I woke up gasping, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.
Again. The same dream.
The giant ones—the so-called "gods"—walked over us like we were bugs beneath their feet. They didn't hate us. They didn't even notice us. To them, we were less than nothing.
Every morning, the big stone tower in the village center would glow red. And every time it pulsed, it stole something from us. Not our food. Not our homes. But the fire inside us—the will to fight back.
Most people learned to kneel. To stay quiet. To disappear.
But three of us refused to forget.
I was one of them.
In my dream, I always made the same promise:
"I'll make them feel the burn too."
Then—
"—Ardyn!"
My mother's voice yanked me back to reality. The hut was dark except for the dying fire. My whole body was shaking.
She sat beside me, her work-rough hands smoothing back my sweaty hair. "Same dream?" she asked quietly.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
The villagers called me weak. "First to die," they whispered when they thought I couldn't hear. Because I flinched at loud noises. Because I woke up screaming some nights.
Mom pulled me close. I was getting too old for this, but right then I didn't care. Her shawl smelled like dried herbs and woodsmoke.
"They're wrong about you," she murmured. "You don't shake because you're scared."
"Then why?" My voice came out cracked and small.
"Because you remember," she said simply. "And some memories weigh more than fear."
Outside, the stone tower pulsed red.
And somewhere in the dark... something woke up.
But that comes later.
I was seven years old when I first met Therion Duskbane, and he hated me on sight.
There he was, looming over the village well like a stormcloud in human form—black hair sticking up in every direction from too many fights, dark eyes narrowed like he was deciding whether to punch me or just steal my lunch. Even at ten years old, he was already built like a bear cub, his arms scraped and bruised from whatever trouble he'd gotten into that morning.
I tried to walk past.
"You," he announced, pointing at me like I'd personally offended him, "are too pretty."
I blinked. "What?"
"Pretty." He said it like it was a disease. "Like one of those stupid porcelain dolls rich ladies keep on shelves." He kicked a pebble at my feet. "It's annoying."
I looked down at myself - all scrawny limbs and patched clothes. "You need your eyes checked."
"Nah. It's your face that's the problem."
And just like that, we were friends.
Though "friends" might be too strong a word. More like "reluctant accomplices." By week's end, he'd broken two noses defending my honor (I never asked him to), and I'd gotten us out of trouble with the village elders four times (he never thanked me).
THE RIVALRY
Therion couldn't stand how the village treated me.
Old women pinched my cheeks, calling me "blessed by the Twin Moons." Little girls left wildflowers by our doorstep - which Therion would "accidentally" trample while muttering about "stupid weeds." Even the stray dogs preferred me, which was objectively unfair since Therion was the one who:
A) Sneaked them scraps
B) Built them a doghouse (badly)
C) Named every single one "Biter"
Meanwhile, Therion - who could bench-press a goat at twelve - got a pat on the head and "Try not to break anything today, lad."
"It's not fair," he grumbled one evening, sharpening his dagger with unnecessary violence.
I tossed an apple at his head. He caught it midair, teeth sinking in like he was murdering it.
"Jealous?" I asked.
He spoke through pulped fruit: "I should be the pretty one. I've got all the scars." He flexed a bicep proudly displaying what looked like a bite mark. "This one's from a wolf!"
"...That's Old Man Gerrick's terrier."
"Same difference."
THE SECRET
What nobody knew: Therion could read.
Badly.
Painfully.
Like watching a blind man navigate a brothel.
He'd sneak into the temple ruins after dark, scowling at the same books I loved. I pretended not to notice - until the night I found him passed out on a parchment, drooling all over Celestial Mechanics for Aspiring Heretics.
I nudged him with my boot. "You're holding it upside down."
Therion jerked awake, wiping his mouth. "Fuck off, bookworm."
"Took you three hours to read two pages."
"I was studying."
I sat beside him and slid over Ballads of Blood & Bastards - all gory battles and just enough dirty limericks to hold his attention.
By sunrise, he'd finished it - and drawn crude mustaches on every illustrated hero.
THE TRUTH
Where I was quiet, Therion was a walking tavern brawl.
Where I planned three steps ahead, Therion punched first and apologized never.
And where I had nothing but my wits, Therion had Spatial Recall - the gods' idea of a bad joke. Once per day, he could teleport anywhere he'd been before.
He mostly used this divine gift to:
Steal Widow Marl's meat pies
Escape the brothel after "forgetting" to pay
Appear dramatically behind me while I was pissing
"Girls sigh when you walk by," he'd complain, slinging a mud-caked arm around my shoulders. "They scream when I teleport into their bathhouses."
"That's called 'being a criminal,' Therion."
"Technicalities."
To prove his point, he vanished - only to reappear straddling the roof's apex. "See? Useful!"
"...How are you getting down?"
A beat. Then, quietly: "Shit."
I sighed and went to fetch the ladder - again.