Darkness multiplied wherever the light didn't reach. Shadows swayed and stretched; in out-of-the-way corners you could plainly see the black mist trickling down.
In a place like this, the air carried a quiet pressure, a vague, irrational dread. Maybe that's why patrols always ended up swapping dirty jokes—anything to bleed off the nerves.
Crude as they sounded, the three men kept a shard of clarity in their eyes and their muscles coiled tight. At least half their attention stayed on the gloom around them.
"Rod," Reslin asked, "do you think being born counts as a kind of harm?"
They'd finished laughing about crystal balls and slid into other topics as if they were old friends.
Rod blinked. "Isn't birth supposed to be Fire's blessing?"
Reslin chuckled. "That sounds like a bishop talking. They love stamping everything as 'Fire' and 'Blessing.'"
Aiger put on a stiff priestly baritone: "May the flame purify my thoughts. May justice swarm to your light like moths to a lantern. The source of evil lies ahead—For the City! For the Sacred Fire! Charge!"
All three laughed—except Rod.
Reslin clapped Rod's shoulder. "Let's skip the sermons and talk honestly. Do you feel like birth is a harm?"
"Not… really?" Rod said. "If I wasn't born, I wouldn't exist. I wouldn't see anything at all."
Reslin smiled. "That's because you two lit your souls and became Fire-bearers. But what if you hadn't? What if you washed out in the very first round of the Trial of Flame?"
Silence fell.
Reslin went on:
"Then we'd go back to living in the dark. We'd be stuck in the Outer District, too poor for a proper lantern, too poor for good fuel. The dim light in your room would flicker like a candle in the wind. Every night you'd worry the fuel would run out and the light would die, worry that a specter might seep through your door, worry some nameless taint or curse might take root in you. You'd spend your days on a factory line or crafting little trinkets to sell. Fireday would be the only time you dared stroll the market—where everything's too expensive and no girl gives you a second glance. By thirty you'd still be single. Your neighbors would have moved up to the Inner City, living big with bright lamps. One family's kid would have lit eighteen fire-seeds and become a Guardian. And you'd still be laboring in the Lower City."
He looked at each of them. "Tell me—wouldn't you start thinking that being born was a kind of harm? Wouldn't you resent your parents for having you without your consent?"
They pictured that kind of life—endless, gray, and pinched—and their faces dimmed.
"Think about it," Reslin said quietly. "In a life that bleak, why be born at all? Why come to this world, just to cower through a meaningless existence? Why did my parents dare bring me into this without even one home in the Upper City? Others have powerful souls and razor sight. I'm the one who can't even spark—no spiritual vision, a wooden-core dud. With what face did you decide to have me?"
He paused, then continued.
"And say you do light your soul. So what? Step outside the Academy, outside the Royal City, and the world is a meat grinder. The monsters are always stronger. The black fog is always pressing in—always infecting. Medical kits and aid are never enough. Fire's glow barely lights your boots; lift your eyes and it's layer after layer of unending dark. You fight, day after day, hacking down nameless things without a horizon in sight. Your teammates die, or twist, or go mad. Your own mind starts to warp, your soul goes numb—and one day, you're just another thing in the dark."
He met their eyes. "Does that sound like a good life?"
The squad went deathly still. Even their breathing seemed to stop.
Reslin still wore a smile, but something strange edged his tone.
"No. I don't think so.
"Birth is a blessing. Even in a world this dark, there is still a spark. Even if I'm wretched, there is space enough to dream. The world is still beautiful somewhere. If no flower ever blooms for me—then I'll bloom for myself, in honor of my own arrival."
They stared at him, stunned—feet stalled mid-step.
Suddenly, Calamon let out a wail. "Uuuuh— That was beautiful. I've never heard anything hit that hard. I don't care about Dona anymore—I'm starting a new life!"
Aiger whistled. "With lines like that, you sure you don't want to switch careers? You could make archbishop within a year."
Reslin laughed. "Please. Church life would kill me. I'm just saying what I feel. You both know this: I washed out of the Trial of Flame three years in a row—sixteen to nineteen. Twenty was my last shot. Only then did I pass. Before that, I was lost. But I made it through."
"Maybe it really was Fire's blessing," he added. "The moment I accepted it all, I cleared the trial."
They applauded. Aiger let out another whistle. "Our striker never misses."
The mood lightened again. Heavy topics faded, replaced by lighter, dumber ones—like the "Top Ten Beauties of the Royal City." Their standards weren't high: big up top, generous in the middle, long legs. It was caveman talk.
Rod couldn't take it. He tweaked a tale from his "Mirror of Romance" repertoire and told it like a pub story.
Thanks to weeks of cramming—and a knack for language—his Common came out smooth and vivid. Phrasing hit just right; the images landed. The three of them were hooked in seconds.
At the climax, Rod deliberately cut it off with a "To be continued," tightening the hook for next time. A thicker bond made for a stronger thigh to hug.
Calamon howled. "You end there? Are you even human?"
The other two glared. Rod raised both hands. "I'm out of inspiration, I swear. The well's dry."
They let him off. Aiger asked, "Fine. Then what do we discuss? The King and his lovers—the untold secrets?"
Rod's stomach dipped. He lowered his voice. "You talk like that and you're not afraid the Internal Tribunal will drag you off?"
All three burst out laughing.
"How could they? The King himself said it's fair game.""His lovers could be men, too.""And why are you so jumpy? The King's New Laws have been in place for over a decade."
"I… lost my memory," Rod said quickly. "A lot of common knowledge is gone."
They stared. "You really lost your memory?"
Rod nodded and gave them the bare bones—monster attack, the usual nightmare. No details.
"So I don't actually know anything. I'm a novice, through and through."
Reslin frowned thoughtfully. "Then why did they put you with us?"
Aiger guessed, "Balance. The three of us have terrible spirit-sight. We needed a scout."
"Makes sense!"
Rod seized the opening—anything to steer the talk away from gutter gossip. "Then teach me roles and formations. What's my job so I don't drag you down?"
All three brightened. Teaching was a human reflex.
"Positioning," Reslin said, "is how you allocate bodies to maximize a team's output under a given plan. Classic front–mid–rear. In our squad, I'm frontline tank—I take the charge and hold the monsters in place."
"Aiger is mid control. His white-smoke can lock targets down, restrict movement, help us attack or cover a retreat. It's a thinking role—shame he runs light in that department."
Aiger hopped up and punched Reslin in the knee. "Liar! Who hauls you out of the fire every time?"
Reslin ignored him. "Calamon is rear support. He heals, rebalances our spirits, tops up our reserves. He's fragile—needs our protection."
"I am not fragile," Calamon snapped.
"And you, Rod—rear scout. Eyes on the field. Call out enemy types and angles. Keep us from getting blindsided."
Reslin suddenly pivoted—his arm flashing like lightning. A sweeping strike shattered a hound-shaped shadow into drifting tatters.
"Like that."
Aiger and Calamon snapped into formation in the same breath.
"Looks like," Reslin said, eyes narrowing, "we've got work."