The moon had begun its ascent by the time Theron pushed his father's chair back through the cobblestone streets. The few lanterns that had flickered to life cast long, twisting shadows that seemed to mock their every step. Elysara's night air was cooler, but heavy with an oppressive silence, punctuated only by the occasional sound of laughter or the clatter of hooves in the distance. The day's toil had left his body aching, yet his spirit remained resolute, an untamed ember awaiting its moment to ignite. Reaching their humble shack at the edge of the city, Theron maneuvered his father through the narrow doorway. The interior was sparse: a cot for his father, a makeshift bedroll for himself, and a small table cluttered with remnants of past meals. The weak light from an oil lamp barely illuminated the room, casting wavering shadows that danced across the cracked walls. After settling his father into bed, he tucked a threadbare blanket around him, offering what little warmth it could. Theron slumped onto his bedroll, staring at the ceiling lost in weary contemplation. The day's events looped relentlessly in his mind, Roran's sneering face a constant phantom. He yearned for even the smallest reprieve from this relentless cycle of cruelty and degradation. The bitterness in his chest was a festering wound, growing more toxic with each passing day. He closed his eyes, but sleep remained elusive, retreating from the turmoil within him. Thoughts of his mother intruded on his restless solitude. Where had she gone, and why had she abandoned them? Was he paying for some unforgivable sin she had committed? These questions had no answers, only the hollow echoes of abandonment. His father's fragmented murmurs were of little solace, often more a source of confusion than clarity. Rolling onto his side, he pushed the dark thoughts away, focusing instead on the whisper of the wind outside and the distant call of a nightbird. He awoke with the dawn, his body protesting every move as he prepared for another day of relentless labor. Before heading to the mill, he ensured his father had water and little cooked food they had left. His father's eyes were vacant, a stark reminder of the life they once had and the void that had replaced it. Theron's heart twisted painfully, but he masked his despair with a forced smile and a tender pat on his father's shoulder. "I'll be back soon," he murmured, though he knew neither of them believed it could be soon enough. As Theron stepped back into the world of Elysara, he took a deep breath, bracing himself for the day ahead. The familiar path to the mill unfurled before him, each stone and rut as known to him as the lines on his own hands. He moved with purpose, each step a testament to his quiet defiance. The invisible chains of disdain continued to weigh him down, yet with every turn of the grindstone, Theron reinforced the steel within his soul. His fate was unmarked, but his resolve was more radiant than any soul flare could ever be.