The dawn had not yet broken; only a faint silver line stretched across the horizon. The barracks lay in silence, everyone still asleep—except for one young man sitting awake on his bed.
Noa slowly opened his eyes. The softness of the pillow and the sweetness of sleep no longer mattered to him. Drawing in a deep breath, he stepped outside.
The courtyard was empty. The soil was damp, the chill of the air cutting sharply against his face. Noa stretched out his arms, tightening every muscle, then letting them loosen again. He struck the air with sharp, precise blows—each one as solemn as a prayer.
Six months ago, a single strike would have sent him to the ground. Now his body was resilient, and his eyes carried an unshakable determination.
"I am not strong," he thought. "I've only learned not to fall. And that is greater than strength."
---
Noa's Daily Life
— Dawn. He is always the first to wake. He runs, hardens his body, and cuts through the air with blows. Each strike reminds him: I am alive.
— Morning. His meal is plain—stale bread, thin broth… and rat meat. Once revolting, it has now become the source of his strength.
— Daytime. He walks the path to the library, unrolling dusty manuscripts to study the anatomy of dragons. Each page is a weapon; each line of text, a shield. In the margins, he scrawls notes: Ignorance is the true weakness.
— Training hours. At the Academy, he spars. His opponents are larger, stronger. But Noa notices what they cannot hide—the trembling of a knee, the faltering of breath, the strain in a wrist. He wins not by force, but by patience and perception.
— Afternoon. Alone, he retreats to the shadows. He repeats the same strike—hundreds, thousands of times—until the motion is carved into his bones.
---
Night fell. The pale light of the moon slipped through the window, casting half the room in silver. The curtain stirred in the wind's whisper.
Noa lay against his pillow, eyes closed, when a voice broke the silence:
— "Noa…"
He lifted his head slowly. By the window stood Lilya, her wings trembling faintly in the glow. Her face was heavy with sorrow, her eyes dim and brimming with unspilled tears.
Noa rose, his tone sharp:
— "How many times will you force me to hear the same words? You see how far I've come."
Lilya's lips trembled. Her voice cracked.
— "Brother… something terrible has happened."
A shadow of suspicion crossed Noa's face.
— "And what does that have to do with me? Speak plainly."
Lilya drew in a breath. She lowered her gaze, gripping her wrists tightly, as though to still their trembling. Her voice was heavy, weighted with dread:
— "It's… about your parents."
Noa's heart seemed to stop. His voice quivered, fierce:
— "Speak!"
Lilya's head sank lower. The words came out fractured, letter by letter:
— "They… are dead."
Silence.
The world froze—the wind, the moonlight, even time itself.
Noa lurched to his feet. His eyes widened, his fists clenched until his veins bulged, his breath ragged with fury and dread.
— "WHAT DID YOU SAY?!"
Lilya stepped back, stricken. She could not answer.
Noa seized her shoulders, shaking her violently, his eyes blazing.
— "Take it back! I misheard you, didn't I?! This is a lie—tell me it's a lie!"
Lilya's tears spilled over. Her voice was quiet, yet unyielding:
— "No… you heard me right."
Noa collapsed to his knees. His breath hitched, his chest pounding as though it might rip free of his body. Her words—They are dead—echoed endlessly in his ears.
Then suddenly—
He slammed his fist against the floor. The wood cracked under the blow.
— "Noooo!!!"
He struck again. And again. Each strike was an attempt to drive out the agony in his chest—but instead, it grew heavier.
— "Why? Why now? Why them?!"
His cries reverberated through the narrow walls. Lilya stood nearby, weeping, yet too afraid to approach.
Noa buried his face in his hands, pounding his forehead against the floor. His shoulders shook, his voice broke, and tears soaked the ground beneath him. This was no ordinary weeping—it was the kind that split the heart and seared the soul.
The night dragged on, yet Noa did not stop. His fists bled, his knees were raw, his breath came in gasps choked with sobs.
At last, blood mingled with his tears. Red streaks ran down his face, glistening in the moonlight with terrible beauty.
His voice grew hoarse, his body exhausted. Yet his anguish did not relent. Until dawn, he remained there—crushed by grief, soaked in blood and tears.
Lilya watched, trembling. She had never seen Noa so broken, so utterly undone. Her wings quivered, her eyes drowned in tears. Yet she knew—this was a pain he alone must endure.
When morning came, Noa still lay upon the floor. His eyes were bloodshot, his face swollen, his lips parched. But his heart was no longer the same. In a single night, the old Noa had died.
---
The horizon glimmered once more with that pale silver line. Soldiers stood in rigid ranks, discipline hanging in the air.
Zobid's gaze swept across the formation. But the young man who always stood at the very front was absent.
— "Where is Noa?" His tone was sharp, commanding.
The soldiers glanced at one another, whispering. None answered.
At last, one lowered his head.
— "Commander… he has never once been late. But today…"
Zobid's eyes narrowed. Suspicion stirred within him.
— "He has never failed to appear. Even when injured, even bleeding, he took his place. This is no accident. You two—go to his quarters. Find him. And…" His gaze hardened. "…treat him with respect."
Two soldiers stepped forward.
— "Understood, Commander."
They hurried off, whispering with sly smiles.
— "Why do you think he's late?"
— "Who knows? Maybe he overslept. He's still a fallen prince after all—softness lingers in him."
— "When we find him, we should give him a little 'lesson.' Skip training until lunch, and the Commander won't punish us. We'll have our excuse."
— "Ha! Exactly."
They reached the building. Ancient walls crumbled, windows coated in dust, doors hanging crooked.
— "So this is where he lives? A fine place for a dethroned prince."
— "Yes… so ends royalty."
They stepped inside. Darkness swallowed the corridor, the air damp and cold. Six rooms lined the passage.
— "Which one is his?"
— "Don't know. We'll check them all."
One by one, they opened the doors. Each room—empty, desolate, coated in dust.
The first soldier gripped the next handle and pushed. The door creaked open…
And he froze. His eyes widened, his face drained of color, his lips trembling.
The second soldier frowned.
— "What is it? Why are you—"
Then he too looked inside. And his heart turned to ice.
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