The cold night wind whipped Rigel's black cloak fiercely. The wooden deck of the ship swayed gently with the rhythmic impact of the waves beneath. Standing at the stern, Rigel gazed at the dark shore fading into the distance. The land that once belonged to his family now lingered only as a memory of pain and loss.

The moment the palace was engulfed in flames still haunted his mind. Screams, the clash of metal on metal, and the suffocating stench of destruction… It had all unfolded before his eyes, yet he had been powerless to stop it. His family, his people, everything that had once been his was left to the mercy of the enemy. Now, all that remained was this ship disappearing into the night and an uncertain future ahead.

He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, trying to shield himself from the cold and the wind.

The breeze carried the salty scent of the sea, mingling with the weight of his thoughts. Rigel clung to the hope that once he set foot on new lands, he might find a way to shed the burden of his past. Yet deep down, he knew the truth: no matter how far he fled, the day would come when he would have to return.

"This isn't over," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the wind. His hands gripped the hilt of his dagger tightly. "It won't end until I've avenged my family."

The chilling air stung Rigel's lungs. He gripped his jet-black cloak tightly, refusing to let the wind wrest it from him. This cloak was more than just a garment; it was a keepsake from his mother. Its warmth was one of the few things that reminded him of his past.

The dagger in his hand, however, told a very different story. He had taken it from the lifeless body of a soldier abandoned on the battlefield before boarding the ship. A sword might have been more impressive, but it would also have drawn unwanted attention. Carrying a sword on a refugee ship would raise suspicion. A dagger, on the other hand, was silent power—small, easy to conceal, yet deadly. Rigel knew this; it was his only assurance of safety.

His eyes fixed on the horizon, on the shores vanishing rapidly into the darkness. Everything he had left behind dissolved like a shadow in the night. A lump formed in his throat, and a single tear slid down his cheek. Taking one last deep breath, he turned and began to walk slowly toward the ship's interior.

The inside was cramped and suffocating, packed with people huddled together. The air was thick with cold and fear, clinging to every surface. To his right, a man held an unlit oil lamp. Rigel gestured toward it and asked softly, "May I borrow this for a while?" The man nodded silently, offering no other response. Rigel lit the lamp and made his way deeper into the bowels of the ship.

In the flickering light of the lamp, Rigel kept his face hidden as he moved forward. His jet-black cloak shrouded him completely; no one could know who he was. It was the one thing that would keep him alive. In this place where everyone sat in silence, the weight of exhaustion and fear pressed so heavily on the passengers that no one dared to move or even speak.

After searching for quite some time, Rigel finally found a spot to lie down. Next to him was a boy with slightly long, wavy black hair. The boy's face was expressionless, though his eyes were wide open. Not wanting to draw attention, Rigel quietly settled down beside him. Placing the lamp at his side, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and closed his eyes.

He didn't want to sleep. His mind refused to stop replaying the faces of his family and the destruction of the palace. Yet here, in the darkness and cold, he forced himself to rest. Rest would not erase the pain of the past, but for a fleeting moment, it might silence it.

***

As the sun rose, reddish beams of light filtered through the small windows of the ship, gently illuminating the cramped and dark interior. Rigel rubbed his eyes as he woke, glancing around. Most of the passengers had collapsed from exhaustion, lost in deep, restless sleep. The suffocating gloom of the night seemed to have eased slightly, yet the air within the ship remained heavy.

Turning his head, Rigel noticed the boy lying next to him. The boy was awake, his eyes meeting Rigel's. For a moment, Rigel found the closeness of their gaze unsettling, but there was no menace in the boy's eyes—only weariness.

"Good morning. Did you need something?" the boy asked in a low but clear voice.

His eyes were yellow—a striking and unusual color Rigel had never seen before. But it wasn't their color that caught Rigel's attention; it was the emptiness they carried. Those eyes had witnessed far too much. "How old are you?" Rigel asked, his voice tinged with mild curiosity.

"Almost 17," the boy replied after a brief pause.

Rigel nodded slightly. They were the same age, though the boy's frail frame made him look younger. It was clear that life hadn't been kind to him either. The boy, studying Rigel with a curious expression, asked, "And how old are you?"

Rigel hesitated for a moment, but the answer slipped out along with his name. "My name is Rigel. I just turned 17."

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. His heart began to race. He shouldn't have revealed his name. He scanned the boy's face, searching for any hint of recognition or understanding, but there was nothing.

The boy shrugged and spoke in a tired voice. "I'm Midas. Nice to meet you, Rigel."

Unable to suppress his curiosity, Rigel asked, "Why are you only wearing a glove on your left hand, Midas? Did you lose the other?"

Midas gently raised his left hand, his fingers curling gracefully within the delicate leather glove. "Yes," he replied briefly, without meeting Rigel's gaze. His voice was low.

Rigel wondered if the glove might also be a keepsake from Midas's mother. The way Midas lowered his head, the way he avoided eye contact… it seemed like there was more hidden behind the lost glove. But Rigel knew better than to press further. Still, the silence between them made him uneasy.

"So, that's how it is," he finally said, trying to make his voice sound indifferent.

Midas responded with a brief smile, but it wasn't a genuine one. It was more a smile tinged with memories of the past. "Sometimes, when we lose the people we love, there's nothing we can do." he said, turning his gaze to Rigel. There was deep sorrow in his eyes, just like the sorrow that weighed in Rigel's.

Rigel was struck by Midas's words, though he didn't let it show. He turned his head to look at the other passengers in the ship's cramped interior. Most were still asleep, or at least pretending to be. The silence among them felt as though it echoed in the narrow, dim space.

Rigel was moved by Midas's words, but he didn't show it. He turned his head away and looked at the other passengers inside the ship. Most were still asleep or pretending to be. The silence among them felt as if it echoed within the narrow, dark space.

After a few moments, Midas broke the silence himself. "A black cloak... A keepsake from family, I assume?"

Rigel turned back to Midas. "Yes," he replied after a brief pause. His eyes seemed lost in the distance. "My mother gave me this cloak for my birthday. It hasn't even been a month." Rigel's voice lowered, and he appeared to drift into the memories that haunted him.

Midas noticed the tremor in Rigel's voice but didn't say anything. Silence settled between them once again, but this time, it felt heavier, more intense. It was as if the walls inside Midas were also beginning to crack under the weight of the conversation.

After a while, Midas slowly brought his left hand to his chest and let out a quiet breath. "I lost someone too," he said, his voice barely audible. "This glove... it's the only thing I have left of them."

Rigel looked at Midas's face for a moment. In the eyes where he had only seen exhaustion and emptiness before, now there was deep pain. It was a pain Rigel knew well. This was the kind of suffering that accumulated from losses and memories, the kind that burrowed deep into the soul.

"I'm sorry," Rigel said sincerely. His words were simple, but heavy with meaning. Despite the weight of his own grief, he couldn't help but wonder what Midas's story was. But he didn't ask. He knew that some wounds bled more when spoken about.

Midas tilted his head slightly and shrugged. "There's nothing to apologize for," he said. "Sometimes, our losses are what make us who we are."

Rigel pondered these words. The loss of his family had transformed him into someone else. He wasn't sure if this transformation had made him stronger or weaker.

Midas didn't seem disturbed by the silence. He slipped his left hand into his coat pocket and turned his head toward the small window, gazing outside. In the distance, a landmass could be seen on the horizon.

"We'll be arriving soon," Midas said calmly. "Let's see what awaits us."

Rigel looked at the distant landmass through the window. He felt a sensation he couldn't quite define. Was it fear, hope, or perhaps both?

Rigel couldn't tear his eyes away from the landmass on the horizon. Would these new lands be a sanctuary for him, or the beginning of an even greater danger? He didn't know the answer. But there was no turning back now. His hand moved to the edge of his cloak, gripping the fabric his mother had left him tightly. This cloak was a symbol of all he had lost, but it was also proof that he was still alive.

Midas noticed the tension on Rigel's face. Without taking his eyes off him, he spoke in a soft voice. "You're afraid, aren't you? We all are. But fear, that's what keeps us all alive. If we hadn't been afraid and boarded the ship, we might be dead right now."

After hearing these words, Rigel turned to Midas. "Fear..." he repeated. "Is that really what keeps me alive? Or is it just a chain weighing me down?"

Midas smiled lightly. This time, there was warmth in his smile, almost as if to give courage. "I don't know. The only thing I know is, because we were afraid in that moment, we're alive now."

The sunlight streaming through the small, narrow window of the ship slightly broke the dark atmosphere inside. As they neared the shore, the other passengers began to stir. Low murmurs, long yawns, and slow steps brought them one by one toward the edges of the ship.

Rigel looked out the window and saw they were getting closer to the landmass. "Where is this place?" he asked, his voice tinged with slight concern.

Midas tilted his head toward the window and pursed his lips. "I don't know," he said finally. "But what matters is that we're here. The rest will reveal itself in time."

As they prepared to disembark, Midas took a small metal object from his pocket. It was slightly shiny and covered with intricate engravings, resembling a seal. Rigel's attention was drawn to it. "What's that?" he asked.

Midas glanced at the object for a moment before slipping it back into his pocket. "A key," he said briefly and cryptically. "But now's not the time to talk about it."