Zehron knelt by the window, his elbows resting on the wooden sill, and his forehead lightly pressed against his arms. The morning light streamed in, casting long shadows as his gaze followed the fluttering wings of a messenger bird.
The bird pecked at the grains scattered on the sill, its feathers a blur of motion, while another messenger bird, its leg bound with a parchment, hovered nearby.
Naevira's voice called out from the other room, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Zehron! Come now, breakfast is waiting. It'll be cold before you know it."
With a reluctant sigh, Zehron tore himself from the sight of the birds and walked toward the table, where his mother was already seated. The smell of barley porridge and freshly baked roots filled the air, but the warmth of the meal couldn't soften the knot in his chest. They ate in silence for a time, the quiet broken only by the occasional scrape of a spoon against the bowl.
At last, Naevira spoke.
"I heard word of the attack yesterday. A child almost lost their life. If not for the Coreborn commander, it could have been much worse."
Vaedros, his father, muttered from across the room.
"The guards can only watch as it happens. How many times have we seen this?"
Naevira shook her head.
"We pay our taxes, follow their laws… but it's never enough. We're still left to pick up the pieces when it all falls apart."
Zehron's gaze remained fixed on his bowl.
"They think we're expendable," Vaedros murmured. "That the struggle of the common folk doesn't matter."
Naevira sighed, her tone softening.
"I hope one day they see the truth. But it's hard to believe in change when all you hear is silence from the towers."
Zehron didn't respond. His mind was already elsewhere.
---
Outside, the streets were filled with a restless energy. A group of Voidborn stood near the square, their voices a mix of anger and desperation.
"Do they think we'll just vanish into the shadows?" one shouted.
"How many more must suffer before they hear us?" another cried, her face streaked with tears.
Zehron slowed his steps as he passed by, his gaze lingering on their disheartened faces. Among them were the old, the young, the injured, all demanding something they should have been given by right: safety, respect, care.
A woman near the front of the crowd raised her voice, shaking her fists in the air.
"We pay with our blood, yet they sit behind their walls and watch us with disdain!"
"We bleed red, too!"
"We are more than empty titles!"
"The barrier is cracked, why should it wait for corpses to be mended?"
The words stung, like a reminder of everything that had been stolen from them. It wasn't just an outcry, it was a plea for survival. A cry from those who had been cast aside, ignored, and forgotten.
---
Later, Zehron found himself at the outskirts of another gathering, this one held outside a humble dwelling. He approached cautiously, taking in the low murmurs of grief and anger. A woman's cry pierced the air from inside the house. It was raw, desperate.
Zehron stood back, listening as fragments of conversation floated toward him.
An elderly man spoke first.
"It was a small wound, just a scratch. But the infection… It spread too fast. They should've caught it in time."
A younger voice chimed in, trembling with emotion.
"They said they had no more Virethorn sap. Told us to buy it from the market, but we couldn't afford it."
Old Man (bitter):
"Hah. They had some. But said it's 'for military use only.' Gave him boiled Grel roots instead, which only treats surface wounds.
Another (gritting his teeth):
"They had Virethorn sap. We saw it! Kept it locked up behind the counter, saying it's only for soldiers. As if we're not dying the same way."
Virethorn sap was known to stop monster rot in its tracks. A few drops might've saved the man's life. But they believed Voidborns weren't worth wasting rare supplies on.
Another:
"The wound blackened before dusk. He couldn't breathe by midnight."
Inside, the cries rose again. A woman clutched the chest of a still figure wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by her two young children, barely five or six years old.
Wife (wailing):
"How am I supposed to raise them now? He was all I had… We have no coin! No bread saved!"
"He promised to take our son fishing next week…"
One of the children tugged at her sleeve, frightened by her cries.
She pulled them close, trembling.
Woman nearby (gently):
"Yara, breathe, sister… we'll find a way. We always do. You're not alone."
Yara (sobbing):
"He worked every day… He never asked for anything… And they let him die like he was nothing."
Zehron lingered at the edge of the crowd, the morning sun already hot on the packed‑earth street. A low mutter rolled from one knot of onlookers to the next, anger, grief, resignation braided together.
"Only the ones who paid a large amount got the Virethorn salve," an elderly woman rasped, clutching a frayed shawl at her throat. "And even then they charged double, said the stock was 'war‑grade.' War‑grade!" She spat on the ground.
A gaunt dockworker shook his head. "How many Voidborn keep coin for luxury medicine? We save what little we can for winter grain, and now it's gone."
A young mother, eyes red‑rimmed, stepped forward clutching a boy no older than ten. A linen bandage ringed his upper arm; the cloth was faintly green where salve had soaked through.
"I gave them every copper I'd hidden," she said, voice trembling. "All our winter savings. They smeared the ointment on and said the wound would close if he could fight the fever. He's warm, but he breathes steady." She swallowed hard. "When the jar was empty they told me to leave, I'd had my 'share.' "
Murmurs of disgust rippled outward. Pay or die, that was the choice Voidborns faced.
---
Zehron moved away from the gathering, his feet carrying him through the familiar streets. But something was different today. The weight of what he had seen felt heavier, more urgent. The protests, the grief, everything had been building to this moment.
His path led him toward a forgotten part of the city, a place that had long been abandoned. The cracked cobblestones were half-covered in moss, and the broken buildings were silent sentinels of what had once been.
At the far end of the lane, a single fig tree stood in a small courtyard, its roots gnarled and reaching like fingers. To the right, a ruined shrine leaned against the cliffside, the stone walls etched with fading symbols of moons and waves.
Zehron approached the shrine, stepping through the narrow archway into the dark passage behind it. The air inside was cool, the faint scent of earth and damp stone filling his lungs.
He stepped through the slit. The stone passage was short, no taller than his shoulders, and opened into a low cave lit by four clay lamps. The air smelled of rain and green things. Thin beams of sunlight fell from cracks high above, crossing the gloom like quiet strings.
At the center of the cavern, an old man sat cross-legged on a reed mat. His silver hair was pulled back in a simple knot, and his robes were plain but well-worn, his hands resting lightly on the knees. His eyes were closed.
The old man spoke.
"Sit, if you like. There's room."
Zehron hesitated for a moment before sitting opposite him, the weight of the day pressing on his shoulders.
Zehron sat a little straighter, the tightness in his shoulders easing. The air felt easier to breathe.
"You feel like you have many thoughts." the old man asked.
Zehron gave a nod and then with a realisation, "yes", though he couldn't find the words to explain what he was feeling. The weight of the world had been bearing him down.
The old man's voice came again, gentle but sure. "When the world weighs on you, the first task is to quiet the place the world can't touch."
He unfolded his hands and rested the palms upward on his knees. "Close your eyes," he said. "Let the breath come and go without steering it. Count three slow breaths, then begin again at one. If a thought presses in, greet it the way you'd greet a passer‑by on the road, see it, let it pass, and return to the count."
Zehron followed the old man's instructions, his breath steady and calm. Thoughts of the protests, the grief, the injustice, they all faded into the background, leaving only the rhythm of his own breath. Each inhale felt like a release, each exhale like the weight lifting from his chest.
"Feel the base of the spine," the old man murmured. "Imagine it settling like a stone in clear water. From that point, the rest of you can rest as well."
Minutes slid by. The sound of the spring grew louder inside the hush of his thoughts, until even the counting slipped away. There was only the rhythm of breath and the faint pulse of water on the stone.
At last the old man spoke, low and unhurried. "Open your eyes."
Zehron did. The cave looked the same, yet he felt as if some inner room had been swept clean.
"This practice is a lamp you can carry anywhere," the old man said, "Return to it whenever anything seems too wide."
The cave settled into silence again: the drip of the spring, the small flutter of a lamp's flame, two steady breaths.
After a time the old man opened his eyes, clear, steady, almost amused.
Zehron kept his gaze on the cave floor, tracing the faint grain of the stone with his eyes. A cool hush lay over the chamber, broken only by the steady drip of the spring.
The old man studied him for a time, hands folded loosely in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was soft enough to leave room for echoes.
"You carry many thoughts," he said, "the way a tree carries rain after a storm."
Silence lingered, like a small space set aside for truth. At length Zehron answered, still watching the ground.
"I do."
"If you wish," the old man went on, "you may set one of those thoughts down here. Stones are patient keepers."
Zehron drew a slow breath. Words came out quiet, almost measured by that dripping water.
"A man died today because he couldn't get the medicine he needed. Others gave up everything they had, just for a chance to be helped. Children cried themselves hoarse. People shouted in the streets, desperate to be heard. But no one who could make a difference even turned their head."
The old man nodded, as though each sentence were a seed placed neatly in soil.
"And what did you do with the weight of all that?" he asked.
"I walked," Zehron said. "I walked until I ended up here."
"That was wise," the old man replied. "Feet often know where the mind has not yet chosen to go."
Zehron lifted his eyes. Calm.
"You are welcome to rest here whenever the road feels heavy," he said, calmly.
Zehron dipped his head in quiet thanks. He could not name the feeling in his chest, only that the air seemed easier to breathe.
They shared the silence until the wick shortened by the smallest measure.
---
Zehron left the cave with a quiet sense of clarity, the noise of the city less oppressive now. The streets, though still filled with the echoes of the day's unrest, no longer felt as suffocating.
When he reached home, Naevira looked up from the small table, her eyes soft with understanding.
"Dinner is ready," she said, her voice calm.
Zehron nodded and joined her at the table. The weight of the world seemed a little less heavy tonight. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to simply be in the moment.
As the night stretched on and the stars began to appear in the sky, Zehron lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence felt peaceful, not empty, and as he closed his eyes, he allowed himself to rest.
-The Study of Lord Veyrin-
The golden light of the oil lamps cast long shadows across the bookshelves. Lord Veyrin, poised at his desk, reviewed a scroll with quiet intensity. His robes bore the emblem of his house, subtle, yet unmistakable. The silence of the chamber was interrupted by a knock.
Without looking up, he spoke with calm authority, "You may enter."
The door opened and Maeren, his most trusted aide, stepped in and bowed respectfully.
"My lord," he began, "I bring the report you requested."
Lord Veyrin inclined his head slightly. "Proceed."
"The young man in question, Zehron Astravahn, is of twenty years. He resides in the lower quarter of the Voidborn region. From my inquiries, it appears he was educated within his household, not through any public means. His presence in the community was minimal until quite recently."
Lord Veyrin raised an eyebrow. "He has now begun to make himself known?"
"Indeed, my lord," Maeren replied. "Several individuals remarked upon his sudden emergence. It is said he has grown into a notably striking figure. He is... distinct, both in bearing and in appearance."
Lord Veyrin folded his hands. "In what manner?"
Maeren took a deliberate breath. "By countenance, chiefly. There is a particular attention drawn to his eyes, green in hue. Furthermore, I gathered from several women in the area that his mother, Naevira, was highly protective. She seldom permitted him to interact with other children. Some regarded her as simply cautious. Others... more suspicious."
Lord Veyrin's gaze sharpened. "Suspicious of what?"
"There are whispers, my lord. Some suggest the boy is not the true son of the man he was raised by. That Naevira may have conceived him through another, possibly someone of noble origin. A handful dismiss these claims as idle gossip. Yet others… question aloud how one born of two dark-eyed parents should come to possess such eyes, and such a face that resembles neither."
Lord Veyrin's expression remained unreadable. He spoke softly, but firmly. "I have traveled far beyond these borders, across the Obsidian Range, the Sapphire Coast, even to the courts of Varethia. I have never encountered green eyes among any known bloodline of this realm."
Then, in a measured tone, he asked, "Are there any within our borders, noble or otherwise, who bear this trait?"
The aide, after a pause, added with quiet certainty,
"My lord, there is no record, neither in our clan nor in the other great clans, of any child born with green eyes. Not in known memory nor in preserved lineage."
Lord Veyrin sat back slightly, his gaze steady upon the parchment before him, though his mind wandered elsewhere.
For a moment, silence reigned between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Then, almost idly, Veyrin spoke,
"There was once talk when my own son, Sylus, was born... of strangeness."
The aide lowered his eyes respectfully, understanding.
"His hair, white as winter frost. A thing no one had carried before."
A faint note, something between reflection and unease, colored Veyrin's voice.
"Some whispered of curses. Others of omens."
He paused, then looked toward the shuttered window, as if peering beyond the room and into deeper matters.
"Perhaps," he said at last, "there are forces at work within the blood, hidden to us, written in a language we cannot yet read."
The aide inclined his head.
"It may be so, my lord. For though blood is traced and guarded, it does not always reveal its secrets willingly."