Ruined Fate: Glass

Where does the line between desire and ruin begin? Between pride and self-sacrifice? That is the story we watch unravel, the bonds we will watch break.

The battlefield reeked of blood, the air thick with the stench of iron and the dying embers of war. Whispered prayers clung to the silence, murmured by the fallen as their lips stiffened with death. Bodies lay scattered across the blackened earth, armor cracked, weapons abandoned, hands outstretched in desperate final gestures. The war’s last echoes had faded into a murmur, drowned beneath the rush of blood in my ears.

I walked among the honored, untouched save for the weight of my own existence. The power of my contract thrummed beneath my skin, coiling like a restless serpent in my veins. My heart beat with the remnants of a god’s hunger, a hunger I had spent lifetimes keeping at bay. I had seen this a thousand times before, lovers dying in each other’s arms, their last moments spent in fragile peace. Kings waging wars for affections that could never be returned. Desire is a weapon to mortals, one I had long chosen not to wield.

And yet

I saw him.

A soldier lay amidst the scorched remains of the battlefield, his body half-shielded by another, the lifeless corpse draped over him in a final, failed act of protection. His armor was shattered, the metal cracked open to reveal deep gashes beneath. Blood slicked his skin, pooling beneath his broken frame. He should have been dead.

But then I felt it.

Something cold traced the nape of my neck, dry as brittle parchment yet heavy as the weight of eternity itself. A presence. Familiar, ancient.

“This one is yours.”

The voice slithered through my mind like a whispered decree, curling around my thoughts with an authority I could not ignore. A wave of unease rippled through me, but my body moved before my mind could protest. I stepped forward, kneeling beside the man.

As my fingers brushed against his skin, something deep within me recoiled. A pulse of something darker, older, echoed through the bond I had long thought dormant.

His eyes fluttered open, barely a crack, but enough.

For just a moment, everything else vanished.

The battlefield faded, the weight of duty, the years of restraint, gone. It was just him. Just me. And the quiet breath of fate shifting.

Then, deep within my mind, the forgotten being stirred. It sighed, content.

And in that instant, I knew.

I had made the greatest mistake of my life.

Three Weeks Later

The war had ended, but my war had just begun.

I sat beside the man’s cot, my fingers idly running along the frayed edges of the bandages I had wrapped around his wounds. The small tent was cramped, its air thick with the scent of healing herbs and the lingering metallic tang of blood. Water canisters and glass vials lined the wooden shelves, each filled with mixtures I had prepared over long, sleepless nights.

Each breath he took was a reminder of my defiance. Each pained sigh, a weight against my ribs.

“This was a mistake… He wasn’t supposed to live.”

I muttered the words more to myself than to anyone else, my voice a whisper lost in the dim candlelight.

A sound at the tent’s entrance made me snap my head up.

“Ex-Excuse me?”

A girl stood there, small and hesitant, her hands wringing the fabric of her tunic. Her eyes—deep with exhaustion and uncertainty—met mine, and for a moment, she hesitated.

I softened my expression, exhaling slowly before speaking.

“My apologies, dear. I hadn’t realized anyone was nearby. Can I assist you with something?”

She shifted, as if debating whether she should even be here. “No, don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to be a bother,” she rushed out. “I was told to come here for care.”

Lifting her arm, she pulled back the loose fabric of her sleeve, revealing a deep cut along her forearm. The wound was fresh, the skin raw and angry beneath the dim light.

“We were training,” she explained, her voice tinged with nervous laughter. “I didn’t think I got that close.”

She was embarrassed. As if war didn’t carve its lessons into all of us in ways we never expected.

I gestured for her to sit. “Let me see.”

She obeyed, perching on the small stool beside me. As I reached for a clean cloth and a vial of disinfectant, my gaze flickered back to the soldier resting behind me. He hadn’t stirred.

For now.

But I knew the gods were watching.

And they were waiting.

Some days passed, each one stretching endlessly as the weight of my decision settled deeper into my bones. The man remained unconscious, caught in a deep slumber that neither fever nor pain seemed to break. I had seen men in such states before suspended between life and death, their souls lingering at the threshold. But something about him was different.

I felt it in the air, in the way the space around him seemed heavier, as if something unseen loomed just beyond my perception.

Who was he? Why did I feel drawn to him? And why—despite the gnawing unease curling in my chest—did I feel so content?

The thought unsettled me.

Then, without warning, the girl I had met days prior burst into my tent, breathless. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide with urgency.

“The man,” she gasped, steadying herself on the wooden frame of the entrance. “He’s awake and he’s asking questions.”

My heart clenched. The air between us felt charged, as if the very world had been holding its breath for this moment.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a bundle of fresh bandages and a small flask of water, barely aware of the girl stepping aside as I pushed past her and into the adjoining tent.

The space was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of an oil lamp set upon a low wooden table. The scent of herbs and dried blood lingered in the air, mingling with the damp chill of the evening.

And there he was.

He sat hunched over on the cot, his movements sluggish but deliberate. His skin, once ashen and slick with fever, had regained some color, though his body still bore the evidence of battle. The deep gashes along his side, now stitched and bound, tugged with every movement. His breath came slow and measured, as though he were relearning the act of living.

But it was his eyes that held me captive.

Dark and searching, they flickered over me the moment I stepped inside, sharp despite the haze of exhaustion. They held no fear, no immediate hostility, only confusion. And something else. Something unreadable.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, my fingers tightening around the bandages in my hands.

“Who are you?”

The words slipped from my tongue before I could stop them, more forceful than I had intended almost harsh, laced with wariness.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He simply studied me, his gaze slow and deliberate, as if trying to piece something together that wasn’t quite falling into place. His dark eyes flickered, shifting over me, the tent, his own bandaged body. Searching.

Then, with a hoarse voice, he spoke.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

A quiet settled between us, heavy with the weight of unspoken truths.

Outside, the wind whispered against the fabric of the tent, but inside, the world had stilled entirely—waiting.

Waiting for what, I did not yet know.

I swallowed, steadying my voice. “I wish I could tell you more,” I admitted, the words tinged with something close to regret. “But I only just found you. Three weeks ago, you were bleeding out, barely clinging to life. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure you’d make it, your wounds alone were bad enough, but the fever that followed nearly took you.”

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he cleared his throat, gaze shifting across the dimly lit tent. He was searching again. For something. Or someone.

I reached for a nearby canister, the cool metal pressing against my fingers as I took a slow sip of water. His eyes snapped to me immediately, tracking the movement like a starving man eyeing his first meal in days. Without hesitation, I extended the canister toward him.

“I know it’s been a while sin—”

Before I could finish, his hand shot out, gripping the container with surprising strength. It slipped from my grasp as he tipped it back, water spilling down his chin as he drank greedily, desperate.

I raised a brow, watching the display with mild amusement. “Well, that answers my question, doesn’t it?” I mused, arms folding across my chest. “I half-expected some skeptical tirade about poison or betrayal, but at least you’re drinking. Though, you might want to slow down unless you’d rather trade one illness for another.”

Behind me, Chrys let out a quiet laugh, clearing her throat. “Should I get him something to eat?”

The moment she spoke, his head snapped toward her, eyes sharp with renewed focus.

“Please,” he said, the word dripping with sincerity, almost reverent. “I will do almost anything.”

I sighed, amused by the sudden shift in his demeanor. Patting Chrys lightly on the shoulder, I gave her a small nod. She grinned before slipping away into the evening air, off to fetch whatever food we could spare.

As soon as she was gone, the man shifted, swinging his legs over the cot as though to stand.

“You, sit.”

My command was firm, allowing no room for argument. I stepped closer, arms still crossed, an expectant brow arched as I gestured to the bed. He hesitated for only a moment before complying, lowering himself back down with a quiet sigh.

“I still need to examine you and question you, for that matter.”

“Yes, of course,” he conceded with a nod. “Apologies for being so rude.”

With slow, deliberate movements, he lifted his tunic, revealing the mess of stitches along his side. The wound was healing, but deep bruises still painted his skin, and the edges of the sutures were red with irritation. He inhaled sharply as the fabric pulled at tender flesh.

“It still stings. In case that wasn’t obvious,” he muttered, voice laced with dry humor.

I didn’t bother holding back my smirk. “It will for some time. We didn’t have the proper equipment to treat something so deep.”

Dipping a clean cloth into a small bowl of water and herbs, I began dabbing carefully at the wound, my touch precise. He tensed slightly under my hands but made no sound of protest.

After a moment, I spoke again, my voice quieter this time.

“What is it you remember? If anything at all?”

His brows furrowed as he stared past me, eyes clouded with thought.

“I remember falling from my horse… though, no, not falling. Jumping.” His fingers curled slightly, as if grasping at a memory just out of reach. “It feels more like a dream than something real.”

I stilled for a fraction of a second before continuing my work.

“That’s all?”

“For now.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s strange I know there’s more. I can feel it, like whispers in the back of my mind. But when I reach for them, they slip away.”

I studied him carefully, watching the way his jaw tightened in frustration.

The contract within me stirred, restless. The gods were watching.

And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what came next.

“When you remember, let me know. It is of utmost importance to the safety of this camp.” I met his gaze, my expression unreadable, then turned to gather my supplies.

Before I could step away, his hand shot out, gripping my arm, not out of aggression, but desperation.

“How did you find me?” His voice was tight, almost afraid. “And why would you bring me back here if you thought I was a danger to you and your people?”

Agony tinged his expression, as if he feared the answer. Feared himself.

“Sathaea?” Chrys spoke up from the entrance, her voice careful. “Is everything okay?”

I patted the man’s hand before pulling away, turning toward her with a small smile.

“Everything is alright. He’s just worried. As one would be, waking up in his situation.”

She hesitated before stepping forward, offering him a small plate of bread and meat. “It isn’t much, but it should hold you over until the next meal.”

The man exhaled, his fingers relaxing as he pulled his hand away from me, instead reaching for the food.

“That’s quite alright. May I know your name?” He nodded to Chrys with gratitude before picking up a piece of bread.

“Chrysalis,” she answered easily. “Everyone just calls me Chrys, though. It’s much easier.”

Her gaze flickered to me, as if waiting for me to take control of the conversation again. I did.

“What about you?” I asked, watching him carefully. “What can we call you while you’re in our care?”

He hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly over the bread. A shadow passed over his face.

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. His voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “It’s there. Lingering. Whispering. But it’s not loud enough.”

His frustration was palpable, his identity a puzzle with too many missing pieces.

I sighed softly, leaning over to pat his shoulder. A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. “I understand. We’ll figure things out once you’re feeling better.”

I patted Chrys’s back, motioning for her to follow as I moved to step outside the dimly lit tent.

Then

“Daemin.”

I stopped mid-step, turning back, blinking.

His voice was quieter this time, almost as if the name had forced itself from his lips before he fully understood it.

“My name is Daemin.”

A twinge of uncertainty and familiarity pulsed through my chest, painfully. The name struck something deep within me, like a thread being tugged, delicate, elusive, but undeniably real. My breath caught, and for a fleeting moment, I swore I could feel the echo of something long forgotten pressing against the edges of my mind.

My eyes widened, my pulse quickening, but no memory surfaced. Just that strange, hollow sensation of something almost remembered, like the ghost of a dream slipping away upon waking.

Did I know this man?

I studied him, searching his face for something, anything, that might ground me in certainty. But all I found was my own unease mirrored back at me, an unspoken question lingering between us.

The discomfort coiled in my stomach, a slow, uneasy churn. And yet…

Yet, some part of me, small but insistent, felt content.

It made no sense. I should have been wary, even afraid. And yet, the moment his name left his lips, something within me settled, like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Daemin.

I repeated the name in my head, as if testing its weight, as if saying it enough times might unlock whatever memory lurked just beyond reach.

But nothing came.

And so, I forced myself to push aside the uncertainty, to swallow down the questions burning at the back of my throat. Instead, I met his gaze, nodding slowly.

“Daemin,” I echoed, the name foreign yet familiar on my tongue. “It suits you.”