"It does not matter if you struggle in you path."
In the night-blue sky, clouds drifted lazily across the face of the moon, and somewhere within that silver stillness, a voice floated on the wind like a song half-remembered.
"Struggle will be your greatest teacher. It is the lesson woven into every step you take along the path of life."
Far below, nestled at the edge of a wide farmland, a small old house stood alone in the dark. Its window glowed warmly, a single flame refusing to be swallowed by the night.
"But if you are ever fortunate enough to meet someone kind enough to lift you free from your struggles..."
The voice began to fade, thinning like mist at sunrise.
"Be grateful for life. Be grateful for that person, my son."
Then it was gone.
In its place came the dark of a forest, deep and hushed, where a young man of about nineteen moved between the trees. He turned his head slowly, searching the shadows, his footsteps soft against the earth.
"Father?"
Nothing answered him. Only the wind threading through the branches and the quiet that follows when you call out and the world does not call back.
"Father? Where are you?"
He stopped walking. He waited. When the silence stretched on long enough to become unbearable, he pulled a breath into his chest and screamed with everything he had.
"FATHER!"
The sound shattered the dream.
He jolted upright, gasping, his heart hammering against his ribs. For a moment he simply sat there in the dark of his small room, letting the world settle back into place around him. The rough walls. The thin blanket. The familiar smell of old wood.
"Just a dream," he murmured.
He lay back down and stared at the ceiling until sleep, quiet and indifferent, pulled him under once more.
Morning arrived gently and without asking. The sun climbed above the tree line and the birds outside the old wooden house burst into cheerful, careless song, utterly unbothered by anyone's troubled sleep.
The young man pushed open the front door and stepped outside, squinting into the light, dragging the back of his hand across his eyes.
"What a terrible sleep," he muttered.
He went back inside and unwrapped his breakfast from a piece of old cloth — a chunk of bread so stale it might have been baked in another era entirely. He set it on the wooden table, sat down, and took a bite.
He paused.
"Good grief," he said flatly, staring at the bread. "The table might actually taste better than this."
He chewed slowly, finished what he could, and pushed the plate aside. Then he stood, gathered what little he had, and set off down the road. He had a long walk ahead of him, and somewhere at the end of it, he hoped, a future worth finding.
By midday, the town of Vanyer rose into view.
It was a proper town, full of noise and movement, the kind of place that had been alive long before you arrived and would go right on living long after you left. Vanyer Town sat at the heart of the Clock Kingdom and had been under the rule of the Vanyer family for as many generations as anyone cared to count.
The young man passed through the main gate and was immediately swallowed by the crowd.
"Hey, how much is this gemstone?" someone called from a market stall.
"Are you serious? Did you not see the price tag?" the vendor shot back.
A small boy tugged at his mother's sleeve a few stalls down. "Mama, I want that toy!"
"Not today, sweetheart," she said softly, smoothing his hair. "When your father comes home, I promise."
The young man walked through it all, taking in the color, the noise, the smell of fresh bread and coal smoke and something sweet he could not quite name. It was a busy town. The kind of town where a person might, if lucky, find honest work.
He stopped and looked around.
"Right," he said to himself. "I came here to find a job. Now where do I actually start?"
His eyes landed on the blacksmith's shop, smoke rising from the chimney, the rhythmic clang of a hammer ringing out from within. He straightened his shoulders and walked in.
"Excuse me, sir. I am looking for work. Any chance you would take me on?"
The blacksmith looked up from his anvil, sized him up in about half a second, and shook his head. "No offense, kid, but you are too lean for this trade. Come back when you have some weight on you."
Back on the street, he let out a slow breath. "Fine. Somewhere else then."
He tried the bakery next. The woman behind the counter gave him an apologetic smile before he even finished asking. "So sorry, dear. We have all the help we need."
Then the carpenter. The tailor. A rope seller by the canal who laughed so hard he had to sit down.
By the time the sun began sliding toward the horizon, the young man had been turned away from every door he knocked on. He stood in the middle of the street, the crowd thinning around him, and pressed his back against a cool stone wall.
"Not a single place," he said quietly. "How am I supposed to live here?"
He slid down until he was sitting on the ground, knees up, head tipped back. "I am going to die of starvation," he announced to no one in particular, and closed his eyes.
He did not sleep for long.
A heavy thud landed near his feet. He opened his eyes.
Standing over him was a broad-shouldered man wearing a dark mask, arms crossed like someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Hey. Stupid kid." His voice was low and even. "Carry that for me, or I leave you here to starve."
It was, by any reasonable measure, a terrible offer. The young man thought it over for about three seconds, then stood up and hoisted the bag onto his back. It was extraordinarily heavy.
He followed the masked man through the quieting streets until they arrived at a tall building with a sign above the entrance that read: *Hunter Organisation.*
The man took the bag back without a word. "Wait here. I will return shortly."
Then he disappeared through the doors.
The young man waited. The minutes stretched. The street grew quieter and the last of the evening crowd dissolved into doorways and side alleys. The town of Vanyer settled into its nighttime silence.
"Brilliant," he muttered, pushing to his feet. "He used me for free labor and vanished."
He started to walk away. Then he stopped.
He stood there for a moment, arguing with himself, and then against what felt like his better judgment, he turned around and sat back down to wait.
The night deepened. Exhaustion won, and he drifted off against the wall.
He was woken by voices.
A group of older boys had stopped in front of him, looking down with the particular kind of grin that meant nothing good.
"Hey there, stray dog," one of them said.
"Hand over whatever you have got," said another, "or things get unpleasant for you."
The young man opened his eyes. He was too tired to feel afraid and far too hungry to feel much of anything. He blinked up at them slowly.
Then a shadow fell over the group.
The broad-shouldered masked man had returned. He said nothing. He simply stood there looking at them, and that was apparently more than enough. The boys exchanged one glance and scattered into the dark without another word.
The masked man watched them go, then looked down.
"Follow me."
"Follow you where?" the young man said. "I have not eaten since this morning and that bread was practically a stone."
The man made a low sound, somewhere between a grunt and a hum, and walked away.
The young man hauled himself to his feet and followed.
A short while later they were seated across from one another at a table in a warm, well-lit restaurant, and the young man was eating with the focused intensity of someone who had genuinely begun to fear for his survival.
The masked man watched him for a moment.
"What is your name, kid?"
The young man paused mid-bite, thought about it, and said, "I am not entirely sure, honestly." He set down his fork. "Kyth. Kyth Black, I think. My father used to call me that."
The masked man was quiet for a beat. Then he laughed, a real laugh, deep and sudden, like it surprised even him.
"Kyth Black," he repeated. "What a strange name."
Kyth picked his fork back up. "You are one to talk," he said, "walking around in a mask."