Misery felt twice as bad when there was no one to share it with. He wasn't truly alone, but loneliness gripped him with an unforgiving tightness. His father had once told him there was a difference between being alone and feeling lonely. One could be utterly alone in some moments and yet feel no emptiness at all. Yet, there were those whose surroundings were full of people, and yet loneliness wrapped itself around them, suffocating them in a way no one could understand. He hadn't understood it at the time, but after his father had left him in this world—alone in a way no one could describe—he knew it as an undeniable truth.
He was surrounded by people, but there was a void in his chest, a dark, hollow hole that seemed to grow deeper with every passing moment. He tried, oh how he tried, to fill it, but no matter how hard he pushed, no amount of effort seemed to make a dent in the vast emptiness. He had cried into the night, spent hours seething with rage, then lapsed into uncomfortable silences—until one evening, acceptance came. But it wasn't a gentle embrace. It was more like scorching sand, slowly seeping into his soul, deepening the void while somehow allowing him to acknowledge its existence.
Tamang had always idealized his father. Petir was a legend. The storm that tore through his enemies on the battlefield, the warrior who could cleave through anything that stood in his way. His father's name carried a weight beyond the Valley; it was spoken of in the farthest reaches of the Seven Kingdoms. Not only was Petir the general of the Valley's army, but he also led the elite group known as the Shadow Assassins—assassins whose services were sought by kingdoms across the land for the most perilous missions.
For years, Tamang had watched his father, wanting nothing more than to be like him—a force of nature that no one could defy. Petir's presence alone was enough to turn the tide of any battle. But such a warrior had never returned from his last campaign. Ten of the Valley's best warriors had joined him, and only two had made it back—empty-handed, carrying no glory, no stories of victory. Just silence. The world had swallowed Petir whole, leaving no trace of his might behind.
And with that disappearance, war had taken Tamang's father—and something deeper within him. He had hated war ever since. A war that wasn't his, a conflict that wasn't his people's to fight. Why did people have to wage such wars? What did they gain? What was the point? In his heart, Tamang could only see endless bloodshed, hatred, and more war. There were no answers, at least none that made sense. His father, the only man who might have offered them, was gone. He was just a child when it all happened, only nine years old when Petir left him behind.
Now, at sixteen, Tamang felt the weight of expectations pressing down on him from every side. His fellow tribesmen saw him as the next Petir—an exceptional warrior, a prodigy who had already surpassed his father's strength at his age. The whispers were always there, in every corner of the village, in every glance thrown his way. But Tamang hated it. He hated being compared to his father, hated the expectation that he would follow in Petir's bloodstained footsteps. He wasn't his father, and yet it seemed no one cared.
Despite his disdain for war, Tamang had excelled. Even before he was officially named a warrior, his skill was on par with the elite assassins of the Valley. His prowess was undeniable—he obliterated his sparring partners with a grace and efficiency that made even the oldest warriors take notice. But none of it felt real, none of it felt like it mattered. It wasn't his choice to fight—it was the expectations of others that bound him to the art of war.
And then, there was Syang.
Syang was everything Tamang wasn't. While Tamang was a creature of the battlefield, Syang was fascinated by the smallest things—the way a leaf danced in the wind or the ripple of water across a lake. Syang found happiness in the simplest of moments, and that was something Tamang could never understand. But it was that very thing that drew Tamang to him. When he was with Syang, his hole felt just a little bit smaller, and for once, he wasn't just a warrior, he was just a person.
Tamang had rejected the call to join the hunt that evening. The hunt was a rite of passage, an opportunity to prove oneself in the eyes of the tribe. It was everything to the people. But Tamang didn't care. He was torn between the violence that defined his life and the peace he found in Syang's company. In the midst of his struggle, Syang was his only respite.
Tamang watched as Syang trailed off mid-sentence, his face shifting from confusion to alarm. The piercing whistle rang through the air, the unmistakable call of danger.
Tamang's face drained of color. He recognized that sound. It had been years since the last time he had heard it, but the memories rushed back in an instant. A warning. Something had happened.
Without thinking, they both turned toward the village.
A blinding light lit up the sky, followed by a deafening roar that made the earth tremble beneath their feet. Flames shot up into the air, dark smoke billowing from the horizon.
Syang ran, stumbling, almost losing his footing as he dashed toward the village. Tamang didn't hesitate—he followed, his heart pounding, his mind racing. Something was wrong. But what?
As they neared the village, Tamang's concern grew. Where were the people? If the village was under attack, why weren't the villagers fleeing? He pushed himself harder, closing the distance between him and Syang. His thoughts raced.
"Why wasn't anyone running?" He questioned inwardly, panic setting in.
He pushed through the dense brush, leaping over roots and branches. He reached the village ahead of Syang, emerging from the trees into the clearing. What he saw stopped him cold.
Fire. Everywhere.
The flames devoured the village, their hunger relentless. Bodies were scattered in the center of the village, their forms obscured by the smoke and heat. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air, sickening and thick. Tamang's vision blurred, his body frozen in place. He tried to count the bodies, but the numbers didn't make sense. There were too many. Too many to be real.
His legs felt weak. His breath shallow. But then, something stirred within him—a memory, a familiar feeling.
He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. Pain. It was enough to jolt him back to his senses. The numbness faded.
Tamang glanced back at Syang. The boy was kneeling, staring blankly at the devastation before him. His face was a mask of shock, the weight of it too much to bear.
Tamang scanned the area, searching for signs of life. He caught sight of a figure—crimson hair, unmistakable.
Syang's father. He had found him.
But there was no time. No time to mourn. Tamang's eyes darted around, alert. There were soldiers. He could see them—seven in total, five wearing silver armor, and two in gold. They were methodical, searching for survivors, looking for anything of value.
Tamang's heart skipped a beat.
He had to act. Now.
Tamang's heart raced as he spotted the soldiers patrolling the village. They were systematic in their search, methodical in their movements. He could see the silver-armored warriors, clearly less dangerous than their golden counterparts. But that didn't mean they weren't a threat. Tamang had learned to read the battlefield in the blink of an eye—these soldiers were trained, and they were dangerous.
He moved with purpose, blending into the shadows as he made his way toward one of the silver-armored soldiers. His training took over, guiding his every step. He wasn't thinking. He was just moving.
A piece of wood lay discarded on the ground—perfect. He gripped it firmly, testing its weight. With silent precision, he crept closer, closing the gap between himself and the soldier. The warrior was walking away from his comrades, slightly isolated, just the opening Tamang needed.
With a final deep breath, Tamang closed the last few meters in a blur of motion. His wooden weapon jabbed at the soldier, aiming for the narrow space between the neck and the helmet. There was a muffled sound as the soldier collapsed to the ground, unconscious before he could make a sound.
Tamang didn't waste time. He darted back into the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. He scanned the area, watching the remaining soldiers with sharp eyes. He needed to move quickly—he couldn't afford to get caught. His mind was already running through his options, calculating the next steps.
His eyes flicked to the golden-armored soldiers. They were dangerous. He couldn't take them head-on, not like this. He needed to be clever. He needed to outthink them.
With quiet determination, he set his sights on another silver-armored soldier, closer this time. His grip on the wooden weapon tightened, and he slid from the shadows once again. But as he was about to strike, something unexpected happened.
A sharp pain pierced his left chin. The unmistakable sound of metal on metal rang through the air, followed by the sickening force of a punch that sent him crashing backward. He barely had time to process it before he was thrown several meters away, the world spinning around him.
His vision blurred as he struggled to focus. There, looming above him, stood the golden-armored warrior. The soldier's fist, still clenched from the punch, hovered in the air, ready to strike again.
Tamang tried to move, to react, but his body felt heavy, sluggish. His mind was struggling to stay conscious. The warrior's golden armor gleamed in the firelight, an unyielding symbol of power.
"How did he get there so fast?" Tamang thought, confusion clouding his mind. His body refused to cooperate, his limbs betraying him as his consciousness began to slip away.
A single second. Just one moment, and everything went black.