Tarrin dragged his battered body uphill, every step a dull throb of pain. His ribs ached, his limbs burned, but none of it mattered. He wasn't stopping. Not now.
His gaze drifted toward the distance, to the Light-Spire—an impossibly tall column of radiance at the heart of Isle Zero.
Legend said that when the war between Light and Dark reached its end, the God of Light had driven this spire through the carcass of Darkness itself, pinning it in place.
A beacon of purity. A victory eternal.
But Darkness was not so easily slain. Every night, it rose again, crawling up the length of the spire, clawing at the heavens, desperate to break free.
A fate worse than death—forever trapped beneath an unyielding light.
Tarrin let out a slow, bitter breath.
"Will my fate be any better?"
His body protested with every step, bruises screaming, wounds pulsing. But the pain was nothing compared to what gnawed at his ribs from the inside.
He had to do this.
Had to say goodbye.
The outskirts of Merlen—his city, if a rat could claim a gutter—had been ruled by gangs and violence for as long as he could remember.
A place where lives were gambled over debts and breath was bought with blood.
But not here.
The graveyard stood untouched, sacred in a way nothing else in this city was. Not because of laws—no one in Merlen gave a damn about those. But because even the worst bastards had someone buried here.
And no one dared spit on the past.
The rusted iron gate loomed before him, its sign worn but legible:
Graveyard of Saint Holly.
A place of silence. A place for the forgotten.
Tarrin exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, forcing his body to straighten as he approached.
A gatekeeper stood by the entrance, his face carved from years of the same old grief. He had seen Tarrin before. Many times.
The old man let out a sigh, shaking his head. "Tarrin. You're here again?"
Tarrin just nodded.
"You keep looking backward, kid," the gatekeeper murmured. "The past is a heavy thing. Don't let it drag you under."
The words stung, striking too close to truth.
Tarrin forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course. Just… something important happened. Thought I'd catch up."
The old man said nothing. Just nodded solemnly, his gaze dropping.
Tarrin moved past him, stepping through the gate.
The path stretched before him, winding through rows of forgotten names, carved into stone and lost to time.
The air was heavy with absence. The kind that settled deep in the bones.
He passed by graves he had seen a hundred times before. Some with fresh flowers. Others overgrown, cracked, left to crumble. The echoes of lives cut short, stories with no endings, just abrupt halts.
Just like hers.
Then, finally—
There.
A single, simple stone.
The name carved into it still sharp despite the years:
Amber Vex.
A Loving Mother.
Tarrin's breath caught, his throat tightening. Even now, five years later, it still hurt.
Like a wound that had never really closed. As he stood there, looking at the name of his mother, a name that in the past sparked joy through his being, now just filled him with deep pain and sadness.
After five years of surviving, living by himself, every time he came here, the memories hit him the same.
The coughs had started months before he realized how bad it was. At first, just a roughness in her voice, a fleeting exhaustion in her eyes.
His mother had always been strong—tirelessly working whatever job she could find, stitching up old clothes for cheap, fixing broken trinkets for the desperate.
When work ran out, she'd barter, scrape, make do. She never complained. Never let him see the burden.
Until she couldn't hide it anymore.
He remembered coming home late, pockets full of stolen bread and a bruised lip from where some shopkeeper had caught him.
He had been ready to spin a tale, ready to flash that cocky grin—until he saw her.
Collapsed on the floor, breath shallow, fingers trembling as she tried to push herself up. A faint smear of blood on her lips.
That was the first time he felt truly helpless.
She tried to laugh it off, waving him away with a weak smile. "Just a little tired, love. Don't fuss."
Bullshit. He wasn't an idiot.
She was dying.
Tarrin had spent the next few weeks running himself ragged, trying to scrounge up the money for medicine. He worked scams, ran errands for the wrong people, even begged once.
None of it had been enough.
Medicine in Luna wasn't cheap. Not for people like them.
And his father? The bastard wasn't even a ghost—ghosts at least left behind something. A whisper. A shadow. But him? Nothing.
Tarrin spat to the side at the thought, his fingers tightening against his knees. He had spent so long hating that man, resenting every missing day, every moment his mother had sat at the door waiting for him to come back.
Foolish hope.
She had believed in him, even at the end.
"Your father loved you," she had murmured one night, voice weak as he sat by her bed, her fingers brushing his. "I know he did."
Tarrin had swallowed his bitterness, letting her keep that lie.
Letting her die with something to hold on to.
But he hadn't forgiven. And he sure as hell hadn't forgotten.
The wind picked up, cutting through the ragged edges of his coat. He shivered but didn't move.
He pulled a small, rusted pendant from his pocket, running a thumb over the dull surface. His mother's. She had always worn it, fingers absently tracing the edges whenever she was lost in thought.
He had nothing else of hers.
They had sold everything in those last months. The table. The chairs. The tiny mirror she had liked because she said the frame reminded her of her mother's old home.
"I awakened today, Ma." His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the wind.
"They'll send me to the battlefield soon. Not much of a choice, really. Either fight for them, or spend the rest of my life running. And if they catch me?"
A humorless chuckle slipped out. "Well, you know how the Union deals with deserters."
A long, slow breath.
His mask cracked, just for a moment. The veneer of confidence he wore like armor slipping away, revealing something raw underneath.
Sorrow. The kind that dug its claws in and never let go.
Every night, when he closed his eyes, he remembered.
That she wasn't here anymore.
That the kindest person he had ever known—the woman who loved him, even when he hadn't deserved it—was gone.
Not just gone. Forgotten.
Because the world didn't stop. It never stopped. It moved forward, grinding over the past, burying those left behind like dust beneath its wheels.
And Tarrin?
He had survived these last five years alone, doing what he did best.
Lying.
Stealing.
It had kept him breathing. But breathing wasn't enough anymore.
Not after today.
Because now, for the first time in his life, he had something more than just quick hands and a silver tongue.
He had power.
Real, tangible power.
And the Union bastards? They would teach him how to use it.
He wouldn't just survive.
He'd thrive.
Tarrin exhaled, clenching his fists. His voice was steady now, unwavering.
"I'll make it, Ma. I swear it."
Because failure meant death. And he wasn't dying. Not yet.
Tarrin reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the last Lunar he had to his name—the single coin keeping him from starving tonight.
For a moment, he hesitated. His grip tightened.
Then, slowly, he placed it on her grave.
A promise. An offering.
"I'll come pick it up after the nightmare's over, Ma," he murmured. His throat tightened, his chest felt too small for his lungs. Stay strong. He had to stay strong.
A pause. Then, softer—like a confession, like a prayer:
"Until then, you can rest."
He turned away before she could see his face—not that she could, not anymore. A single tear slipped down his cheek. Just one. No more.
He wouldn't allow more.
His gaze flicked toward the sky. The Spire's light was already dimming, ready to be swallowed by the creeping dark.
Tarrin's eyes hardened.
He'd make it.
He didn't know how, not yet, but he would.
He always did.
As he stepped out of the graveyard, he felt the weight of the gatekeeper's eyes on his back. The old man sighed, but didn't say a word.
'Pretty big words, for someone as small as I am.' Tarrin exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. 'What the fuck did I just promise?'
He pushed the thought aside. Now wasn't the time for doubt.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out his old phone. The screen was cracked, the casing worn from years of use.
A gift from a friend—a birthday present, given to him on his fifteenth. He'd never forgotten that.
His thumb hovered over the contacts list before dialing a number.
Three rings. Then, a voice.
"Yo, what's up?"
Tarrin closed his eyes for a second. Then exhaled.
"Hey, man. I'll be at yours in twenty."