The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth filling the small wooden room with a living breath. Flames curled and danced behind the iron grate, painting shifting patterns of amber and gold across the walls. Shadows stretched, thinned, and reformed with every flicker, as if the room itself were quietly alive.
Outside, the world groaned.
Wind scraped against the shutters, carrying with it the distant echoes of ruin—metal grinding somewhere far beyond, the low howl of something not quite human, the restless sound of a planet that had never truly healed. Yet inside this room, time seemed to pause, held together by firelight and fragile peace.
Little Izo lay on his bed, bundled beneath a thick woolen blanket that smelled faintly of smoke and old linen. His small hands clutched the edge of it, fingers fidgeting as his wide eyes remained fixed on the ceiling above. The firelight reflected in them, turning his gaze into pools of molten gold.
Beside him, Altan sat on a simple wooden chair, its legs uneven from years of use. His posture was relaxed, yet there was a tension in his shoulders that never truly left him anymore. One elbow rested against the arm of the chair, while his other hand loosely cradled a ceramic mug—chipped along the rim, forgotten and cold.
Altan's eyes were on the fire, but his mind was not.
It wandered through memories he no longer spoke aloud—through lands that no longer existed, through people who lived now only in echoes.
"Papa," Izo said suddenly.
Altan turned at once, the heaviness in his expression dissolving the moment he met his son's gaze. "Yes, Izo?"
The boy hesitated. His brows knitted together in thought, as though he were carefully assembling something important.
"There weren't any demons back then?" he asked.
The year was 2657.
The world had fractured long before this moment. Cities lay broken beneath layers of ash and steel. Roads led nowhere. Humanity survived not because it thrived, but because it endured. Monsters—creatures born from disasters no one fully understood—roamed the lands beyond fortified walls.
And yet here sat a boy, no older than four, asking about a time before fear.
Altan exhaled slowly.
"No," he said after a moment. His lips curved into a smile, but it was weighted—burdened by the years behind it. "They were just stories. Like how we talk about the old days now."
Izo's face lit up instantly, as though the world itself had grown brighter.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. "That's so cool, papa!"
Altan chuckled under his breath and reached out, gently ruffling his son's hair. "Cool indeed."
The fire popped loudly, scattering sparks upward before they vanished into the chimney. For a brief second, Altan's gaze followed them, watching them disappear.
"But now," he added softly, "you need to sleep. Before your little sister and your mother wake up."
Izo groaned and rolled onto his side, burying half his face into the pillow. "Awww… so soon?"
Altan laughed quietly. "It's way past your bedtime. Your mom will scold me if she finds out."
Silence settled between them. The fire continued its low, steady rhythm. Izo's breathing slowed, but his eyes remained open.
Then, with the kind of certainty only a child could possess, he spoke again.
"You know, papa… one day I'll kill all the demons."
Altan froze.
"And I'll make the world how it used to be back then."
Izo turned his head toward him, grinning widely, as if he had just announced something obvious—something inevitable.
Altan let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"Yes," he said softly. "I'm sure you will."
But his smile faltered.
Because he knew.
He knew that promises forged in innocence often demanded blood in return.
And he knew the world had a cruel way of collecting its debts.
"Izo… Izo… Izo, there you are!"
The warmth shattered.
A sharp voice cut through the darkness like steel striking stone.
Izo squinted, disoriented. The firelight was gone. The wooden ceiling vanished. Cold air brushed against his skin.
"Izo! Why are you napping by the gates?" the voice continued. "You know it's dangerous!"
He groaned and rubbed his eyes with both hands. "Yeah, yeah… Master's going to get mad. Blah blah. Tell me something new."
Another voice followed—calmer, amused.
"Oh?" it said. "Is that what you think of Master Dariz, huh?"
Izo opened his eyes fully.
Stone walls surrounded him now, towering and weathered. The Crescentine faction camp buzzed faintly with life—distant footsteps, clinking equipment, murmured prayers. The air smelled of metal, antiseptic herbs, and dust carried in from patrols beyond the walls.
Alora stood before him, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
She was the medic of the faction—sharp-eyed, composed, and endlessly observant. Once, long ago, she had been a close friend of Altan.
Izo blinked.
"…It was a dream," he muttered.
He pushed himself upright, joints stiff. He was twelve now. Nearly thirteen.
"How long were you out?" Alora asked.
"Long enough," he replied.
She studied him for a moment, then asked casually, "Any updates about the demon breakout?"
Izo stiffened. "Why?"
"Why do you think?" she replied.
"I've grown," he said defensively. "I won't make the same mistakes twice."
He hesitated, then added more quietly, "But I need to know. Ambush routes. Patterns. If I should be ready."
Alora smiled faintly. "Just like your father."
The words hit harder than she intended.
"But he's dead," Izo said flatly. "So someone has to take his duties. Right?"
Her smile vanished.
"Iz—"
"I know," he interrupted sharply. "I know I don't have to do this."
His fists clenched at his sides.
"But I made my mind up long ago."
His voice wavered.
"I'll take my revenge. For father. For mother. And… Ruri."
Tears welled before he could stop them.
"Otherwise…" He swallowed. "I might lose you too someday."
He wiped his eyes angrily and turned away.
"Izo!" Alora called. "Izo!"
But he was already running.
Reality never waited for grief to catch up.
"Izo… Izo, wake up."
The voice came again.
Gentler this time.
"Izo…"
He stirred, his body aching.
"Iz… there you are. How long have you been here?"
Izo opened his eyes slowly.
Stone beneath him. Wind biting his cheeks.
He sat atop the Crescentine wall, staring into the darkness beyond.
"Oh," he murmured. "So that was a dream."
"What dream?" Alora asked softly.
"Nothing."
She studied him. "You saw your father again, didn't you?"
Izo said nothing.
And that silence was the truest thing about him.
Confession was only possible in dreams.
Alora guided him down and brought him food. He ate quietly. Then he returned to his small tent near the gates.
Close enough to watch.
Close enough to act.
And there he stayed, eyes fixed on the darkness.
Waiting.