his chest shifted—subtle, but there. The word carried weight. Not the way Jack used it. Not the way the others did. But it still reached back… dragging something with it.
And before he could stop it—
The memory surfaced.
The barn had looked bigger back then. Or maybe they had just been smaller. Hard to tell. Everything felt bigger when you had nothing. The world had seemed wider, harsher, less forgiving in ways that didn't need explaining. Hunger had been constant. So had the cold.
They had been sitting side by side against the outer wall, two boys with nothing to their names—literally.
"Drunkard's kid!"
The shout had come from somewhere beyond the yard, followed by laughter that carried just far enough to make sure it landed.
Ard hadn't reacted.
He hadn't needed to.
He already knew.
Beside him, the other boy shifted slightly, frowning. "…That's a shit name."
Ard shrugged faintly, eyes still forward. "It's not my name."
"They say it like it is."
Silence lingered between them for a moment, stretching thin.
Then—
"…Then I'll take it."
The other boy blinked, confused. "What?"
"If they're gonna say it anyway…" Ard said quietly, "…then it's mine."
He paused.
"…Ard."
The other boy frowned harder. "That's just the end of it."
"Yeah."
"…Still shit."
"Better than nothing."
The boy hesitated, then leaned back slightly, thinking. "Then I want one too."
"You've got one."
"Not really."
Ard glanced at him. "…Then what?"
The boy puffed out his cheeks, thinking far harder than he probably needed to.
"…Chubs."
A pause.
Ard stared at him. "…That's worse."
"It is not."
"It is."
"You're just saying that."
"You picked it because you're—"
"Don't say it."
"…Chubby."
"I said don't say it!"
They stared at each other—
Then laughed.
Not loud. Not long.
But real.
And for the first time—
It felt like something belonged to them.
The memory faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind something quieter… heavier.
"…Still better than yours," Chubs said, kicking a loose stone along the path.
Ard huffed a small breath. "You named yourself after being fat."
"You named yourself after a drunk."
"…Fair."
They walked on, the farmstead slowly coming back into view ahead of them. The barn. The fields. The same place they had left that morning. Nothing had changed.
But something felt different.
Tighter.
Like the air itself had shifted.
The light had dimmed further now, stretching long shadows across the ground, distorting shapes and distances in a way that made everything feel just slightly off.
And then—
A voice.
"Oi."
Both of them stopped.
Ard didn't need to look to know who it was.
He felt it.
The tension.
The familiarity.
The problem.
Jack stepped into view ahead of them, his frame filling the path without effort. Tall. Broad. Completely at ease in a way that made it clear—this wasn't a coincidence. He had been waiting.
"Look what crawled back," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face.
Chubs stiffened slightly beside him.
Ard said nothing.
Jack's gaze dragged over him, taking in the bruises, the posture, the fact that he was still standing. "Thought I hit you harder than that."
Silence followed.
Then his attention shifted.
To Chubs.
"Still following him around?"
Chubs didn't respond. Didn't rise to it. Didn't give him anything.
Jack stepped forward slowly, measured, deliberate. "You know… some people just don't learn."
Ard's jaw tightened.
"Take you, for example."
His eyes locked back onto Ard.
"Son of an absent drunkard…"
The words landed clean.
Precise.
This time—there was no humor behind them.
No familiarity.
Just intent.
Ard didn't move.
Didn't react.
But something inside him shifted.
Then Jack turned back to Chubs.
"And you…" he tilted his head slightly, "…still pretending you're more than what you are?"
Chubs' hands clenched at his sides.
Still—he stayed quiet.
Jack smiled.
"That's the problem with you lot," he said, stepping closer. "You start thinking you've got a choice."
That was it.
Not the insult.
Not the words.
The truth behind them.
Something in Ard snapped.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Enough.
His hand moved before the thought fully formed. A loose stick lay near his feet. He grabbed it, the motion sharp and sudden, and without hesitation—
He threw.
Hard.
Fast.
Straight at Jack.
And as the stick cut through the air, the world seemed to slow once again—everything narrowing to that single moment, the fading light catching the motion mid-flight—
Right before everything broke.