Nearly two years had passed since his mother's death, and in that time, Leo had become a wanderer, drifting from village to village like a ghost searching for something lost. Each town was a blur of unfamiliar faces, fleeting shelters, and empty hopes. He had spent countless nights scouring the land for the elusive Isaac Lomire, but the man was nothing more than a whisper in the wind—always just out of reach.
The world around him had changed. A revolution had ignited, sweeping through the land like an uncontrollable wildfire. Chaos ruled the streets, and staying alive had become a cruel game of chance. If one was not mistakenly executed as a rebel, they would perish from hunger or the merciless grip of winter. The once-bustling villages now bore the scars of war—smoldering ruins, silent homes, and faces hollowed by fear and despair.
Survival had become a dream, distant and unattainable. Leo no longer knew if he was running toward something or merely fleeing the ghosts of his past. Each sunrise brought another battle, another reason to doubt whether he would see the next. And yet, he pressed on, driven by the only thing he had left—his promise to his mother, and the name of a man who might hold the answers he so desperately sought.
Among the ruins, a he moved like a shadow—silent, cautious, his small figure weaving through the debris as if he had been born from it. His sharp eyes flickered over the wreckage, scanning each shattered doorway, each abandoned alley, each lifeless body sprawled across the desolate streets. Once, such sights would have frozen him in terror, but fear had long abandoned him. He had grown used to the hollow eyes of the dead, to the twisted, contorted forms left behind by war's merciless hand. The cold, he had learned, often took them first, turning them into statues before death claimed them fully.
He had stopped flinching at the sight of frozen faces. He had stopped hesitating.
This world had no place for mercy, no space for kindness. The boy had learned that quickly. He had become a scavenger, a hunter in a graveyard, picking through the remnants of what once was, searching for anything that could keep him alive for another day.
He knelt beside a body sprawled in the dust, his breath slow, measured, as his trembling hands moved carefully over its pockets. His fingers searched with practiced ease, feeling for something—anything—of value. Coins, a rusted ring, an old watch with a cracked face, its hands frozen in time. Once, such things had been treasures, gifts exchanged between lovers, heirlooms passed down through generations. Now, they were nothing more than currency in the marketplace of the damned.
Everything had a price.
He slipped the items into his pocket, his mind already calculating what they might fetch in trade. A few coins might buy him a scrap of bread. A ring, if the metal still held worth, might earn him something more—a piece of dried meat, perhaps. He never dared to hope for more. Hope, he had come to understand, was a dangerous thing.
And yet, despite the horrors that surrounded him, despite the misery that pressed against him like an unshakable shadow, his heart still beat with something beyond mere survival. Deep within, hidden beneath the hardened shell he had built around himself, there was still a flicker of something reckless and foolish—something that whispered of a different future, a distant dream.
A world where he would no longer have to search the pockets of the dead.
A world where food did not come at the cost of looking into lifeless eyes.
A world where he could close his own eyes at night without the weight of hunger gnawing at his ribs.
But such thoughts were fleeting, crushed beneath the reality of what surrounded him.
For now, he was just a boy in a ruined city, a child with empty hands and an empty stomach, clinging to a sliver of life in a place where the dead far outnumbered the living.
As the boy rifled through the pockets of a lifeless body, his fingers numb from the cold, he felt it—a hand, weak but insistent, wrapping around his ankle like a shackle of ice.
A breath caught in his throat.
His pulse pounded in his ears as he turned, slow as a man bracing for a nightmare to materialize before him. And there it was—a bloodied hand, trembling, stretching toward him from the ground. The woman lay in the dust, her body broken, her face pale as death itself. Her lips parted, her voice no more than a whisper carried by the wind.
"Please… boy… my daughter… take her… don't leave her…"
Her words shivered through the night, raw, desperate.
The boy didn't move. His legs locked, his chest constricted as if the air itself had thickened around him. The woman's body was slick with blood, her breaths shallow, ragged. She was slipping away, every second dragging her closer to the abyss. And beside her, half-hidden in the shadows, stood a little girl, no older than five or six.
Wide eyes. Trembling limbs. Silent terror.
She understood—maybe not fully, maybe not in words—but she knew. She knew her mother was leaving her.
The woman tightened her grip, her nails digging weakly into the fabric of his tattered pants. "Take her…" she gasped. "Please… don't let her die here."
The boy jerked back instinctively, his body screaming at him to flee, to pull away from this moment before it could sink its claws into him. He had seen too many die. He had learned to look away, to keep moving. He had taught himself that mercy was a luxury he could not afford.
But the woman's voice—her raw, breaking voice—was different.
"I… I can't," he whispered, barely recognizing his own voice. His words felt too small, too empty against the weight of her pleading.
Yet the weight remained.
Her eyes, dull yet fierce, locked onto his. Her fingers slackened. A final breath rattled through her chest. Her head fell, her body stilled, and as the last flicker of life abandoned her, a single tear slipped down her cheek.
Crying. Begging.
Then—silence.
The boy swallowed hard, his throat tight. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He could feel his own heart slamming against his ribs, the panic rising like bile in his throat.
What kind of mess is this?
He cast a glance at the girl. She hadn't moved. She just clung to her mother's dress, her tiny fingers tangled in the fabric, as if holding on could change what had already happened. But nothing could.
I can barely feed myself. How the hell am I supposed to take care of her?
His mind spun, his breath shallow, his instincts warring within him—run, run, just run.
Then—movement in the distance.
A sound like boots crunching over broken stone.
His stomach clenched as his eyes flicked toward the end of the street. A patrol. Soldiers. They were approaching, their dark silhouettes cutting through the fading light.
His blood turned cold.
Oh God… if they find me here, I'm dead.
He looked down at the girl. Still frozen. Still gripping the dress.
He had seconds—seconds—to decide.
Stay, and die.
Or run, and leave her behind.
But even as his body screamed at him to flee, he knew, deep down, he had already made his choice.
The soldiers moved methodically through the field of the dead, their rifles raised, their faces blank, untouched by the horror surrounding them. One by one, they fired into the corpses, ensuring that none stirred, that none clung to life in defiance of the war's merciless hand. The shots echoed in the silence, each one a final punctuation mark to a life already lost.
Leo's breath caught in his throat.
Panic surged through him, threatening to break through his carefully constructed mask of control. He had no time to think, no time to hesitate. His instincts took over.
With a sharp intake of breath, he threw himself to the ground, stretching his body out among the lifeless ones. His fingers curled into the dirt as he pulled the girl close to his chest, shielding her with his own trembling frame. She barely resisted, her small body limp, frozen in terror. Desperation took hold, and with one final, brutal motion, he dragged the mother's lifeless form over them, turning her into their last barrier between life and death.
Footsteps crunched closer.
The sharp scent of blood filled the air, mingling with the acrid stench of gunpowder and decay.
Leo squeezed his eyes shut as a rifle discharged mere feet away. A dull impact reverberated through the mother's corpse above him, the force of the bullet nearly making him flinch. He bit down on his lip until he tasted iron, willing himself to remain still. To be nothing. To be dead.
His heart pounded so loudly he was certain they would hear it. Any second now, the girl would whimper, or move, or breathe too loudly, and that would be the end.
But she didn't.
By some miracle, she remained silent.
The soldiers moved on, their boots kicking up dust, their voices low and disinterested. They had done this a thousand times before. This was routine. This was just another pile of bodies, another nameless street where death reigned supreme.
Minutes passed, stretching into what felt like eternity.
Then—silence.
A different kind of silence.
The kind that meant they were alone again.
Leo didn't move at first, too afraid to believe it, too afraid that if he so much as twitched, another shot would ring out, and it would be his turn to bleed into the dirt. But the night had swallowed the soldiers, their presence fading into the distance like ghosts vanishing into the dark.
Slowly, he exhaled.
He shifted, his limbs aching from the tension, and carefully pushed the mother's body aside. The girl didn't resist. She simply lay there, her wide, unblinking eyes staring at nothing.
Leo swallowed hard.
The danger wasn't over.
Spending the night among the dead was a different kind of death sentence. The rotting corpses would soon draw scavengers—dogs, rats, things that lurked in the dark, waiting for the world's filth to become their feast. The stench alone was enough to make his stomach turn, but he had no choice. He had to wait, had to be certain the patrol was far enough before he dared to move.
Holding the girl close, he kept his eyes locked on the shadows, his body coiled, ready to flee the moment it was safe.
Survival, he knew, was only the beginning.
The war had already taken everything from him.
And yet, it was not finished with him.
Not yet.
Leo shoved the mother's lifeless body aside, his breath ragged, his mind screaming at him to run. His legs moved instinctively, carrying him away from the scene, away from the girl, away from the weight of a choice he didn't want to make. The air around him felt thick, suffocating, as if the very ground beneath him was urging him forward—Go. Forget. Survive.
He didn't look back.
Each hurried step was supposed to make it easier, supposed to silence the gnawing guilt clawing at his chest. But instead, it grew heavier. With every stride, a voice in his head whispered, Am I really going to leave her like this?
His jaw clenched.
Then, something made him stop.
A faint movement in the corner of his eye.
When he turned, what he saw froze his blood.
A dog.
Gaunt, its ribs pressing sharply against its thin coat, its eyes gleaming with a desperate, primal hunger. It moved slowly, deliberately, inching toward the girl who still clung to her mother's dress, her tiny fingers wrapped around the fabric as if she could somehow hold onto what was already gone.
Leo's breath hitched.
Oh, damn it. I can't leave her like this.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
He spun on his heel, sprinting back through the maze of corpses, his feet slipping on blood and rubble. He nearly fell, but he didn't stop. The dog's low growl curled through the air, its body tensing to lunge.
Leo reached the girl just in time.
Without thinking, he yanked her into his arms, her frail body barely registering in his grip. She resisted for a brief moment, still clinging to the fabric of her mother's gown, but he tugged her free just as the dog leapt.
Its teeth snapped inches from them.
But it wasn't alone.
More movement. More shadows shifting in the darkness. The first dog was only the beginning. A pack of them emerged, their skeletal forms prowling closer, their growls rising like a chorus of hunger and death. Their eyes glowed with something more terrifying than malice—desperation.
Leo ran.
The girl's weight was nothing, yet everything. His legs burned, his lungs screamed for air, but he didn't dare slow down. Behind him, the dogs gave chase, their claws scraping against the ruins, their heavy breaths cutting through the night like blades.
He spotted it—a house, or what was left of one.
A crumbling structure, barely standing, but standing nonetheless.
It was enough.
With a final burst of speed, he surged forward, reaching the entrance just as the first dog lunged again. He stumbled inside, kicking debris behind him, his foot slamming the broken door shut. The pack snarled outside, their bodies slamming against the weakened walls, but for now, the barrier held.
Leo collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving.
His arms still clutched the girl, her small frame trembling against him. Carefully, he lowered her onto the cold, dust-covered floor. His hands shook—not just from exhaustion, but from the sheer terror of what had almost happened.
And then he saw her face.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving silent paths through the grime on her skin. But she didn't cry out. Didn't sob. Didn't wail.
She just sat there, utterly still, as if she understood—without words, without explanation—that the world she once knew had been stripped away.
That nothing would ever be the same.
Leo swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists.
He had no idea what came next.
But one thing was certain—he wasn't running anymore.