BLACK ashes

The Cinderion district was always choked with pollution and coal dust, yet inside the Eywan family's small tavern, that grime was always eclipsed by the warmth of steaming cabbage soup.

There, little Gerald grew up with a laugh too bright and too loud for a slum child. His father, Bramm Eywan, always returned home with a leather apron smeared in red stains, carrying the finest cuts of beef he had set aside from his trade specifically for his son.

Meanwhile, in the corner of the room, under the dim light of an oil lamp, the calloused fingers of his mother, Mara Eywan, never ceased moving silver needles, knitting a thick wool coat that ensured Gerald’s skin would never touch the biting chill of the night wind. In a neighborhood where other children wept from hunger, Gerald was the exception. He was the owner of the brightest smile in the entire district.

But, the thread of destiny was severed on the night of his seventh birthday.

The cathedral bells tolled twenty-nine times—an echo of grief that was slow, heavy, and devoid of certainty. The King had died without leaving a single heir to occupy the frozen throne.

Within mere weeks, the vibrant colors of Gerald’s world faded into shades of gray.

Their dining table changed first. Thick cuts of meat were replaced by leftover bones, boiled repeatedly until they were flavorless. Outside their home, the steady, heavy footsteps of city guards in full vests and armor became a terrifying new melody; a curfew was imposed, and every street corner was now watched by the King's spies.

At the start of every month, the tax collector would arrive with a frigid expression, seizing almost all of the copper coins Bramm’s hard work had earned, along with the remnants of Mara’s knitting, leaving their storage space as empty as their growling stomachs. In the market, grain carts were no longer seen. What remained was only a long line of starving people fighting over moldy bread scraps in the shadows of a suffocating new law.

For Gerald, who had just turned seven, abstract concepts like "inflation" or "royal decree" were unreal. His simple world was built only from the scent of beef fat burning in the hearth and the rhythmic tapping of his father’s wooden mallet.

However, the collapse of an era always begins with the small things that escape a child's sight. The change crept into their home like a winter fog. The witty songs Bramm Eywan used to sing while sharpening his butcher knife vanished, replaced by a horrific new habit: staring at the cracks in the wooden floor for hours in silence, his back slowly hunching as if bearing an invisible weight.

In another corner of the house, Mara no longer sewed while humming. Every night, her shadow behind the kitchen door seemed to tremble, accompanied by the sound of held breath and soft sobs that were hurriedly swallowed before they could escape through the door cracks. The wooden house, once warm, was slowly transforming into a thick coffin trapping a nameless fear.

The true reality struck Gerald and Bramm one foggy morning at the Cinderion market.

The market atmosphere, usually filled with noisy haggling, suddenly froze, leaving behind a chilling silence.

Synchronized, heavy footsteps were heard surrounding the area.

A group of police in black, fully armored vests with the cold, gleaming royal emblem on their chests, stopped in front of an old merchant's stall.

There was no warning letter.

There was no room to beg for mercy.

Just because a few copper tax coins failed to be handed over, an iron baton was swung without hesitation.

The sound of the impact—the noise of cracking bone and tearing flesh—echoed horribly in the morning air.

Ting.

Metal clinked against the cracked wooden boards.

Gerald jolted, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

His head throbbed violently, as if that memory had just struck his skull with a wooden mallet.

His heart hammered against his chest, pumping the remnants of adrenaline to fingers that were trembling uncontrollably.

Beads of cold sweat streamed from his temples, tracing a jawline that was now prominent with age.

He looked down.

The hands he used to wipe his face no longer belonged to a seven-year-old boy.

His skin was loose, rough, and full of blackened burn scars—the hands of a man eaten by time.

Gerald blinked, trying to chase away the remnants of the warm tavern vision that was slowly evaporating.

His focus shifted to the source of the sound in the corner of the room.

Nox was standing there. Her body was still wrapped in clothes that looked too big, stained with oil that had hardened as if it were her second skin.

Her eyes didn't blink, clear and sharp, observing Gerald with cold precision. On the floor, near Nox’s feet, a rusty bolt rolled into silence.