The cold always comes first for Decebalus.
Every morning, it slips through the cracks of their small, run-down home—if he could even call it that anymore. It creeps beneath the door and settles in his bones, a dull ache that never fades. As always, he is awake before the sun warms the winter air, sitting on his bed and listening to his mother's uneven breath in the dark.
There is never enough wood or food to keep them healthy, so the chill clings to his ribs. Always tired, he carries on as if it's all he has.
His father was once a revered knight in the kingdom. Now, no one dares to speak his name or remember the pain he endured for the Crown.
And Decebalus is the one who pays the price.
He pushes himself to his feet, aching from the late night before—because someone had to hunt for food. The floor groans beneath him, old like everything else in this house, and for a moment he stands there, watching her, wishing he could give his mother more than this life.
Her face looks smaller these days, the sickness wearing her thin. It is carving into her slowly, day by day, stealing pieces of her each night. Even though she tries to reassure him she is fine, he knows better than to believe it.
He hates that most. Not the hunger. Not the cold. The pretending. The idea that she is anything but okay.
All they have left are a few logs by the fire, and Dece knows he will have to go out to chop more wood. Still, he kneels down, striking flint until a weak flame catches the stray fibers, as if unsure it even wants to burn.
"Dece…" she whispers, barely a breath.
He freezes, eyes fixed on the flames, cursing himself for waking her—knowing sleep is the only peace she gets—before turning to look at her.
"You're awake," he says quietly.
"My sweet Dece, I can hear you thinking from across the room," she murmurs, a faint smile gracing her cracked lips, as if the cold hasn't taken enough from her.
He scoffs. "Well, someone has to, Mother."
A coughing fit interrupts her next words—a fit that threatens to tear her lungs apart. Dece is at her side in seconds, helping her sit up and bringing her water.
His jaw aches from clenching. This is why he can never afford mistakes. Why he cannot afford to falter, even for a moment.
"I'll bring back some food from the market today," he says, "and maybe some medicine, if it isn't already gone."
She looks him in the eyes. "You said that yesterday, Dece. You know the market is always picked clean before you get there."
"I meant it then, and I mean it now."
Her expression falters. "You work yourself to the bone for me."
"Who else will, if I don't?"
"Dece… please—" she croaks.
"I'll be fine," he blurts, harsher than he intends.
She lies back down, her eyes already growing heavy.
"Just rest, okay?" he says, more a statement than a question.
He has always found a way. That is the one piece of luck he has—if the gods favor him at all, it is only in that.
By the time the sun breaks over the horizon, Dece is already out of the house and heading toward town.
Daxia looks different in the sunlight. The mountains loom like silent watchers, snow covering them most of the year. The trees stand bare, almost naked as the day he was born.
Yet the streets are crowded with people who all wear the same expression on their ragged faces: hungry, tired, and desperate enough to step on someone else if it means getting ahead.
If there is one skill Dece possesses, it is moving through the town unnoticed—able to pick a loaf here and there, too many bodies for the shopkeepers to keep track of.
The market is loud and chaotic. Rumors spread of men signing up for the war—the same war that took his father too soon.
A group of soldiers walks through the streets, their silver-and-blue armor catching the light, polished and proud as ever. People always step aside for the King's soldiers.
But not Dece.
He watches them instead, something bitter rising in his chest—something close to inherited rage. Their cloaks bear the Daxian crest, the same crest that took so much from him and gave him nothing in return.
One of the soldiers laughs arrogantly and tosses a coin to a vendor, as if that shining piece of silver means nothing.
Dece grimaces. It is funny how the kingdom always has enough for men like them—just not enough for those buried beneath it.
He pushes off the wall, accidentally bumping into a medicinal vendor.
"Watch where you're going, boy!"
Dece scoffs and turns away before the man realizes a pouch of herbs is missing.
The rest of his day passes in the same way—collecting firewood, running small errands, doing whatever he can to scrape together enough coin.
By the time the sun dips low, Dece has a little money—not much—enough firewood in his pack to last a few days, and food to quiet the ache in their stomachs. But the hollow feeling inside him has nothing to do with hunger.
The tavern at the corner of town glows with warmth; a warmth he aches for. It isn't part of the plan, but then again, it never is.
He steps inside, keeping his head low to avoid attention, and takes a seat at a corner table. A barmaid approaches.
"What will it be today, Decebalus?" she asks.
He knows that voice. Familiar. Comforting.
"Miriam… I'll take a glass of warm ale. The cold is aching my bones today."
She nods, offering him a small, pitying smile. Within minutes, she returns, and Dece drinks quickly.
Too quickly.
The first glass burns going down. The second dulls the pain. And the third…
The tight coil in his chest begins to loosen, his thoughts drifting somewhere quieter, easier.
That is why people come here—not for the drink, but to forget.
"You look like you're trying to drown something."
The voice comes from his left—smooth, slightly amused, and far too refined for a place like this.
Dece doesn't bother turning at first. "Aren't we all in this decrepit kingdom?"
A soft chuckle follows. "Some of us have less to drown than others."
That makes something rise in him.
He glances over.
The man beside him wears polished armor, gleaming in the firelight. A knight—not that the distinction matters to Dece. His cloak hangs carelessly over one shoulder, his posture relaxed in a way that suggests he has little to worry about.
And oh, how much that matters.
Dece looks away, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Then maybe you should drink less, hm?"
The knight lifts his cup. "And waste a perfectly good ale? That would be a real tragedy, boy."
"You don't look like a man who has ever known one."
The words slip out more easily than they should.
The knight's smirk remains, but something in his eyes sharpens. "Careful."
Dece glances at him, his own expression cold as he takes another drink. "Or what?"
A pause.
"Or you'll find out how quickly your luck can run out."
Dece sets his cup down slowly.
"I think it already has."
Something snaps.
The knight turns fully toward him now, irritation clear. "You've got a mouth on you."
"I've been told."
"And no sense of self-preservation. Men like you always think you're clever…" He stands. "Until you forget who you're speaking to."
The room hasn't gone quiet yet—but it is getting there. A few patrons crane their necks, eager for something to break the monotony.
Dece notices.
He just doesn't care.
He looks up at the knight. "Remind me… who exactly am I supposed to be impressed by?"
The knight moves faster than expected, grabbing the front of Dece's shirt and hauling him from his stool.
That is the moment everything breaks.
Dece doesn't think.
He swings.
His fist connects with the knight's jaw, a sharp crack cutting through the tavern like a blade through butter.
Silence hangs for a single heartbeat.
Then chaos erupts.