The night was heavy.Clouds hung low above Everos, hiding the moon and pressing the city into shadow. In the distance, thunder rumbled faintly—like a warning whispered across the rooftops.
Inside their small wooden home, the single oil lamp flickered weakly. The air smelled of smoke and rain.
Crimson sat by the window, staring at his reflection in the glass—two crimson eyes glinting back at him, still trembling faintly from what they had done earlier that day.
Outside, the streets were quiet. But beneath that quiet, he could feel it. The city was stirring. Word of the market fight had already spread. He could sense the whispering eyes of Everos turning toward him.
And he knew what that meant. Trouble.
The Weight of What He'd Done
He clenched his fists on the windowsill, the wood creaking softly.
He hadn't meant to go that far. He hadn't even thought—his body had just moved. One moment he was watching that bully strike the boy, and the next, his own fists were bleeding, and the crowd had gone silent.
He could still feel the echo of that punch, the way everyone had stared. For the first time, he hadn't been invisible.
But it didn't feel like victory. It felt like danger.
Arlen's voice broke the silence."You're still awake?"
Crimson didn't turn. "Couldn't sleep."
The old man sighed, walking over with two cups of warm tea. His hands were steady, though the lines on his face were drawn tighter than usual. He sat beside Crimson, setting one cup in front of him.
"You did what you thought was right," Arlen said after a while. "But Everos doesn't forgive righteousness. You know that."
"I know," Crimson murmured. "But if I hadn't done it, that boy might've been seriously hurt."
Arlen nodded slowly. "And because you did do it, you might be."
Crimson looked down at his reflection in the tea—ripples distorting his crimson eyes. "Do you think I should've stayed silent? Pretended I didn't see?"
Arlen took a sip, his gaze distant. "There's a time to fight, and a time to walk away. You haven't yet learned the difference… but neither did I, when I was your age."
That made Crimson glance up. "You fought too?"
A faint smile tugged at Arlen's lips. "Once. Long ago. Fights that mattered. Fights that didn't. And every one of them taught me something—that strength means nothing if it only breeds more blood."
Crimson was quiet for a moment. "Then why does everyone in this city crave it so much?"
Arlen looked toward the window. Outside, lightning briefly illuminated the streets—rows of dark rooftops, distant towers gleaming with faint light.
"Because power is the only thing Everos respects. Mercy is seen as weakness. Kindness as foolishness. That's why people here forget they're human."
Crimson's gaze softened. "But you didn't forget."
The old man chuckled softly. "I had your grandmother to remind me. And later… you."
The Quiet Between Them
For a while, neither spoke. The sound of rain began to patter against the window. The air grew colder.
Arlen leaned back, exhaling. "You know, Crimson… when I first found you that night, I thought you'd never smile. Your eyes were so full of grief, it scared me. But now…"
Crimson blinked, caught off guard.
"Now," Arlen continued, smiling faintly, "I see something else in them. Strength. Not just of body—but of heart. You can protect people, even in a world like this."
Crimson looked away, his throat tightening. "If I'm strong enough."
"You will be," Arlen said simply. "But strength without heart will make you just another sword in this cursed city. Promise me you won't lose that kindness. Not ever."
Crimson hesitated, then nodded. "I promise."
A Flicker of Fear
Another thunderclap rolled through the night. The lamp flickered, shadows dancing across the room.
Crimson finally asked the question that had been burning at him all evening."Grandpa… what if they come for me?"
Arlen's expression hardened slightly. "They will. The Dalthen family isn't the type to stay silent. You struck their heir, and in front of witnesses."
"Then what will we do?"
"We'll leave the house for a while. I have places they don't know."
Crimson frowned. "Running away?"
"Surviving," Arlen corrected. "There's a difference."
Crimson's chest tightened, but he nodded. "Alright."
The old man smiled faintly again. "You're learning fast, boy."
Then, quieter: "Too fast."
The Warmth That Stayed
Hours passed. The storm finally broke, rain hammering against the roof. The oil lamp burned low.
Crimson sat at the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the small sword Arlen always kept mounted above the doorway. It wasn't special. Not glowing, not ranked. Just a simple, worn blade.
He remembered the stories Arlen told—of swords that chose their masters, of bonds forged in battle and in heart. He wondered what kind of sword would ever choose someone like him.
Behind him, Arlen was already dozing, the faint rise and fall of his chest comforting in the dark.
Crimson lay back, closing his eyes. But even as sleep tugged at him, his mind refused to rest. He could see the bully's sneer, the weak boy's terrified eyes, the way the crowd had looked at him.
Fear. Awe. Hatred.
Everos had noticed him.
And once this city noticed you, it never forgot.
He turned toward the window. The rain had eased, leaving a trail of moonlight dripping down the glass.
In that silver reflection, his crimson eyes glowed softly—half fire, half sorrow.
He whispered, barely audible:"I'll protect the people you couldn't, Father. Mother. I'll be strong enough this time."
Then he closed his eyes.
And far away, in the heart of the Seventh Division, a messenger knelt before a shadowed figure."The boy who attacked your son, my lord. We've found his name."
A pause.
"Crimson."
The sound of that name lingered like thunder long after the storm had passed.
End of Chapter 5