The rains didn't stop.
Not that year. Not the one after.
Tyre's people learned to live with damp walls, with the smell of mud and mold clinging to everything, like smoke they couldn't blow away. The river swelled each season, swallowing land, creeping closer to the fields, leaving behind a stench that clung to skin and soul alike. Crops rotted before harvest, barns sagged, and livestock grew thin and restless. Every month, the mayor's men came down the flooded roads, slick boots and stamped ledgers collecting "repairs." Repairs that never came. Only debt.
By the time Damian turned sixteen, the Vale house leaned like an exhausted man, half-sunken on one side. Evelyn patched the walls with tar and prayer, her hands cracked and knuckled from years of scrubbing and hauling, the tips raw and bleeding in the chill. Her dark hair, once long, was streaked with grey now, tied tight at the nape, streaks of fatigue and worry etched into the corners of her eyes. She moved with a quiet strength, but every cough stole a little of her breath, every sigh pressed her shoulders lower. Mold spread like shadow across the ceiling, yet she refused to leave.
"This is our home," she said one night as she scrubbed the kitchen floor, voice steady even when her breath wasn't. "And home remembers you when no one else does."
Damian, taller now than most boys his age, shoulders broad and lean from hauling debris and rebuilding what the river tore away, wiped mud from his arms. His pale grey eyes, still the same as when he was seven, seemed sharper now, scanning the dim light as if measuring the world for cracks. His hair, a dark ash brown, fell into his forehead in careless strands, slightly longer from neglect during storm season. He carried himself with quiet authority a mixture of adolescence and years hardened by hardship and though his frame was slender, his muscles had grown dense, cords of strength beneath the skin, ready to move before thought.
He looked down at his dirt-streaked arms, then back at Evelyn. "We paid last month," he said, tone low, threaded with frustration that had nothing to do with numbers.
"They say everyone must pay again. The river repairs cost more this time," she replied, stirring the thin stew over the weak fire. Her hands shook just slightly now, a tremor born of exhaustion rather than age.
He looked up sharply. "The river doesn't take money."
"No," she whispered, stirring slower now, the ladle dragging through the broth as if every movement weighed a pound. "But men do."
Damian shifted, the weight of his height and long limbs evident as he moved across the cramped kitchen, boots leaving damp marks on the floor. Despite his youth, there was a certainty to him now a presence that drew the eyes of anyone in the room, the kind that spoke of survival and purpose. The pale grey of his eyes reflected the candlelight like storm clouds, serious and unyielding, a mirror of the river outside.
Evelyn glanced at him, faint lines around her eyes deepening as she saw him as more than the boy she had raised. Sixteen years had carved him into a young man, moulded by water, mud, and burden. She saw the same determination she had always tried to nurture, now sharpened into something dangerous and capable.
"I worry," she admitted quietly, brushing a stray lock of grey from her forehead. "Because even strong boys can break."
Damian's jaw tightened, the shadow of his cheekbones catching the firelight. "I won't break," he said softly, but the honesty in his tone was tempered by the weight of things he had seen, flooded fields, empty eyes of neighbours who had given all to the river and lost.
Evelyn's lips pressed together, her hands folding over each other as she watched him. She saw the same pale, storm-touched eyes that had fixed broken toys, that had listened to the river's whispers, that had calmed the rippled well with invisible hands. She saw the same boy she had fought so hard to protect and the young man he had become, tempered by Tyre's floods, fear, and unyielding debt.
Outside, rain hammered against the windows, as if the river itself were testing them. Damian's hair, damp from the kitchen's humidity, clung to his forehead in dark strands. His skin, lightly tanned from hours of work outside, showed small scars: scratches from fallen branches, bruised knuckles, faint lines etched by mud and toil. He moved with purpose, every step careful, deliberate, a boy shaped by storms, yet bearing the height, strength, and poise of someone far older.
Evelyn finally straightened, taking a breath that drew the room in. She approached him, and for a moment, mother and son stood facing one another, one hardened by years, the other by months of self-reliance and instinctive power.
"You've grown," she said, a hint of both pride and fear threading her words. "Stronger than I expected. But strength alone won't save you."
Damian's pale eyes met hers, grey and steady, unwavering. "I know," he said, voice quieter than before but more certain than ever. "I'll protect us. I'll protect this house. I'll… learn what it takes."
Evelyn nodded slowly, glancing at the warped ceiling above, the water-darkened walls, the sagging floorboards, all of Tyre's sorrow and debt manifest in the home around them. "Then remember, Damian," she whispered, "sometimes protecting isn't enough. Sometimes, leaving is the only way to survive."
He looked down at the floor, then at the rain, then back to her. Sixteen, standing taller than most men he knew, pale eyes reflecting lightning and candlelight alike, dark hair plastered to his forehead, hands scarred but capable, lean yet strong; and inside him, the quiet storm of the river, the untested power that pulsed beneath his skin, waiting.
That night, the mayor's men came, trudging through the flooded yard, water rising to their boots. Damian met them at the edge, the mud sucking at his own, but his posture was steady, unyielding. Two men in soaked coats carried stamped papers, ink blurred by rain, their boots sloshing in the puddles.
"You Vale?" one asked, voice flat and practiced, scanning Damian as if measuring risk.
"I am," Damian replied, calm, his eyes pale gray and unflinching.
"Records say the house owes double this month," the man said, holding up the soggy ledger. "Pay, or forfeit goods."
Evelyn stepped into the doorway, shawl wrapped tight, her hair damp and darkened. "You'll drown before you take anything," she said quietly, but every word carried weight.
The first man sneered. "A mother and boy, standing in mud. What a hero."
Damian didn't move an inch. He simply tilted his head, eyes glinting with an odd certainty. The rain seemed heavier around them, the river behind him roiling slower, quieter, as if holding its breath.
"What… what did you do?" the man asked, voice faltering.
Damian said nothing. He took a slow step forward, water rising against his boots, and the air shifted. Not a word, not a command, only presence. The mud beneath their feet seemed thicker, reluctant to let them move.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Move aside," the second one muttered, gripping his ledger tighter, knuckles white.
Damian's gaze didn't waver. The river behind him seemed to tense, waves brushing higher along the banks. Without speaking, without touching anything, he simply stood there. And then, slowly, subtly, the first man stumbled, boot slipping in the mud. The second nearly fell trying to steady him.
"Watch your step," Damian said softly, voice carrying an edge that made the men pause, a warning without a threat.
After a long, silent moment, they stepped back, the ledger soggy and useless, muttering curses under their breath. The mud seemed to swallow their retreating footprints, leaving no trace of their intrusion.
Evelyn let out a shaky breath, placing a hand on Damian's shoulder. "You… you frightened them," she whispered.
"I didn't touch them," he said quietly, gaze fixed on the dark river. "I just… made them see where they were."
"Be careful," Evelyn said, voice trembling. "Not everyone will leave so easily next time. And Tyre… Tyre notices when you push too hard."
Damian nodded, boots sinking into the soft earth, water soaking through. He looked at the river again, grey eyes reflecting lightning and shadow. The night stretched on, rain hammering the roof, river murmuring beneath its swollen banks. Damian aware that he had done something the mayor's men would not forget, though he did not yet understand how.
Evelyn's hand rested on his shoulder again. "Sleep soon. Tyre is dying, Damian… and we will need every ounce of your strength."
He didn't move. The air was heavy, alive, the river whispering in a language only he seemed to feel, a quiet reminder that some things were older than Tyre, and that their time in this town was running out.
The room was small, shadowed, lit only by the weak flicker of a single candle. The rain hammered against the crooked roof, drumming a rhythm that matched the pounding in Evelyn's chest. Every gust rattled the shutters, and every splash of water from the yard reminded her that the river was no longer just water. It had a memory, a will and it was awake.
Her hands shook as she pressed the pen to the page. The ink blurred in places where tears fell, and she cursed under her breath, smearing her own writing. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her damp shawl, breathing shallow, each exhale a struggle to keep panic at bay.
If you ever find this, Damian don't hate me for leaving first.
Her hand hovered over the paper for a long moment. She thought of him, sixteen now, standing tall in the mud, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, gray eyes sharp and still. She remembered the boy of seven who had fixed broken toys with no thought, who had walked calmly along the river's edge while the world whispered warnings she couldn't decipher.
She thought too of the first letter she had written to him when he was younger; just a boy of seven, unaware of the growing storm that would one day swallow Tyre whole.
Dear Damian, that letter had read, I may not always be near when the river whispers or when the wind screams. Remember to trust what your heart knows, not what others fear. There are things in the world that bend to those who listen carefully, never be afraid to see them. Always, Mama.
She folded that memory tightly, like a folded map she could no longer follow, and pressed on with the new, urgent message:
There's something wrong with the river. It's not rising. It's breathing. The mayor's men keep feeding it; not gold, not soil, but people.
Her breath hitched. The memory of the last collector's visit pressed against her ribs like a stone. The way Damian had stood, mud up to his boots, eyes calm, unshaken yet the air had obeyed him in some silent, terrifying way. What had he done? What had been born in him?
They call it payment. I call it fear.
She pressed the pen harder, her knuckles whitening. The fire sputtered in the hearth, the shadows dancing across the walls like accusing ghosts. Her chest tightened.
If they come for you, run. Don't look back. Don't use whatever it is you have.
Her hand shook, the pen wobbling as she tried to hold back tears. She could hear Damian upstairs, moving through the hall, careful not to wake her, as he always did. He was still a boy in some ways, though tall and strong now, shaped by mud, river, and endless work. The thought of him here, in Tyre, when the danger came again, made her chest ache like she could barely breathe.
Power that listens will one day speak, and you won't like what it says.
She paused, resting her forehead against the edge of the table. Memories of every small miracle the cart stopped on the square, the shutters fixing themselves under his hands, the river pausing pressed against her mind. She had tried to protect him, shield him, guide him… and yet, she could see the moment coming when Tyre itself would demand more than they could give.
Go to Asterion. There's a man there, Father Tomas once said he was a scholar. He'll know what to do.
Her lips pressed together as a sob rose, and she swallowed it down, leaving only a quiver. She imagined the long road ahead of him, unfamiliar streets, strangers' eyes, and her heart broke all over again. I cannot go with him. I cannot save him from this. But maybe… maybe he can survive if I step aside.
She signed the letter, her script shaky but deliberate:
Love, always. -Mother.
Evelyn folded the paper carefully, pressing it into a small envelope she had hidden for months. She tucked it into the bottom of the chest by the bed, beneath clothes, beneath the small trinkets of Damian's childhood. It was heavy, weighted with fear and hope all at once. She imagined the day he would find it months or years from now and prayed he would understand.
The candle guttered, flickering shadows across the walls. Evelyn's hands were raw, cracked from the endless labor of scrubbing mold, mending walls, and carrying what little they had left. Her voice caught as she whispered into the quiet room, "Stay alive, Damian. Please… just stay alive."
Outside, the river swelled as if it had heard her prayer. The rain fell in relentless sheets, washing the yard, spilling over the broken banks. The wind clawed at the roof, rattling loose tiles, rattling her heart. Evelyn leaned back from the table, eyes closed, letting exhaustion and grief drag her to the edge of sleep.
She pictured him, the boy who had been strange and quiet, who had walked along the river as if it remembered him, as if it answered him in ways no one else could see. She knew, even now, that Tyre would never be safe for him again. The mayor, the debts, the river all conspiring to demand a price she could no longer protect him from.
And yet, she felt the faintest flicker of hope. Not for Tyre. Not for herself. But for the boy who had always listened to rivers and fixed broken things. If he left, he might survive. He might grow stronger. He might, one day, understand the things she had only begun to see.
Her hand lingered over the folded letter. One day, he would be old enough, brave enough, and ready to leave. And when he did, the river would still remember him.
But she could not wait for that day.
She placed the envelope carefully back in the chest and rose, every movement heavy with the weight of fear and love. She moved to the window, staring out at the swollen river, its surface dark, restless, alive. The rain cut her face like knives, and the wind tore at the roof. She pressed her forehead to the glass, feeling it hums with memory and secrets she could not name.
"Go, Damian," she whispered to the river, to the night, to the boy sleeping above her. "Go before it demands too much. Go and be more than Tyre will ever allow."
The candle guttered out, leaving the room in darkness, but Evelyn stayed at the window for long minutes, listening to the river's murmur, feeling the weight of years, storms, and unspoken truths pressing against her chest. Outside, the night was endless, but inside, the seed of a journey was planted.
And when Damian awoke the next morning, nothing would seem different, yet everything had changed.