"Far to the east... farther than the snowy horizon of the Red Coast… farther than the frost-bitten highlands where the wind howls like mourning wolves… farther still than the salt river, where the bones of old wars lie buried beneath white dunes… and even beyond the Black Pines—past all of that, if your legs don't fail and your will doesn't break.
A land where the earth is soft underfoot, and the rivers are so clear you can see the stones smiling at the bottom. A place where time walks slower, where no horns of war have ever sounded, and the sky forgets how to cry.
It is not a place you find on purpose.
You stumble there, someday, broken and tired, after the world has taken everything from you—and if you're lucky, you will stay.
They call it Citra."
"At least that's what Mom and Dad told us… right, brother?"
The echo of that memory lingered like a ghost in the wind, carried on a breeze that smelled faintly of rain and old ash. Their voices—once full of warmth and certainty—now only flickered at the back of my mind, like a candle flame struggling to survive in the dark.
As the memory faded, a bright white light burst to life around me. It wasn't harsh. It felt… gentle, warm, almost like the embrace of an old friend.
Back then, when Mom and Dad first told us those words, I thought it was just a bedtime story. Something beautiful for children to hold onto in a world that was anything but. But the way they spoke them… the way their hands trembled when they did… it buried deep into my heart.
But after they died—after we were attacked, after we were kidnapped, after we were sold into chains and branded with the mark of cattle—I forgot those words.
I forgot what they meant.
I chose to survive. I chose betrayal. I chose to become a guard under the cursed king just to escape slavery. I thought I had gained freedom—but in truth, I had only exchanged one set of chains for another.
Because in this world, everyone is a slave to something. I mean who isn't.
But unlike me, you never changed. You stayed true to who you were, even in chains. You believed in something more, even as the world tried to crush it out of you. That was why you refused to serve. That was why you remained a slave, hoping—believing—that one day, freedom would come.
Years passed.
You escaped. You ran with another slave. You found love. And when you held your son in your arms and named him Atom… I watched from afar, speechless.
You had made something beautiful in a world that had no place for beauty.
But they found you. And they dragged you back. On the day of your execution, you said those words again. The words of Citra.
"Far to the east... farther than the snowy horizon of the Red Coast… farther than the frost-bitten highlands where the wind howls like mourning wolves… farther still than the salt river, where the bones of old wars lie buried beneath white dunes… and even beyond the Black Pines—past all of that, if your legs don't fail and your will doesn't break.
A land where the earth is soft underfoot, and the rivers are so clear you can see the stones smiling at the bottom. A place where time walks slower, where no horns of war have ever sounded, and the sky forgets how to cry.
It is not a place you find on purpose.
You stumble there, someday, broken and tired, after the world has taken everything from you—and if you're lucky, you will stay.
They call it Citra.
Don't forget, Tom. One day you will find it… even though I didn't."
And those were your last words.
Now, look at me. I failed. I never found Citra. And I couldn't even keep the promise I made to you—to protect your son.
The atmosphere was still. Smoke curled from burnt flags and shattered earth. A crimson haze colored the evening sky as the cold liquid rain fell from the sky, and the air tasted like iron and regret.
With a trembling sigh, I stretched my blood-stained arm forward. Atom knelt before me, sobbing uncontrollably, his hands clutching at the dark steel of my ruined armor. His small fingers were slick with my blood.
My vision blurred, the edges turning red and then white. Blood poured freely from the gaping hole in my chest, the black arrow still lodged deep in my body, its shaft trembling with every heartbeat.
"Uncle! Uncle, please open your eyes… Please!" Atom cried, shaking me gently.
His voice shattered something in me. The way he sobbed—the way he looked at me with those broken, terrified eyes—it made me cry too.
Tears poured down my cheeks, mingling with the blood that stained my lips. My body refused to move, every muscle locking up as if death itself had gripped me tight.
But still… with the last of my strength, I reached forward, pulled him into my arms, and held him close. His body trembled against mine.
And then, with a voice barely louder than a whisper, I told him the words passed down to us by our family.
The words of Citra.
The only dream worth dying for.