"I need to sleep… and early in the morning, I'll look for some kind of income source," Damián whispered to himself, his voice cracking like the dying flame of a forgotten candle. His body ached from the long march through the woods, his muscles stiff with exhaustion, his thoughts as scattered as leaves in wind. With no roof, no hearth, no hand to guide him, he surrendered to the cold wood of a worn bench, letting the veil of sleep take the reins from his ragged body.
Night wrapped around him like a cruel lover, tender and ruthless. Dreams came—not as stories, but as fragments. Screams. Fire. His mother's voice, sharp as broken glass. And silence. Deep, churning silence.
Damián awoke not to a sunrise, but to the scent of salt and fish. A faint breeze carried the chill of dawn across his skin. The sound of waves kissing distant stone whispered to him like forgotten memories. Birds chirped lazily above, but they felt out of place—almost mocking.
He rubbed his eyes, bones groaning like old hinges. "What kind of misery have I thrown myself into?" he thought, voice dry in his throat. He stood up, swaying slightly. Hunger tugged at his gut like a chain. He had never known true poverty. Not like this. Not where every step tasted like ash and regret.
In the distance, nestled between crooked trees and the edge of mist, stood a cabin.
It was unlike the decaying structures around it. The cabin pulsed with strange elegance—its walls a lacquered blend of blackwood and golden pine, the grain shifting with every blink like smoke caught in glass. A metal wind chime spun above the porch, not making a sound.
As Damián stepped closer, a sudden feline moan tore through the silence—a low, almost humanlike groan that sent a chill dancing down his spine. A black cat stretched lazily on the railing, eyes glowing with an uncanny gleam, watching him as though it could peel open his thoughts.
He hesitated. The building looked noble… but wrong. Like something taken from a painting that was never meant to be finished.
His knuckles met the door with a reluctant knock.
Knock.Knock.Knock.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
A gruff voice, muffled yet sharp, replied, "One second."
Damián stood frozen, teeth gritted, thoughts spiraling. What am I even doing? His palms were sweaty. His mind a storm.
How does one even ask for money? For purpose? For a miracle?
"Hello? Hello? Are you still there, young man?"
The voice snapped him back into reality.
"S—Sorry," Damián stammered.
The door opened with an ancient creak. Standing there was a man whose age could not be measured in years. His skin was leather-thin but firm, stretched across high cheekbones and a long nose. His eyes… his eyes were golden. Not the gold of vanity—but of deep, old knowledge. Like sunlight buried beneath centuries.
"I am Axir," the old man said, his voice both a whisper and a command. "What brings a city child to the outer breath of Lakewood?"
Damián swallowed. His throat burned with the ache of desperation, raw and jagged.
"I… I was looking for a way to earn money," he muttered. "Any job. Any guidance. Anything at all. Please…"
His voice cracked at the end, almost a whimper. It was not prideful, but honest. The cry of a soul dangling at the edge of its own collapse.
More desperate than a mother bleeding out in childbirth. More hollow than the last breath of a dying dream.
Axir stared at him, eyes narrowing, as if he were reading the seams of Damián's soul—examining the fractures, the silence.
Then the old man stepped aside.
"Get in."