Alex's hands clenched tightly around the little copper coin in his pocket. It was all he'd earned today, and he wasn't sure he'd even get to keep it.
Since his grandfather's death, the once-familiar village of Greymoor seemed to him like a colder, harsher place. The villagers were friendly enough, and some even attempted to assist him, but there was only so much charity to go around. Most villagers in Greymoor had to attend to their own livelihoods: toiling in the fields or managing small shops. And while most people there had respect for stories about Awakened heroes, the idea was about as real as the stars.
Alex sat on the steps of the old house he and his grandfather shared. The varnished wood creaked with every slight movement of his, reminding him of the quiet evenings he'd spent with his grandfather by the fire. Those memories felt like a different life, filled with Gramps' gentle voice and the sound of the crackling hearth.
*"Strength," Gramps used to tell me, "isn't just about fighting or winning; it's about holding on when the whole world tugs at you.
Alex wrapped his arms around his knees, his mind repeating those words. His grandfather had been his rock—a constant, comforting presence, one that commanded respect in Greymoor for reasons Alex did not yet understand. With his passing, the words were all Alex had left. He clung to them like a lifeline, drawing strength from them every time life in the village threatened to overwhelm him.
Greymoor was a quaint, unassuming village tucked far from the cities where Awakened legends roamed. Here, life was simple, predictable. Farmers worked from dawn till dusk, traders sold their wares in the market, and the older folks passed down stories about the days of the comet. The townsfolk lived modestly, content with their routines, and most of them never dreamed of adventure.
To Alex, Greymoor was both a prison and a home. While others accepted it, he wanted more than the meager living his neighbors seemed so content with. His heart burned for greater things: power, courage like the heroes of his grandfather's stories. Yet every morning as he had set out into town, the hard reality of his life always brought him back to earth.
Alex's days were filled with the grind of survival. There were no grand battles, no hero's journey—just the steady rhythm of struggle, one day bleeding into the next.
He'd wake before morning light, his stomach growling well from the previous night. Breakfast was usually out of the question, so he'd splash the water upon his face and go into town in search of work to do. Over time, he'd managed to earn a reputation as the village errand boy. He'd sweep shop floors, deliver goods, even help old man Carter gather firewood. The pay was meager, but it was enough to scrape by-on a good day.
His favorite was Millie's restaurant-a small, quaint thing that always had the smell of fresh bread and roasted herbs. Millie, a battle-hardened but warm-hearted woman, had taken pity on Alex, offering him a meal in return for help. Usually, this would be his only good meal of the day. He'd wash dishes, scrub floors, and stack chairs at the end of the day, really appreciative for whatever she gave him.
Not everyone in Greymoor was kind.
There they'd be waiting every day when he left the restaurant: the bullies. A small group of older boys, meaner and tougher than Alex, who found him an easy mark. They cornered him, teasing him about the few coins he had left, until he handed them over. He'd tried to stand up to them once, but they'd soon overcome him, making it evident he was outmatched.
Today was no different. As he turned the corner, he heard their mocking laughter.
"Well, look who's here. Got any money for us, errand boy?" sneered one of them, a lanky kid named Tom.
Alex bit his lip, his hand slipping into his pocket, closing around the copper coin he'd worked so hard for. He didn't want to give it up. But he knew that fighting would only end with him getting hurt and losing it anyway.
Reluctantly, he extended his hand, allowing them to take the coin. One day, he reminded himself. One day, nobody would be able to bully him. Still, that day seemed light years away.
"One day," he mumbled low, "nobody will take anything from me again."
By the time Alex returned home, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the tiny house he'd once shared with his grandfather. He sat down onto the floor, his belly rumbling, and pulled out the small chunk of bread Millie had slipped into his bag before he'd left. It wasn't much, but he'd learned to make do with what he had.
The nights were the worst. The house felt too quiet, too empty, devoid of his grandfather's steady presence. He could still remember the first month he'd been alone, when he'd spent the last of his grandfather's savings, thinking he'd somehow manage. He'd been foolish, and now he rationed every crumb, every coin, afraid of what would happen if he ran out.
Munching the bread, he promised himself that one day he would break free from this life. That he was more than just the errand boy of Greymoor.
When he closed his eyes, his mind drifted to the one bright promise his grandfather had left him: the academy. His admission was already arranged, Gramps had said; a distant inheritance was waiting for him in the big city. Still, to him, the academy felt like a world away, full of heroes, Awakened legends, and power beyond anything he'd ever known.
Sometimes, he'd imagine walking through those gates, his shoulders squared, his head held high. Nobody would ever be able to look down on him again. He'd be strong, unbreakable. He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him about the Awakened, those who'd gained their powers on the **day of the comet**, and he wondered if he could ever stand among them.
*"One day," he whispered into the dark, "I'll walk through those gates. And no one will ever push me around again."*
As he fell asleep, Alex clung to that dream. Life in Greymoor was hard, and he was just a boy in a world seemingly not in need of him. But deep inside, he held onto the conviction that he was meant for more-that he could rise above the life laid out for him. He fell asleep with thoughts of dungeons, of heroes, and of a world that awaited him beyond the quiet fields of Greymoor.