The clang of metal against stone signaled lunchtime. Theron slumped against the cold wall of the mill, his body a tapestry of scrapes and bruises. He retrieved a hunk of stale bread from his tattered satchel, breaking it into pieces so his father could chew without trouble. It was a ritual they seldom spoke during, a wordless communion of necessity born from countless days of surviving together.
As he chewed, his eyes roamed the bustling square outside. Children dashed about, their soul flares glinting like captured stars, while parents chattered, oblivious to his plight. Theron's gaze lingered on a mother clasping her child's hand, and bitterness tinged his thoughts. He clenched his fists, crumbs falling unnoticed to the ground. Losing himself in the scene outside was a brief escape from his harrowing present.
Theron's father shifted in his chair, pulling Theron back to reality. His eyes, though clouded, sought out his son's in a rare moment of lucidity. "Your mother… she… she wouldn't…," he trailed off, his strength ebbing away. Theron nodded solemnly, understanding the unspoken words. Comforting him was futile—his father's mind wandered lost paths, and Theron had long given up hoping for coherent conversations.
He stood and stretched, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the mill. A new array of tasks loomed ahead. As he approached the grindstone once more, a sharp slap across his shoulders stopped him mid-step. "Don't dawdle now, unmarked," Roran hissed, his breath hot against Theron's ear. The mocking edge in his voice was sharper than any blade. Theron resumed his work without protest, but his thoughts wove a different thread entirely—one day, he would repay every cruelty, every slight.
The hours crawled by, marked by the rhythmic grinding of stone and the sneers of those who wielded their soul flares like weapons. Theron's mind hung on fragments of his life before the abandonment, before the paralyzing accident that left his father a shell of his former self. Memories were all he had, fragile and fleeting as they were. His mother's face was a blur, her voice an echo lost in an abyss of absence.
As dusk settled, the mill's oppressive atmosphere grew heavier, the day's fatigue melding with an insidious despair. The departure of the soul flare workers was a parade of casual power, leaving the unmarked to finish the day's menial dregs. Theron continued, methodical and unyielding, his body moving in a mechanical dance of repetitive labor. He was honing an edge within himself, preparing for a challenge yet to come.