The sky shimmered like breath on glass, fleeting and soft. It pulsed above in a slow rhythm, a dull lullaby of thrumming and hums. A child sat beneath it, small and still, listening to a voice that drifted like mist.
‘Before the cracks, there was peace.’
‘Before silence, there was song.’
The voice almost had features but never stayed still enough to make them out.
‘The Ancients shaped this world with light, and when they had no more to mould, they disappeared behind those tiny cracks in the sky.’
The boy, ever curious, gazed up and watched the flickers and sparks within those veined cracks as they ebbed with light.
Though his sky-gazing was soon interrupted by a call. A name, well almost. A whisper of what was, soft and pleasant on the ear, but it slipped back into the darkness before it could be caught. The child didn’t move. He had heard the words clearly, but they stirred no recognition, and like a dutiful soldier he turned back to the sky, poised for the flickering stars.
A flash of light and then the stars tore open. A line of white split the heavens with soundless fury. A fracture.
‘And when the Seal breaks, even the silence will bleed,’ a darker voice roared.
The child’s face contorted. A formless shape, like smoke from a fire, jeering and deforming the boy. A chaos of wails and screams filled the air, the pressure building and becoming almost unbearable...
A jolt, the dream shattering and Thrain awoke, startled.
The stillness of night had been replaced by a grey, brittle morning. He lay on his side in the dust, heart pounding like a war drum fading slowly into silence. The cold bit at the edges of his cloak, his breath coming heavy, steaming in the dim light.
He did not rise immediately.
Dreams had long been poison to him, and ones this vivid were potent still. It clung to his skin like dew: the voices, the cracking sky, the name that slipped through his fingers like sand.
Thrain was not the name he had been born with. It was the one he had gained. Carved from years of wandering, shaped in silence and scars. Whatever name came before had long since been lost.
The old tongues also spoke of Thrain the Giant, a warrior whose strength shook the very land he walked. It was a name steeped in old legends, and it fit him well.
He was near seven feet tall, broad as a felled tree, and moved with the weight of storms. His shoulders bore a lifetime of hardship. Hair like coarse iron hung past his jaw. His eyes were dark and steady, with the look of a man who’d had more than his fair share of suffering.
Thrain rubbed his face. Calloused hands over weary eyes. Finally rising to his feet, slow and deliberate. His boots crushed the brittle embers of last night’s fire, stamping out what little warmth remained. He watched the smoke rise for a moment, a thin wisp curling towards the sky. His eyes followed the trail until it disappeared into the air and then his focus drew to the sky, still cracking and weaving with light.
“Another day,” he muttered.
Thrain slung his belongings over his shoulder and continued through the barren wasteland he had learned to call home.
Each step sank softly into dust. The earth, dry, cracked, and quiet beneath his feet. The land here only remembered ruin. Ash clung to the wind like old regrets, and the silence between the stones felt harsh, as if the world itself was bitter.
The path he walked wasn’t marked. It never had been. Thrain followed more instinct than intention, as he had for a long time.
In the distance, a lone ridge cut across the horizon, sharp against the pale sky. Smoke coiled lazily from its far side, thin and too orderly to be natural.
Not wildfire. Another camp, maybe…
He shifted his grip on the short swords at his belt, a weight he was remarkably familiar with. He neared the ridge as the wind brought sounds of broken and muffled laughter.
A child’s sharp cry pierced through the noise and Thrain didn’t hesitate.
His steps grew faster, the softness gone from his tread. He descended the ridge in a few wide strides, the muscles in his legs coiling like springs. He stayed low, eyes sharp, ears strained.
A makeshift camp with scattered crates and cages. Three of them. Crude and rusting, held together by rope and old steel.
Inside, was the source of the cry.
Children. Hollow-eyed. Dirt-smeared and trembling with fear.
Around them were a handful of men. They couldn’t have been soldiers, far too ragged for that. Not slavers either. Didn’t seem the organised sort.
Bandits, had to be.
The kind who moved through empty lands like vultures, searching for anything weaker than themselves.
Thrain’s jaw tightened. His breath slow. His hand dropped to the hilt of his blade with that familiar, weightless calm that came before violence.
Slowly, he counted them again.
Five. One by the fire. Two guarding the cages. One pacing. One out of sight, but his voice carrying, rough and boasting from behind the largest wagon. Thrain’s eyes settled on the closest man. Lean, slouching and unarmed. Laughing at the plight the children had found themselves in.
A whisper of steel and the laugh disappeared much like the earlier wisp of smoke he watched dissipate. Thrain moved like falling dusk, quiet, fast and without question. His blade found the man’s throat in a single, practised motion. No shouts. No flailing. Just a gurgle lost in the dust.
The others turned but were far too late.
A cry went up, but it barely mattered. Thrain was already among them.
The second fell with a crack of bone and steel. The third lunged with a rusted axe, met only by Thrain’s forearm and the other blade, burying deep into ribs with a wet, hollow sound, the swords dancing in his hands.
The fourth tried to run but he didn’t get far.
And then there was silence.
A whole, but bloody silence.
Thrain stood over the last man, hand clenched around the front of his shirt. The man spat curses, empty threats, trembling through split lips. But Thrain said nothing. He just stared.
“Why?” the man choked. “They’re nothing but brats. Not even worth—”
Thrain drove his forehead into the man’s face. The bandit dropped like a stone, unconscious. He turned towards the cages.
There were eight children. One flinched as he approached. Another backed into the corner, eyes wide and puffy.
Only one did not move.
White-haired and thin. Watching him with neither fear nor trust, just curiosity behind bright eyes.
“I will not harm you,” Thrain said but this did little for the children and made them recoil deeper into the opposing bars of the cage.
Thrain let out a sigh. One by one he lifted the heel of his foot and smashed the locks on the cages into smithereens. The children, still fearing for their lives, fell deeper into the cages, but the white-haired boy stood at the front, unfazed, and walked right past Thrain, diving face first into some soup one of the bandits had set aside.
What an odd child, Thrain thought.
The boy devoured the soup with a sort of wild desperation, not quite animal, but far from tame. His hands didn’t tremble. His eyes didn’t flick around like the rest. He simply ate, silent and certain, like he just belonged there.
The other children seeing this trickled out slowly, still hesitant. A few clung to each other silent as mice. Thrain preferred it this way, he wasn’t the type to spark up conversation.
Silence was better.
He scanned the ridge again. The sun had risen fully now, washing the wasteland in a pale light. No signs of more bandits. Still, he wouldn’t risk staying long. Especially with the added burden he now found himself charged with.
“I know a settlement not far from here,” he said quietly, not really expecting an answer. “You’ll be safe there.”
One of the children, a small girl with a bloodied cheek and sharp eyes, finally spoke. “Is it safe?”
“Safer,” Thrain replied.
The white-haired boy finished the soup, licked his fingers clean, and looked up at him.
Not a word. Not a blink. Just that wild piercing gaze.
Thrain turned away. “Let’s move.”
They continued to travel in near silence. Dust kicked up by cautious steps. The sun climbing higher. Thrain led them like a shadow, ahead, always watching, always listening.
By midmorning, the settlement walls rose from the dry earth like the ribs of some long-dead beast, brittle and sun-bleached, holding back the dust rather than danger. It wasn’t much. A scattering of clay-built homes, makeshift stalls, and a rusted bell that hadn’t rung in years. But it would serve.
Thrain approached the gate with the children trailing behind like wary ghosts. The guards stationed at the entrance shifted uneasily. Their eyes fell on him first, tall, broad, wrapped in worn leathers and a dark, wind-bitten cloak. His shadow stretched long across the sand.
They did not reach for their weapons, but their hands hovered near them, as if even after all this time, they still weren’t sure if Thrain’s presence meant order or chaos.
He offered no greeting, no explanation. Just a slow nod as he passed.
The children clung tighter together behind him.
They made their way through the crooked streets towards the centre of the settlement, towards the one place he knew would take them in without question: The Old Temple.
The structure stood slightly apart from the rest, its stone darker than the rest of the settlement, its door carved with symbols of the Old Tongues, prayers etched into the wood by hands long gone. Despite the decay, it carried a weight. An almost quiet dignity.
Thrain had seen these symbols before, in other settlements, other times when the desperate needed shelter. The temples never turned anyone away. It was their oldest law, carved into their very essence.
Inside, the scent of old incense still lingered, and tattered prayer cloths swayed lightly from the rafters. The courtyard showed signs of constant use, worn paths between sleeping areas, names carved into wooden posts by those who’d found refuge here, evidence of lives touched and remembered.
Thrain stepped into the temple’s open courtyard and stopped. The children huddled close behind, uncertain, whispering.
From one of the side rooms, a woman emerged. Robes faded but clean, hair bound in cloth, face lined by both kindness and hardship. She paused as she saw them, her eyes lingering on Thrain before dropping to the cluster of children behind.
No fear in her gaze. No surprise either. Just recognition of a familiar scene.
She stepped forward, hands out, palms open.
“Come, little ones,” she said gently. “You’re safe now.”
As she approached, she picked up a clay pitcher and cup. Clean water, offered first as tradition demanded. Some of the children moved instantly, drawn to the tone more than the words. Others hesitated, eyes darting between her and the scary man who’d been their saviour.
“The Mother provides for all who seek shelter,” the temple woman said, pouring water into the cup and offering it to the nearest child. She took in their condition with practised eyes, lingering on the ones who flinched from touch, the ones who stood too close together, the ones marked with the hollow look of those who’d seen too much.
The white-haired boy didn’t move at all. He stood just beside Thrain, arms crossed, face still smudged with dried soup and ash.
The woman noticed him. “And this one?”
“He’s not mine,” Thrain said.
“Then why’s he still by your side?”
Thrain glanced down at the boy.
The boy stared back, calm as could be.
“…I don’t know,” he muttered.
The woman gave him a long look, something between amusement and understanding playing on her features. “The Mother sees what others may miss,” she said softly. “Perhaps he knows something we don’t yet.”
She turned to address all the children, her voice carrying the authority of generations of temple practice. “You’ll have food soon, and clean places to sleep. No one will hurt you here. No one will ask you questions you don’t want to answer.” She paused, looking at each face. “You are under the Mother’s protection now.”
As evening approached, Thrain watched the temple woman organise the children with the efficiency of someone who’d done this many times before. Extra attention went to the most withdrawn: a girl who wouldn’t stop shaking, a boy who wouldn’t let go of his sister’s hand.
As the children settled for the evening, the temple woman approached Thrain by the entrance.
“You did well bringing them here,” she said simply. “Too many pass by those in need, thinking it’s not their concern.”
“You’ve seen others like them?”
Her face grew sad. “More than there should be. The world is hardest on the innocent.” She gestured towards where the children slept peacefully for the first time in who knew how long. “The Mother Eternal teaches us that every lost soul matters. Tonight, these names will be spoken in remembrance.”
Thrain nodded, understanding more than she might expect. He’d grown up knowing the temples would provide sanctuary, though he’d refused to call on it before today.
Thrain began to ready his things, he’d served his purpose here and it was time to move on. He looked up to find the white-haired boy at his side again.
“I don’t have time for this,” Thrain said.
Thrain let out a quiet breath through his nose. In one swift motion, he picked up the boy under the arms and carried him, awkwardly, like one might lift an unruly stray, over to the rest of the children resting by the temple wall.
The boy didn’t fight. He just blinked up at Thrain with those strange, wild eyes.
“You. Stay. Here,” Thrain said, setting him down with a firmness that left no room for argument. “You stay with them.”
The boy tilted his head. “No.”
“You’re a child,” Thrain snapped. “Like them.”
The boy didn’t move. “I’ll go with you.”
Thrain’s jaw clenched. “You can’t come with me. Do you understand?” He crouched down, voice low and sharp. “Where I go, it’s not safe. There’s no food, no fire. Just cold and danger and things that will hurt you.”
The boy scrunched up his face, thinking hard. “I like cold.”
Thrain stared at him. “You’ll die.”
The boy looked up at him, eyes steady. “No.”
Thrain stood, shaking his head in disbelief. “You don’t get it. I don’t want you.”
The boy hugged his thin twig-like arms around himself, but his voice stayed quiet and stubborn. “So?”
Thrain turned away, roughly. “You’re not my problem.”
But even as he stepped towards the temple gates, he heard the soft padding of feet behind him.
He stopped and turned. “Go back.”
The boy froze. Then, with a tiny shrug, took another step forward. “You’re too loud. I’ll be quiet.”
Thrain stared at him, at the pale hair and smudged face. At the fire that hadn’t dimmed behind those eyes.
“Stubborn little pup,” he muttered under his breath.
And without another word, he turned back towards the wastes.
The boy followed.
Not a word. Not a sound. Just two shadows stretching long in the evening light, one dragging the weight of silence behind him, the other slipping into it like he’d always belonged there.
They walked in silence.
Dust clung to their boots and bare feet alike, the wind pulling shapes through the desolate earth. The dying sun bled slow across the sky, dull and pale like a faded bruise. Thrain led, his shadow stretching long behind him, the distinct pattering of small feet at his heels. Thrain didn’t understand it, and he didn’t like it, but he figured the little brat would tire eventually.
When night began to fall, they made camp beneath the crooked remains of what might’ve once been a tree. A worn husk, bent like a kneeling elder. Thrain struck a small fire. Enough for light but barely enough for warmth. The boy sat cross-legged across from him, nibbling at scraps of dried meat he’d taken from Thrain’s pouch when he wasn’t looking.
Every now and again, he watched Thrain with wide, blinking eyes.
Like he was waiting for something.
Thrain didn’t speak. He continued to work in silence, sharpening his blade, cleaning his tools, casting the occasional glance to the fire but refusing to give the stray any attention.
Then, at last:
“Can I have a name?” the boy asked, voice small and hopeful.
Thrain’s hands paused. The whetstone stilled. The fire popped gently between them.
The boy’s face was still smudged with dirt. Soup still stained his chin from earlier. His stark white hair caught the firelight like silver wire. He didn’t look like much. Not at first glance but his eyes seemed to hold something.
Thrain looked away and back down at the fire.
He finally broke the silence, “I don’t even remember mine,” he muttered. “Well not the one…”
A pause.
It was a strange thing, giving a name. He had carried his own so long that he had almost forgotten what it felt like to be handed something. To receive. He did not think on it too long.
“The one I carry now… I earned. It wasn’t given.”
He didn’t know why he said that. Maybe the silence had worn thin, and the boy’s presence started to remind him of memories best left buried.
Thrain finally turned to face the boy properly, a hint of remorse washing over him.
“I guess you’ll need one too,” he added.
The boy perked up.
Thrain studied him now, really studied him. Small, yes, but not frail. Strange. Wild. Like something born from tooth and claw. But there was a brightness in him too. An unyielding sort of light.
“…Fen.”
The boy repeated it under his breath. Rolling it around like a pebble in his mouth.
“Fen,” he said again, louder this time. Then grinned, wide, toothy and bright.
“That’s me.”
He leaned back against a rock, satisfied and closed his eyes like he hadn’t a single care in the world.
The little runt didn’t even ask me for mine, he muttered.
Thrain didn’t smile. But something in him settled, a weight lifted, a quiet storm stilled.
They did not speak again that night.
Just two insignificant dots on this wasteland, unseen by the world and unknown to the stars but at the very least not alone.
