"Selene Veyra? Who is she?" Ean whispered in confusion.
"She is one of the finest witches in Grenhant City. You'll find out soon enough," replied the young man on his left, an Acolyte.
A witch? The word alone sent a ripple through Ean's chest. The existence of special divisions and individuals with powers beyond the ordinary wasn't a secret, everyone in the city had heard the stories: Guardians who wielded fire, priests who could heal wounds, hunters who bent shadows.
But hearing about them was one thing; meeting them was another. Encounters were rare, like rumors given flesh, and only those caught up in something truly extraordinary, or truly dangerous, would ever cross their path. Yet here he was, living the impossibility.
Not long after, Ean was brought into a plain interrogation room with only a table and two chairs. His eyes wandered around; there were no openings, no escape. On the far wall stood a wide mirror, reflecting his weary figure bound to the chair.
Moments later, a woman entered. She had short black hair, thin glasses perched on her nose, and carried an old tome along with a quill.
"Ean Briden, forgive me for keeping you waiting," she said warmly, smiling as she sat across from him and placed her book on the table.
"It wasn't me…" Ean stammered desperately. "I don't know why this is happening, but I swear... I'm only a calligraphy seller. Nothing more."
The woman smiled patiently. "It doesn't matter. True or false, I will see everything…" she said with quiet confidence.
"See… everything?" Ean muttered, bewildered.
She only nodded, pushing the open book closer until it lay before him.
Strange runes glimmered faintly across the pages, pulsing for an instant - before Ean collapsed face-first onto the table, consciousness slipping away.
**
The world was not at peace. Chaos and ruin spread across the land. Death and famine had become ordinary.
In a remote village called Graun, a boy of ten clutched his frail, starving body, his stomach growling for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Beggar brat! Get out of here!" snarled the owner of a small bakery, swinging a broken broom at him.
Little Ean stumbled away, panting, lips cracked, legs trembling.
Not far from him, several grown beggars were fighting over scraps in the garbage like starving dogs. Ean only watched, too small and too weak to join them.
He slipped into a filthy alley, pressing himself against the wall, hoping someone kind might pity him.
Chit… chit… chit… Rats scurried past, drawing his gaze. His stomach clenched. For a moment, he actually considered catching one to eat. But the vermin were far quicker than he was. All he earned for his effort were fresh scratches and bleeding hands.
Food was impossibly hard to come by. It wasn't unusual for beggars to die on the streets. For an orphan like Ean, still clinging to life at ten years old, survival itself was a miracle.
His weary eyes caught sight of a well-dressed woman strolling past with a sandwich in hand. The bread in her grasp was heaven itself.
She noticed him staring. Her face twisted in disgust, and Ean shrank back in fear. In this world, killing a person was easier than killing a stray cat. If he wasn't careful, he could die here too.
"Ugh, disgusting. You ruined my appetite." With a scowl, the woman tossed her bread aside.
Ean's eyes lit up. He lunged for it, snatching the bread before anyone else could, and devoured it greedily - even though it barely eased the gnawing hunger in his belly.
"Filthy brat," the woman muttered from afar.
As Ean swallowed the last bite, tiny white flakes began to fall from the sky.
"Snow?" he whispered, gazing upward.
If life was already unbearable in the summer, how could he possibly survive the winter?
People began rushing for shelter. Ean darted into the narrow alley he called home, only to freeze in shock.
Other beggars were already there, wrapped in the scraps of paper and cloth he had painstakingly collected from the streets.
"That's… mine," Ean croaked, voice raspy.
"Yours? Where's the proof? Get lost, brat," barked an old beggar who had claimed his belongings.
The others didn't care. All that mattered was survival.
Trembling, Ean stepped forward and reached for the nearest scrap of cloth. "This is mine," he insisted weakly.
"Damn brat!" With a single blow, the old man hurled Ean against the crumbling wall. Pain shot through his tiny body.
"Listen well, boy," the man growled. "In this world, you either kill… or be killed."
Ean's watery eyes darted around, but no one offered help. The old beggar walked away, clutching Ean's precious scraps, wrapping himself for warmth as snow thickened in the air.
The child curled on the ground, his body wracked by hunger and cold.
"Was that piece of bread earlier… the last gift I'd ever taste in this world?"
His stiff neck tilted back, eyes following the snowflakes drifting from the heavens.
"Beautiful… maybe now, I won't have to suffer anymore."
His thoughts grew faint. His vision dimmed. But then...
BOOM!
An explosion ripped through the village. Flames devoured the largest building in Graun. Shouts and panicked cries filled the streets.
"The grocer's shop is on fire!" someone yelled.
People rushed to the scene - not to help, but to plunder. Even the old beggar who had stolen Ean's things abandoned his post, running toward the inferno.
Summoning what little strength he had, Ean crawled forward and snatched a few scraps left behind. He wrapped them around his frail body, shivering but alive.
He didn't dare join the looters. But soon the screams returned - louder, bloodcurdling. Men and women fled, their bodies aflame.
"H-… Help me! Help me, please... " The old beggar who had beaten Ean stumbled toward him, fire consuming his flesh.
Ean's eyes went wide. Terrified, he hurled the scrap of cloth he clung to into the man's arms and ran in the opposite direction.
"What's happening?" Ean's mind reeled.
The fire only spread wider, swallowing buildings, people, the night itself. Buckets of water did nothing. The flames did not weaken. They only grew stronger.