Why is she here?
How is she still alive?
Before I could speak, she lunged at me—mud splashing under her knees as she clawed at my back like she could drag herself into another life.
"Where's Luca, Cassian?!" she screamed in English, her voice cracked and wild. "Is he with you? Please—please tell me he is!"
She looked like a ghost. A nightmare. But her voice was real—and it shattered me.
I hesitated.
"Metania… he's gone."
It felt like swallowing glass.
But she needed to know. Needed something—anything—to bury.
"Cassian, who is this?" Yasmin asked beside me, bewildered.
Before I could answer, the murmurs began.
Whispers. Spitting. Bile.
"Metania…" someone growled.
"It's her."
"The disgrace returns."
Two older men surged forward and ripped her off me.
"No—no! Give me my child!" she screamed, kicking, twisting, trying to break free.
Then came the first boot.
And then another.
One to her back.
One to her face.
Again. Again.
"Stop it!" I yelled, pushing at them, slamming fists into torsos and shoulders.
But I couldn't move them.
I couldn't stop them.
Just like with Luca.
I stumbled back, useless.
Then the manor doors creaked open. The lord stepped out, tall and unimpressed.
"Bring her to my office!" he barked.
Two men obeyed, dragging her limp and sobbing through the doors.
I ran after them without thinking—Yasmin chasing close behind.
They slammed the door.
I curled against the wall outside, my chest hollow.
Yasmin sat beside me and placed her head on my shoulder, her fingers curling around mine.
Neither of us spoke. We didn't have to.
Metania's muffled screams said it all.
Fists thudding.
Wooden chair creaking.
Tears choking on words.
She was being beaten like a stray dog.
I wanted to cover my ears.
But I didn't.
She shouldn't be alone in this, even if she never knew I stayed.
After what felt like hours, the door flung open.
They dragged her out—arms limp, lip bleeding, her face swelling with every breath.
They tossed her like garbage down the steps to the cellar. She tumbled and hit the ground with a wet smack.
I rushed forward, my chest aching with something I didn't understand.
I don't know why I cared so much.
She wasn't my mother.
She didn't treat me like a son.
But I knew her.
She needed someone.
Just like I had.
But as I stood in the doorway, looking down the stairs at Metania, all I could think was: what can I do to be useful?
But nothing came to mind.
I just stood there—like I always do—watching her weep and curl up.
I couldn't take it.
It reminded me too much of myself.
The uselessness.
I turned away, still with Yasmin close behind.
She looked confused.
I could hear her thoughts.
Why did I care?
What was my relationship with her?
But I decided—if I acted like I didn't know Metania, maybe the others would forget.
Forget the short time I spoke to her this morning.
Forget that I had anything to do with whatever she did to make them all so furious.
"Cass, how do you know her? And how does she know you?" Yasmin asked, still following me outside the manor.
I stopped, but I couldn't speak.
One wrong word, and my simple life here could shatter.
Worse—Yasmin and Noura might come to hate me.
So I kept walking, ignoring the question.
My task list was full for the day. I did everything without speaking.
Noura and Yasmin tried to get my attention—even just a smile—but it was no use.
Too much was on my mind.
The day flew by.
My thoughts clouded everything but my mundane tasks.
Night came quickly.
I followed everyone else down to the cellar, avoiding the two girls I'd grown close to.
As we crowded in, I saw Metania curled up in the corner, away from everyone else.
She stared at me.
I looked away. Quickly.
I regret it—but it had to be done.
Just looking at her brought back cold memories.
Memories I wish I never had.
I laid down.
It felt like hours passed.
My eyes were closed, but sleep never came.
My thoughts ran wild. Nothing could quench them.
I turned over—and saw her.
She was staring at me.
But not like a ghost.
She looked like someone who regretted many things too.
Her eyes were blackened, but they wept down.
For some reason… She looked relaxed.
Maybe because she could look at a familiar face.
Maybe one that didn't hate her.
But do I hate her?
I don't know.
Like many things.
I stood up quietly and walked toward her.
She was just as helpless as I was—
which made us one and the same.
I sat beside her.
Her hands reached toward my face.
I let her.
"Cassian…" she whispered, tearing up. "Please don't leave me."
What am I supposed to say?
What does she mean?
"Cassian…" Her tears finally slowed. "No matter what, I won't let anyone hurt you—my sweet boy."
What?
Is she hallucinating?
I'm not Luca. I'll never be.
"Don't say that, Metania. You're not my mother—and you never will be."
I pushed her away, angry at the thought she'd ever try to replace Luca.
To replace him. To replace her feelings and mine.
Just speaking to her reminds me of the pain I witnessed.
But why do I feel so much conflict within me?
Do I feel regret?
I do regret everything that has happened…
But nothing I do can change anything in the present, past, or future.
All I can do is shield others from the pain and sights I've witnessed.
But isn't that contradicting what I just did?
I pushed her away—
a woman, I regret to say, who took me in at my time of need.
Now she needs the same thing.
Someone who doesn't treat her like she's the bane of their existence.
And in the end… maybe I too will heal.
As she stared at me—hurting—I hugged her.
A hug different from Yasmin's.
A hug born of shared grief and trauma, not pity.
It felt like it lasted the entire night.
And when I opened my eyes, I saw everyone preparing for the start of another day.
I caught glances as Metania drooled softly on my shoulder.
I got up quickly, careful not to wake her, and began preparing for the day as well.
The overseer gave me a new task: assist the guards behind the manor.
As I made my way to them, someone grabbed my shoulder.
I turned around.
The man was tall and clad in steel. His armor was thick and battle-worn—shiny in some places, rusted in others, and marked with dents, sigils, and faded ornaments. A halberd, nearly as tall as he was, rested at his side, while his helmet was tucked between his bicep and chest. His skin was dark, his face lined with scars, and his presence radiated the weight of experience. A veteran, without question.
"You must be Cassian," he said with a rough laugh. "Nice to meet you."
I stood there silent staring at the man who could kill me with his bare fist.
"I'm sorry!" He laughed again "You must be wondering who I am. I'm Sir Qahir Veyrahn. You must also be wondering why you don't recognize my family name. I'm a lowborn that rose through the ranks through brute force!"
He must be crazy.
Too eccentric to be an old knight.
"Well, good evening to you, sir," I said, trying to keep respect in my voice. From what I'd learned, disrespect in this world wasn't tolerated. "What can I help you with, sir?"
He towered over me, glancing down.
"Well, to my knowledge, a kid from the Alnilam House named Cassian is supposed to be my new squire."
He looked me up and down, eyeing my face and body.
"Well, you're too dirty to be an Alnilam. So, what's your family name, my newly acquired squire?"
"Well… it's Sol, sir. My name is Cassian Sol," I answered without hesitation.
He stared at me. His eyes widened.
And I felt it. His anger. But why?
Did I say something wrong?
"Did you say Sol?" His tone dropped—dead serious.
"This is not the time or place to be making jokes."
"What do you mean, sir? My family name is Sol."
I didn't understand. Why was it serious? Why did he think it was a joke?
But before I could think, he grabbed me by the throat and lifted me into the air.
My hands clawed at his, trying to pry them loose.
It was no use.
He was too strong. Too powerful.
My two hands combined were smaller than one of his.
I couldn't breathe.
Was this how I died?
There's no way I would die like this.
I didn't do anything wrong.
Or… did I?
"You should know," he roared, "that even speaking that name is treasonous in this land! Now, boy, tell me—is it a joke or not?"
A crowd began to form, murmuring, watching.
Then I heard them—Yasmin and Noura.
"Sire, please, he doesn't mean it!" Noura cried.
"Please, sire! He doesn't know better. He doesn't have a family name. He only started learning our language a few months ago—please let him go!" Yasmin begged.
He dropped me.
I slammed to the ground, the back of my head hitting hard.
Dizzy. Blurry. I could barely see anything—just the looming figure above me.
He was ruthless. And strong.
I'd have to be careful.
"You should've said that earlier, my boy!" he barked out a laugh, as if he hadn't just tried to kill me.
"That was a good laugh! You're the funniest squire I've had yet!" as he grabbed my shoulder with the strength of twelve gorillas and pulled me up.
Noura and Yasmin rushed over.
"You need to be careful, Cassian!" Yasmin scolded, checking my throat.
"It doesn't seem like you're hurt," Noura said calmly, helping me stand.
My breathing was ragged. This unstoppable man had nearly crushed my throat. All I could do was listen to whatever he needed me to do.
As Yasmin and Noura returned to their tasks, I was dragged away by Sir Qahir.
"Starting today, you're under my guidance and training!" Qahir announced, pointing to a sword on a table. "Pick it up. This will be your weapon of war."
"But sir, I don't even know how to use a sword! And what do you mean by war?" I asked, regretting it the moment it left my mouth.
"We're going to war soon, my young squire! And I'll teach you everything you need to know," he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
What do you mean war? Me? This is too much to think about right now.
I picked up the sword. It was heavy and dirty, chips and scratches lining the blade. It had seen many battles. I wrapped my fingers around the hilt—it felt right, but too heavy to hold for long.
"Now, squire, try to hit me. I need to see how truly horrible you are," he said, arms crossed.
He didn't have to say it like that, but he wasn't wrong. I had no skill with a sword, or any weapon for that matter. My life had been simple until now, and I never thought I'd be in a situation like this. But I had no choice.
"Yes, sir. I'll try my best," I said, hesitating, knowing I couldn't hit him.
"Good!" He stood there, arms still crossed, never even reaching for a weapon.
I raised the sword, my hands already shaking under its weight. It felt like they would give out before I even got a swing in.
I charged, sword above my head.
No technique.
Just desperation.
I swung down with all the force I could muster.
In a blink, his hand was in my face, shoving me down.
A crushing force slammed into my back, sharp and powerful, like my spine had snapped.
His elbow.
I hit the mud face-first, coughing, wheezing.
In a single moment, he took me down.
I couldn't stand.
Mud covered my eyes and filled my mouth.
The hit knocked every ounce of air from my lungs.
Shit.
I might actually die soon.
I have to go to war and these types of people will be my enemies.
No chance in hell I'm going to do anything.
Might as well lay down and die right here.
"I barely hit ya!" He said "You'll die if this is all you can handle"
I crawled up to my feet. My sword barely hanging out of my hand with the blade in the dirt.
I already felt exhausted.
I swung my sword upward with the last bit of strength I had.
Flashes burst in my vision—white bleeding into red.
For a heartbeat, Qahir's figure warped into something faceless, shadowed, moving with voices I couldn't place.
Then I was in the mud again, gasping.
"That wasn't half bad, kiddo," Qahir said, though his tone wasn't as amused as before. "Maybe you're better than I thought."
His gaze sharpened. "Cassian… do you know what Luminaris is?"
I pushed myself onto my knees, blinking away the grit. "No, sir. Should I?"
"You should," he said slowly. "Only those born into the Families can use it. It's in their blood. And you just did."
I froze, gripping my sword tighter. "I told you—I'm not from here. I don't know how this world works."
Qahir crouched until our eyes met. "Then answer me straight, boy—are you certain you're not part of a Family?"
"I'm certain," I said, forcing my voice steady.
He studied me for a long moment, then finally stood. "Hmph. Either you're lying… or you're the strangest squire I've ever had. Either way—you're with me now."
"While we're on the subject," he added, "my superior in the Purgy told me stories about wanderers who wield power without a drop of royal blood. They're called Echoes That Stray—though most folks just call them Strays."
"Am I one of those?" I asked, hoping maybe I wasn't as weak as I thought.
Qahir smirked, patting my shoulder. "You? A Stray?" His laugh was sharp, almost mocking. "Impossible. Those are just old campfire tales. You're probably from some lowborn house so forgettable you don't even know its name."
"So, what is Luminaris?" I asked, steering away from his jab.
"It's the power granted to noble families by their gods," he said. "These gods are the heads of our bloodlines, even if we've never seen them. Each one shines in the night sky, and the closer the star, the greater the power."
"So how do I use it?"
"You just did, Cassian!" Qahir barked, grinning. "This power only wakes up when you imagine it."
He flicked my forehead. "Use your noggin, kid. I'm not about to hand you all the tips on day one."
Over the next couple of months, Qahir trained me—teaching me to fight and slipping in bits of knowledge about the world. I've started to get the hang of using Luminaris.
It's simple to start: picture something impossible. Want to cut something in half? Imagine it beforehand—every detail, down to the dirt under your feet and the scratches on your opponent's blade. If they're using Luminaris too, the sharper imagination wins.
Simple to use. Hard to master.
"You've grown so much, my young squire—you might even last longer than the rest." Qahir's laughter echoed as I slumped against the wooden door, lungs burning.
I knew I was getting stronger. But it wasn't pride I felt—it was dread.
Because whenever I used Luminaris, I saw inside Qahir. Not flesh or bone—something deeper.
A shifting mass of voices, whispering, screaming—pleading to be released. Figures clawing at unseen walls. Faces twisted in agony, eyes locked on me as if they knew my name.
I can't tell if it's the ability showing me this… or if something monstrous is caged inside my master, waiting to break free.
"Cassian, our training will be cut short today," Qahir said, tightening the leather straps on his armor. "I've got a meeting with the Starborne Council in the village of Sevrath. I'll be gone a few days, so you'd better keep up with your drills."
"Yes, sir, but… what is the Starborne Council?"
Qahir stopped mid-step, glancing over his shoulder.
"They are the warlords of the Najmun's might—the commanders who lead the armies of the five most powerful families. Their words can send tens of thousands to die by sunrise. Every one of them has carved their place through blood, steel, and brilliance on the battlefield. When they meet, the air is heavy enough to choke you, and every Purgy and even Nobleman within earshot stands straighter without thinking."
He adjusted the halberd on his back, his voice dropping to a low rumble.
"They're not kings, Cassian. They don't need to be. They're the ones who win the wars the kings boast about."
"The Najmun? I've heard that name before."
"Sir… before you leave, may I ask what the Najmun is exactly?"
"You really don't know anything, do you?" Qahir muttered, sliding his helmet into place.
"They're the star-born dynasties—every family that comes from the second son of Sol, Kentaurus. Their Luminaris flows so strong that without it, nothing grows. No wheat. No fruit. Not even the grass under your feet. The fields only flourish because their Luminaris feeds the roots… and if they withdrew it, every farm would turn to dust before the next moon."
He adjusted the strap beneath his chin, his gaze drifting away for a moment.
"That's why the people bow. Not because they're loyal… but because they're chained. You can't fight someone who decides whether your children eat or starve."
His voice dropped, carrying a rough edge. "Believe me, boy, I've dreamed of seeing those chains broken. But men like us—no matter how sharp the blade—we don't decide how the world turns."
He hefted his halberd, turning toward the gates.
"And the Najmun know it. That's why they keep their grip tight. When they speak, nations kneel… and when they're displeased, entire kingdoms vanish."
As he left, unease settled in my gut. This world was bigger than I thought. All I'd known since arriving was the manor and the walls that hemmed it in. Thinking about it now, I'd never even stepped beyond the gate.
Part of me wanted to ask about the stitched-masked people. Just thinking about them made my hand clench.
Two nights passed before I finally wrapped up my night training. Grueling, yes—but the more I did it, the better I felt. It was the only thing that scraped the darker thoughts out of my head.
I grabbed the hem of my beaten, sweat-stained shirt and wiped my forehead.
"Time to hit the sack," I muttered, heading back toward the manor.
The night air was alive with the chirps and clicks of insects. In the distance, I caught the muffled chatter of restless souls and the laughter of those with nothing better to do.
But beneath it all… I felt it. That creeping weight in the air. The thick, almost metallic aura that always clung to Sir Qahir.
I reached for the manor's tall doors—then froze. The aura was behind me now.
Steel clattered against stone. Something heavy hit the ground with a dull thud.
I turned.
Qahir stood there, armor caked in dust and stains of blood, stinking like a pig left to wallow in its own filth.
"Cassian." His voice was flat, his breath rough. He pulled off his helmet.
"Start packing. We leave at sunrise."