Mercy.
She was the warmth I spent a lifetime chasing.
A whispered prayer I believed would never fade.
But prayers are not promises.
And warmth… never lingers.
Memories pale—
delicate, like dust caught in a ray of dying sun.
---
Young Sylas sat curled in the orphanage's shadowed corner, knees drawn tight to his chest, chin resting on them like a shield. His eyes, hollow and unblinking, stared through the warped windowpane—past the splintered wooden frame, past the golden spill of sunshine.
Outside, children tore across the yard, their laughter sharp enough to rattle the glass. Screams of play. Nothing more.
Mercy sat beside him, her face cradled gently in her palm, her gaze soft but searching. She studied Sylas, his vacant stare, the absence of joy in his small frame.
"Why don't you go play with them?" she asked, her voice a quiet melody.
"They don't like me," Sylas muttered, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Mercy glanced outside, then back to him, her tone softer, like a secret shared. "It's not that they don't like you. You just have to like what they like—for them to see you."
Sylas hugged himself tighter, his fingers digging into his arms. "What if… I don't like what they like?"
Her answer came without hesitation, a quiet vow. "It wouldn't matter." Her eyes held his, steady and warm. "I'd still give you all the love you need."
Sylas turned to her, a flicker of something—hope, maybe—breaking through the blankness in his gaze. "…What if I'm a monster?"
Mercy's eyes softened, and her smile was a mother's alone—gentle, serene, unyielding. "Then I'll be the bigger monster." She laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a storm. "I'll monster the monster right out of you."
---
If only I could wake.
If only this were a nightmare.
The fire had devoured everything. Charred beams jutted like the ribs of a slain beast, and the air choked with ash and the damp, heavy scent of rain-soaked earth. The rain fell—not to save, but to mourn. A prayer answered too late.
Sylas collapsed to his knees, hands trembling as they clawed at his face, tears carving paths through the grime on his cheeks. He was just a boy. And boys weren't built for grief this cruel.
Kael stood beside him, silent, his hand pressed over his mouth as if to trap the sorrow threatening to spill. His eyes, too, were fixed on the horror before them.
On a spear, held by an armored knight, was her head.
Mercy.
Lifeless.
Her eyes vacant, her face dirt-streaked yet… peaceful. As if she'd chosen this. As if, even in death, she shielded someone. Something.
Sylas's voice broke, a whisper swallowed by the rain. "…Mother?"
The coin slipped from his hand—the one she'd hidden in that dusty corner by the broken cupboard, the one he'd carried every day since. It fell into the mud with a soft *clink*, lost beneath the storm's lament.
Kael stepped forward, his voice hoarse, unsteady. "I… I don't see any bodies. The children… they might've escaped."
But Sylas wasn't there. He was somewhere else—lost in the blur of rain and memory.
Thunder cracked.
And the world shifted.
The rain softened. The scorched air cleared. In its place, a field bathed in gold.
Golden hour.
The sky burned with the sun's final sigh, warm and fleeting. Grass swayed like a lullaby, and there, beneath a whispering sky, young Sylas lay beside Mercy, his fingers twisting a blade of grass. The sun kissed his face, and her voice—soft, like a hymn—broke the stillness.
"Sylas," she said, eyes half-lidded, tracing the clouds. "When my time comes… when I pass…"
He turned to her, startled. "What? Why are you saying this?"
She raised a finger, gentle but firm. "Let me finish."
He fell silent, waiting.
"If there were people you could save…" Her voice was calm, heavy with something unspoken. "Would you grieve? Or would you save them first?"
Sylas frowned. "That's not fair."
"No," she said, her smile tinged with tired wisdom. "It's not. But life rarely is. So… what would you do?"
He looked down, his fingers tightening around the grass. "I'd save them," he muttered. "Even if it hurt."
"Even if your heart is breaking?"
He nodded, jaw set. "I'd hold it in."
Her hand reached out, brushing his hair back, her touch a fleeting warmth. She looked at him like he was her world. "Can you promise me that?"
"…I promise."
---
Sylas stood, rain masking his tears, his hair falling over eyes burned raw. *I promised her. And I'll keep it.*
Thunder roared, the storm swelling. Sylas raked a hand through his hair, her touch a ghost in his memory. His eyes blazed—not with fire, but with fury.
In the rubble, a child's cry pierced the chaos. Small, alone, trembling.
Sylas slid down, pulling the boy free. "Where did they take everyone?" he demanded, voice sharp with desperation.
Kael's hand gripped his shoulder. "Sylas, control yourself. He's just a child."
Sylas's teeth clenched, then released, a shuddering breath escaping. The boy sobbed, "The head nun… where is she?"
Sylas closed his eyes. *I'm not the only one who lost something.*
The boy pointed, voice breaking. "They took my brother… to the cathedral."
Sylas bolted, a shadow racing through the storm. Kael hoisted the boy onto his shoulders. "Come with me."
They reached the cathedral, its spires looming like judgment. Kael stopped. "Sylas, we need a plan."
"A plan?" Sylas's voice was a blade. He slashed at the massive doors, wood splintering like brittle bone. "We don't need a plan. We need a *greeting*."
The doors screamed open.
Splinters rained as Sylas stormed inside, rain hissing on the stone behind him. Kael followed, sword drawn, eyes sharp.
Dozens of mercenaries stirred from the pews—axes gleaming, bows taut, startled but ready. At the altar, children were bound to pillars like sacrifices. Alice. Escelius. The nun. All of them.
Sylas didn't shout. He *moved*.
His boots slapped wet stone, daggers flashing. A mace swung—he ducked, slid beneath it, and rose behind the mercenary, daggers biting into ribs. Blood sprayed, and the man fell.
Arrows hissed. Sylas spun, one grazing his shoulder, another splintering a pillar. He kicked off the wall, leapt, and landed on an archer's shoulders—slashing, using the body as a step to climb higher.
Another leap. Another kill.
He was motion—shadow and silver, untethered. Fury bled from him, each slash a memory of Mercy's smile, each kill a whisper of her warmth.
Kael moved like thunder—slow, deliberate, unstoppable. His greatsword roared, cleaving shields and helmets. A mercenary lunged; Kael sidestepped, shattered a knee with the flat of his blade. Another charged from behind; Kael pivoted, his sword tearing through armor like cloth.
A whip cracked, snaring Sylas's wrist mid-dash. He didn't resist—he *used* it, spinning to yank the wielder forward, burying a dagger in his chest. A bow snapped; Sylas caught the arrow mid-flight, driving it into a mercenary's throat.
Kael reached the pillars, slicing ropes with a flick of his blade. "Go!" he barked at Escelius and Alice. "We'll cover you!"
Escelius staggered up, dazed, the children huddling behind him. The nun clutched a bleeding wound. "There's no way out!" Escelius cried.
They stumbled into a small library room, Sylas and Kael holding the mercenaries at bay outside. Escelius's eyes darted, frantic, searching for escape.
A child tripped. A book fell from a crooked shelf. Stone scraped, and a hidden wall slid open, revealing a glowing rune—dark, pulsing yellow.
Escelius's eyes widened. "A teleportation device!"
Kael glanced at Sylas, still a blur of blood and steel. "We've got it!"
Sylas didn't hear. He was too far gone, ripping a dagger from a mercenary's chest, his coat torn, hands slick with red. The last mercenaries formed a phalanx at the altar steps—spears forward, shields raised.
Sylas stepped over a corpse, his eyes burning with pain, not fire. And he charged.
Inside the library, Escelius pored over a book, muttering. Alice hushed crying children. Kael turned to the Forge. "What's Escelius doing?"
"Learning the teleportation device," the Forge said, nodding toward the glowing rune.
Kael started. "Teleportation device?"
"See for yourself."
Escelius shouted, "I've got it! Everyone, inside!"
The children crowded into the hidden room, but Kael and the Forge lingered. Escelius urged, "Hurry!"
Kael smirked. "I'm not leaving Sylas."
The wall exploded. Sylas crashed through, a spear lodged in his arm. Blood poured as he pulled himself from the rubble, biting back a scream. A child gasped, and Sylas forced a smile, standing.
"I can't stop fighting."
Kael grabbed him. "Wait. The Forge has something."
The Forge approached, voice steady. "When I made these blades, I had two choices: craft the best I've ever made or never forge again." He drew a small knife, slicing his palm. "My blood's not royal, but it'll do."
He pressed his bleeding hand to Sylas's daggers. "Bite the blade."
Sylas blinked, startled. "What?"
"No time. Do it."
Sylas bit the daggers, and the Forge said, "Pull."
Sylas yanked, teeth still clamped. A spark ignited, and the blades blazed crimson. The Forge's voice was grave. "If you let go, you die. I risked my life. Now you do the same."
Sylas grinned, feral. "Already planned to."
He leapt through the rubble, daggers slashing through leather and flesh. But the fire spread, searing his palms. He dropped the blades, gasping, vision blurring. *If I let go, I die. If I hold on, I burn.*
He was doomed.
Kael slid beneath him, slashing mercenaries. "I've got your back."
---
Escelius clutched the ancient book, its leather spine creaking under his trembling fingers. The air in the hidden room was thick with dust and the faint hum of the glowing rune at its center—a dark, pulsating circle etched with a red eye, its three pupils seeming to watch them. He read aloud, his voice unsteady but deliberate, as if each word carried the weight of their survival. "After placing the catalyst's palm on the stone, the caster should say: *Through star-threads spun, my path is one.*"
He chanted the words, his voice echoing off the stone walls, and then looked up at the Forge, his eyes wide with urgency. "You're the catalyst. Say: *From spark to star, I am where you are.*"
The Forge, his weathered face set in a grimace, pressed his bleeding palm harder against the rune's eye. Blood seeped into the carved lines, and the glow flickered, as if tasting his offering. "From spark to star, I am where you are," he repeated, his voice low, gravelly, like a vow forged in iron.
Escelius flipped a page, his fingers smudging the brittle parchment. "Now the audience," he said, turning to Alice, who stood clutching a trembling child, her face pale but resolute. "Alice, repeat after me: *By woven ways, we join the blaze.*"
Alice nodded, her voice cracking as she spoke, "By woven ways, we join the blaze." The children around her echoed the words in a faltering chorus, their small voices mingling with the distant clash of steel from the cathedral beyond.
The rune pulsed once, twice, its yellow light flaring briefly before dimming. Escelius's brow furrowed, his breath catching. "This… this should've worked." He scanned the book again, his eyes darting over faded runes and cryptic script, searching for a mistake.
The Forge's gaze hardened. "Wait. You're not seriously leaving the boys, are you?"
Escelius's head snapped up, his expression a mix of panic and guilt. "No, no, it's not that. The book says after the incantations, the rune should glow brighter, and we'd teleport within minutes." His voice wavered, as if he were convincing himself as much as the Forge. "It's supposed to work."
The Forge crossed his arms, the blood on his palm smearing across his sleeve. "Then we wait for them. Sylas and Kael are still out there, bleeding for us."
Escelius's face crumpled, his hands gripping the book like a lifeline. "No. No, you don't understand." His voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking the truth would make it real. "This can't be."
The Forge stepped closer, his shadow looming over Escelius. "What's wrong? Speak plain."
Escelius swallowed, his throat bobbing. "The device… it only works with an even number of people. The rune needs balance—equal souls to thread the stars." He gestured to the group: Alice, the nun, the children, the Forge, himself. "We're uneven without them. We can only take *one* of them."
The words hung in the air like a death knell. Alice's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. The nun, clutching her side, murmured a prayer. The children clung tighter to each other, their whimpers filling the silence.
Escelius sank to his knees, the book slipping from his hands to the stone floor. "This is bad," he whispered. "This is… impossible."
The Forge knelt beside him, his voice steady but urgent. "We don't leave them. We can't."
Before Escelius could respond, the door burst open. Sylas and Kael staggered in, blood dripping from their armor, their faces etched with exhaustion and pain. Sylas's left arm hung limp, the spear wound oozing red, his daggers still clutched in trembling hands. Kael's greatsword dragged across the floor, leaving a trail of sparks and blood.
"Hurry," Kael gasped, his voice raw. "More are coming. We have to leave *now*."
Escelius looked to the Forge, who gave a single, grim nod. They had no time to debate. Escelius retrieved the book, his hands shaking as he stood. "We'll try again," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He placed the Forge's hand back on the rune and began the incantation anew. "Through star-threads spun, my path is one."
The Forge's voice followed, steady as stone. "From spark to star, I am where you are."
Alice turned to Kael, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Kael, please, say it: *By woven ways, we join the blaze.*"
Kael raised an eyebrow, a faint, oblivious smile tugging at his lips despite the blood and chaos. "That's… poetic." He shrugged, repeating, "By woven ways, we join the blaze."
The rune thundered, the air vibrating with a low, resonant hum. The yellow glow intensified, casting jagged shadows across the room. The children shrank back, their eyes wide with fear and wonder. Sylas stepped toward the rune, his boots leaving bloody prints on the stone, but Escelius held up a hand, his face twisting with something unspoken.
"Sylas," Escelius said, his voice tight, "can you… handle the mercenaries? Just hold them off until we're ready."
Sylas froze, his eyes narrowing. *An odd request.* He studied Escelius's face—the flicker of guilt, the averted gaze—and something cold settled in his chest. But he nodded, turning back to the cathedral's entrance. He clashed his daggers together, and the blades flared crimson, the fire licking at his hands like it was hungry for his pain. It looked almost alive, stained with the blood of those he'd already cut down.
He stepped into the cathedral's main hall, where rain dripped through the shattered ceiling, pooling on the marble floor. The storm outside roared, and Sylas moved like a shadow born from it. He slid low, daggers slashing at the mercenaries' legs, severing tendons with surgical precision. One stabbed a spear at the ground; Sylas rolled, the blade grazing his side, tearing cloth and skin. He leapt, twisting midair, and drove a dagger into the marble. Fire erupted, racing along the tiles, catching a mercenary's cloak and sending him screaming.
But more came. Always more. Their shouts echoed—"There he is!"—and their boots thundered closer, a tide of steel and death.
Sylas stepped forward, rain washing the blood from his face. He closed his eyes, letting the cold drops trace his skin, a fleeting moment of stillness. *Mercy's touch. Her voice. Her promise.* He could almost hear her, whispering through the storm.
A white light flashed—brighter than lightning, sharp enough to burn his vision. He opened his eyes, blinking against the afterimage, and saw them: more mercenaries, their silhouettes stark against the cathedral's broken arches. "There!" one bellowed, pointing a spear.
Sylas's heart pounded, his body screaming with exhaustion. There was a limit to what he could endure, and he was close to it. He turned, sprinting back to the hidden room, his voice hoarse as he shouted, "There are more! We have to go *now*—"
He skidded to a stop.
The room was empty.
The rune's glow had faded, leaving only cold stone. The air was still, the hum gone. Escelius, Alice, the Forge, the children… Kael. All gone.
Sylas's breath hitched. "No… Kael?" His voice was a whisper, swallowed by the silence. He stepped forward, his boots echoing in the hollow space. "This isn't funny," he said, a broken laugh escaping him. "Not the time for pranks, you bastard."
The rain answered, drumming on the cathedral roof. The distant shouts of mercenaries grew louder, their boots closing in.
Sylas sank to his knees, his daggers clattering to the stone. The fire in them flickered, as if mourning with him. His hands shook, blood and rain mixing as they pooled beneath him. He stared at the empty rune, the weight of his promise crashing against the betrayal in his chest.
*Am I truly going to die here?*