The sky wasn't shattered in the way one might expect. There were no jagged cracks or ominous swirling voids. It was broken in its stillness, an oppressive canvas of gray clouds stretching endlessly, their weight pressing down on the land like the last breaths of a dying Fiend. The air tasted stale, dry, and unremarkable, as if life itself had forgotten how to exist here.
"Shhh…. it's ok.You don't need to act strong anymore. Just hold on to me and let it all out. You're good enough. You're a good boy."
Words echoed over time.
Memories relieving themselves in an endless loop.
A boy sat on the edge of the shattered clearing, his boots dangling over a sheer cliff. Below stretched — as far as the eye could see — a sea of emerald treetops swaying gently, punctuated by scant rocks and bursts of vibrant wildflowers. A stunning view, perhaps, to someone else.
To him, it was simply there.
He wasn't afraid of falling; in truth, he wasn't sure it mattered. His body felt as if it were made of lead, too heavy to shift, yet too hollow to remain grounded. The horizon lay before him, its vast expanse drawing his gaze — the Four Kingdoms once seemed boundless and eternal. Now, Athaan wasn't sure they could even hide his shadow, afterall, ghosts of his past still haunted him.
"All odds are against us, men! We shall hold no matter the cost! Let us die with honour and glory for something greater than ourselves!"
Athaan's lips curled faintly at the memory, though the motion lacked humor. The voice, booming and steadfast. The kind of rallying cry meant to embolden hearts and steady trembling hands. The words felt distant, spoken by a Knight who drew breath no more — like everyone Athaan had ever revered or cared about.
'What does glory even look like when there's no one left to share it with?'
The voice in his head — his own but sharper, less forgiving — was relentless. It had grown louder over the past year, picking at his every thought, dissecting every action.
Athaan pressed his hands into the dirt, letting the grit bite into his palms. Maybe if he pressed hard enough, the voice would quiet. Maybe it would stop the image that haunted him every time he closed his eyes — faces blurred by light, hands reaching, and then…. nothing.
The silence was broken by a shuffle behind him.
"Still sulking?" The voice was soft, oddly dulcet, but carried an edge, like a blade wrapped in silk. It sounded like multiple voices speaking in unison, harmonizing in a hypnotic melody that resonated deep within one's soul.
"I'm not sulking." Athaan replied, his voice low and monotone.
"Oh, sorry, brooding. Big difference." The figure dropped down beside him. Athaan didn't look, but he didn't need to. He knew his brother had brought something with him — he always did.
Sure enough, a soft weight was shoved into his hand. He glanced down to find a small, plush rabbit, its fabric worn but lovingly stitched.
"I'm not five." Athaan muttered, tossing the toy aside.
"And yet you act like it." he shot back, crossing his legs beneath him. His tone softened as he added, "You're not the only one hurting, you know."
Athaan's jaw tightened. "I didn't ask for company."
"And yet here I am." He gestured dramatically, arms wide, as if presenting himself to an invisible audience.
For a while, they sat in silence. The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of fresh water from the forest in the distance.
"It wasn't your fault." His brother said eventually, his voice almost drowned by the wind.
Athaan's hands clenched into fists. "Don't."
"You need to hear it."
"I said don't!" He surged to his feet, his voice cracking. The cliffside carried the sound far, but there was no one to hear it. No one but him and the rustling leaves.
He sighed. The apparition was gone.
Athaan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. The visions of his brother were becoming more frequent, more vivid. He couldn't quite tell if his ability or the guilt were to blame.
"You keep beating yourself up for something you couldn't control." The imagined words lingered in his mind, unwanted but persistent.
Shaking his head, he turned toward the forest ahead. "They must be getting close. Time to move." He murmured after a short pause. Somewhere beyond those trees lay a path forward. He didn't know where it led, but for the first time in months, a flicker of resolve stirred in him.
***
Later…
The journey had taken three days. He emerged from the forest near a winding river, its waters glinting under the muted sky. In his travels, that had been amongst the least perilous.
Braving the path to his destination. He sought refuge in Arthuria, having crossed a great distance from Severa — his home Kingdom. Maybe here he could get some much needed reprieve, planning how he would go against his past.
Coincidentally, a camp lay ahead, nestled along the riverbank. Knights.
Their armor gleamed even from a distance, their formation disciplined. A tall man stood at their center, addressing the group. He was broad-shouldered, his posture commanding, with a greatsword strapped to his back. Most likely in his late forties, the armor he donned bore an emblem Athaan recognized — a shield crossed with two swords, one vertical, one horizontal.
He had seen it before, emblazoned on banners held high by Knights who had marched into chaos three months ago. They weren't just soldiers; they were symbols of order in a world teetering on the edge of collapse. Their presence had been a fleeting moment of hope amidst the terror, their armor catching the sunlight like beacons. Yet, even they couldn't silence the screams or erase the scars. That emblem, a shield crossed by swords — like twin fantasies — was a memory etched in both awe and futility. A reminder that even heroes couldn't save everyone.
"They must be important." Athaan mused thoughtfully, narrowing his eyes.
He felt a spark of curiosity. Adjusting the hood of his mantle, he began making his way toward the camp.