Henry stepped into the room, his gaze flicking to Tarrin before his voice cut through the silence.
"You got everything packed?" His tone was calm, always measured, as if they weren't standing on the precipice of change.
Tarrin shrugged, his hand giving the duffle bag two hard slaps. "Yeah, not like I've had much to pack anyway." His words rang with finality, the weight of them hanging between them all.
Helga's voice softened, a tender note in it. "You'll stay for dinner at least, won't you?"
Tarrin's heart squeezed. Pain shot through his chest, but he stifled it, burying the emotions deep. No. He couldn't break down now. Not again.
He shook his head, his hand brushing his phone to check the time, anything to distract from the ache.
"Nah, sorry. Got matters to attend to before I report in." His voice lacked the conviction he wanted, but it was enough to silence any further objections.
"I must actually go right now, so…" He paused, forcing a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "See you in a year or two." The words came out, but the joke fell flat.
They all just stared at him, their expressions a mix of sadness and understanding that he couldn't shake.
Then, a small hand tugged at his coat. Mira.
"Wait."
She pulled something from her pocket, a crumpled piece of paper, and pressed it into his hand.
"So you don't forget us," she said softly, her big eyes watching him with a mix of hope and quiet sadness.
Tarrin unfolded it, seeing a drawing of them all together—smiling under the sun.
But even in the sketch, he was standing just a little further away, almost like a shadow in the background.
He knelt in front of her, smiling as best he could. "Not a chance," he said, ruffling her hair. His heart twisted, but he didn't let it show.
Helga was already there, her arms open, and without a second thought, Tarrin pulled her into a tight hug.
"Goodbye, Tarrin," she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow.
Then his gaze shifted to Harry, who stood at the edge of the room, quiet as always. Their eyes locked, and Harry spoke.
"Tarrin, just remember what I taught you."
Tarrin nodded, but before he could say anything, Harry stepped forward, his hand clasping his. Without warning, Harry pulled him into a firm hug, his voice low but sincere.
"Best of luck out there, soldier."
Tarrin didn't respond. He couldn't. He just nodded, his throat tight, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
Tarrin stepped out of the apartment, Simon trailing behind him in silence. The air outside felt heavy, the weight of the day settling in.
The walk toward the main door stretched on, the quiet between them thick and unspoken.
When they reached the street, Tarrin turned to find Simon on the verge of breaking down. His eyes were red, and there was a tremble in his voice when he spoke.
"Don't die out there, bro." He held out his fist, a weak but genuine gesture.
Tarrin pressed his fist against Simon's, a simple exchange that felt like an unspoken promise—one that neither of them had the words for.
"You know me, bro," Tarrin said, his voice steady. "I'm not so easy to take down." There was a pause, the weight of the moment hanging in the air between them.
Then he added, his voice a little quieter, "Take care of Mira for me. She's a sweet little thing."
Simon swallowed hard, nodding. "I will... I will. Goodbye, bro." Without another word, he turned, the door closing behind him with a soft thud.
And just like that, the goodbyes were done.
Tarrin stood there for a moment, the silence of the street pressing in on him. With a deep breath, he turned and walked into the unknown, his future uncertain, but his resolve solid.
Tarrin walked the streets he'd called home for seventeen years, each step echoing with memories.
Once, the mainland had been nothing more than a distant myth, its wars and horrors just stories whispered in dimly lit rooms. Now, it was his reality.
His gaze swept over the familiar sights, tracing the ghosts of his past.
The bar where Simon once swore he'd score them fake IDs—half-baked schemes and reckless laughter filling the air.
The alley where he'd run his most profitable scam, outwitting fools twice his age with nothing but quick hands and a sharper tongue.
A smirk tugged at his lips. What a time that was.
But time didn't wait for anyone—not for street rats, not for dreamers, and certainly not for him.
Nostalgia was a luxury he couldn't afford. The past was gone. The future loomed. And survival was all that mattered now.
After forty-five minutes of walking, Tarrin crossed the invisible line that divided Merlen in two—the part where rats didn't scurry through every alley and hunger wasn't a daily struggle.
Here, the streets were cleaner, the air lighter, and the people lived without the constant shadow of gangs looming over them.
He stopped in front of a sleek building of glass and steel, its smooth surface reflecting the world like it belonged to a different reality.
A reality where people didn't fight for scraps, where survival wasn't a game rigged against you.
As he stood there, he felt the weight of their stares. Some gazed at him with quiet pity, as if he were already a ghost. Others looked at him like he was some kind of hero marching off to war.
Fools and realists. It was easy to tell them apart.
Tarrin exhaled, shaking off the thoughts. Then, without hesitation, he stepped inside.
The inside of the building was sleek and modern, filled with people going about their lives as if the world beyond these walls didn't exist. As if they weren't sending people off to die.
Tarrin wasn't sure if he was ready to move on with his.
His eyes landed on the four registration windows, their sole purpose to process fresh recruits like items on a conveyor belt. 'Well, here goes nothing.'
The place was empty—no lines, no other poor souls waiting their turn. Just him.
He stepped forward, flashing the bored-looking clerk a casual smile. "Here to report my awakening."
The woman barely reacted, her middle-aged face set in a permanent mask of disinterest. She might as well have been working at a grocery store.
"Identification card," she said, pointing toward the slot in the glass.
Tarrin handed it over without a word. She barely glanced at it before feeding it into a machine, the quiet hum filling the silence between them.
A few moments later, she slid a paper toward him. "Fill this out. Sign at the bottom."
Tarrin sat down and did as he was told, pen scratching against paper. Name, date of birth, place of awakening—questions that felt too simple for something that would change the course of his life.
When he handed it back, she skimmed over it with the same detachment before nodding. "Door on the right. They'll handle the scan. Bye."
That was it? No ceremony, no weighty speech about duty and sacrifice? Just a form and a door?
He let out a quiet scoff. 'Figures.'
Shrugging, he pushed open the door—only to be met with... another reception desk.
This time, the clerk was a man—older, with graying hair at his temples and a slight hunch to his posture. Unlike the woman before, he actually looked somewhat engaged in his job.
"Ah, you must be Tarrin Vex," he said, barely glancing up from his screen. Tarrin raised a brow.
"Mind showing me your scar? It's on your wrist, correct?"
Tarrin hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing the jagged mark etched into his skin—the proof of his awakening.
The man grabbed a small handheld device from his desk, something sleek and unfamiliar. With a practiced motion, he aimed it at the scar, a soft whirring filling the air.
Tarrin resisted the urge to pull back. "Scanner?"
"Something like that," the man said without looking up.
The device let out a sharp, high-pitched beep, and the man nodded in approval.
"Everything checks out. No anomalies." He gestured toward the hallway behind him. "Doctor's waiting for you down the hall. Just head straight through."
Tarrin rolled his sleeve back down, sparing the man a final glance before stepping forward. 'So this is how it begins.'
Tarrin cast one last glance over his shoulder before heading down the stark white hallway, each step echoing against the polished floor. The further he went, the heavier his stomach felt—he had no idea what to expect next.
At the end of the hall stood a large metal door. He rapped his knuckles against it twice.
"Enter!" A voice called from within.
Tarrin pushed it open, stepping inside to find a middle-aged man seated behind a sleek desk. The guy was already smiling—too wide, too friendly.
Tch. What's with that grin? Tarrin kept his expression neutral, but something about the doctor made his skin crawl.
Still, he didn't falter. With a straight back and measured steps, he strode forward and dropped into the chair across from him.
The doctor took one last glance at his computer before speaking, his tone annoyingly warm. "Mr. Vex, correct?"
Tarrin's jaw tightened.
'This guy definitely like to work with kids?'