Chapter: Ashes and Memory
The final, fading golden light of the Bright Sun melted away from the sky, and in its place, the Dark Sun began its ascent. It didn't bring the familiar warmth of day, but rather a chilling shadow that seeped into every crack and corner of the old town of Tuckborrow. In this land perpetually caught between two celestial bodies, dusk offered no comfort. Instead, it brought an unsettling quiet, a kind of silence that allowed malevolent things to stir unseen.
On the town's furthest edge stood a dilapidated home—its stone walls roughly mended with dried mud, its roof sagging under the weight of countless years and relentless winds. A thin wisp of smoke, barely a whisper, curled from its crooked chimney, hinting at a feeble fire struggling within.
Inside, a woman lay dying.
Her breaths were shallow and ragged, her skin as pale and drawn as parchment. Illness had relentlessly consumed her, leaving her body gaunt and fragile. She lay on a mattress filled with straw near the hearth, wrapped in blankets that could no longer offer any warmth.
Beside her sat her only child, a boy of ten years. His eyes were swollen and red from endless tears, his small hands clasped tightly around hers, as if he could physically hold her spirit tethered to her body.
Then—
Heavy footsteps echoed from outside. Five distinct pairs.
The front door—thick and reinforced with iron bands—burst inward with a deafening crash, its hinges shrieking in protest before splintering wood tore violently from the wall.
Five men stormed into the small house, their cloaks stained with the dust of the road, their eyes sharp and glinting with a dangerous violence.
They said nothing at first.
They simply began to systematically tear the home apart.
A chair was violently kicked across the room.
Shelves laden with meager possessions were ripped from the walls.
A fragile mirror shattered into countless pieces on the floor.
Clay pots, once useful, were smashed to smithereens.
Books, precious and rare, were torn to shreds. A wooden chest split in two with a resounding crack.
The weak fire in the hearth hissed as dust and ash billowed into the air. Their menacing shadows danced wildly and twisted on the walls, distorted by the flickering, agitated flames.
One of the men reached for the only family portrait—a faded image of a man with dark hair and a gentle, half-smile. He ripped it brutally in half and tossed the pieces into the hungry flames.
The boy cried out in despair and tried desperately to shield his mother. Another man seized him roughly and flung him aside like a rag doll. The mother, startled, coughed up blood, her frail body struggling vainly to rise.
Then, the leader stepped forward.
He was tall and imposing, cloaked in dark, worn leather. His face was etched with the harsh lines of old scars. His eyes were cold and gray, like iron that had been hammered and reforged too many times.
"Where is it?" he asked, his voice deceptively quiet.
The woman blinked slowly, her gaze unfocused. "Where is what?"
"The Rune of Dragon Scale."
An unnerving silence descended upon the ruined room.
The boy looked back and forth between them, confused by the words, yet overwhelmingly afraid.
The man sneered, a cruel twist of his lips. "Your husband. He was a dog, a mercenary who worked for Noble Rest Mercenary. He stumbled upon something . Then he vanished. If he gave it to you… you'd be wise to hand it over now."
The woman shook her head weakly, her strength failing. "He never came back. He died out there."
The man grabbed the boy by his collar, his grip unyielding. "Then maybe he left it here. So I'll ask again—where is it?"
"I… I don't know!" the boy cried out, his voice choked with fear.
The man shoved him roughly to the ground. His heavy boot came down hard on a small wooden stool, instantly shattering it.
"Nothing here," one of the raiders grumbled, disappointment clear in his voice. "Just dirt and bones."
The leader cast one final, piercing look at the dying woman and the devastated home, then turned abruptly. "We'll search again. Another night."
With that, the five ominous shadows vanished back into the enveloping darkness, swallowed by the rising wind and the cold, unfeeling glow of the Dark Sun overhead.
The boy scrambled back to his mother's side.
She was trembling uncontrollably, but she was still alive.
Her hand moved—slowly, but with a determined purpose—to the hidden space beneath the bed. Her fingers brushed against a cleverly concealed seam in the floorboard. With a soft, telling creak, it opened.
She pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle and placed it carefully into his trembling hands.
It was warm to the touch.
It pulsed—faintly, rhythmically—as if it possessed a life of its own.
The boy looked at her, utterly bewildered.
"What is this?"
Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, fading fast. "The Rune of Dragon Scale. Your father… he left it. Not for them. For you."
He stared at the object, his hands shaking uncontrollably. "Why me…?"
"Because he trusted you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "He knew people would come looking. He said if he couldn't be here, the Rune must go to the one who still has a future."
She coughed again, a ragged sound, her breath catching in her throat.
"And tomorrow… is your Awakening Ceremony. The Rune will… helpful for you."
His eyes welled up with fresh tears. "I'm scared."
"I know," she said gently, her voice full of tenderness. "But you're not alone… not truly. Not while you remember."
She smiled—a weak, fragile curve of her lips—and her hand found his cheek, a final, loving touch.
"Live."
Then she exhaled…
…and did not breathe again.
The boy sat utterly frozen for a long, agonizing moment. Then he bowed his head into her still chest and wept inconsolably, clutching the warm, pulsating Rune tightly to his heart.
Outside, the two suns hung in stark opposition, occupying opposite halves of the vast sky.
And inside, a boy sat alone…
Holding a secret that people would readily kill for—and his mother's precious, final gift.
The Rune lay heavy and warm in his small hand, a vibrant pulse against his cold skin. His mother's body had long since stilled, the last breath having left her hours ago, yet he remained unmoving, frozen in the shattered stillness of the home. The fire in the hearth, once a small comfort, had dwindled to mere embers, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the emptiness. The walls, which had always felt like a secure embrace, now loomed like an abandoned husk—a hollow, gaping maw filled with splintered furniture and the ghosts of shattered dreams.
Slowly, his legs, stiff with fear and grief, trembled beneath him as he pushed himself upright. Then, with a heartbreaking resolve that no child should ever have to muster, he began to prepare his mother for her final journey, a ritual of farewell etched in quiet sorrow.
He found her favorite shawl, a soft, faded fabric she had always draped around her shoulders when she walked the familiar, stone-paved lanes of Tuckborrow. It still held the faintest echo of her presence—a subtle, comforting blend of cloves, the dry fragrance of rose petals, and an undefinable, sweet scent that was uniquely hers. With hands that moved with a fragile tenderness, he wrapped the shawl around her, meticulously tying the cloth just as she used to secure his blanket around him when he was ill, a gesture of love now tragically reversed.
And then, he lifted her.
His small, slender arms encircled her still shoulders, his head bowed beneath a weight no child should ever be forced to bear. He carried her through the hushed, winding alleys of Tuckborrow, each step echoing in the oppressive quiet, beneath the relentless, cold gaze of the Dark Sun that loomed like a silent, indifferent judge in the sky.
He reached the old burning grounds, a desolate expanse just beyond the town's edge—a place reserved for endings, for the solemn finality of farewells. Here, with hands that trembled uncontrollably, he began to construct the pyre. He gathered bits of dry wood, brittle dried grass, and splintered pieces of old fencing, meticulously arranging them. Gently, he laid her at the very center, a figure of serene repose amidst the kindling. Then, he stepped back, a solitary silhouette against the vast, indifferent twilight.
He struck the flint. Once. Twice. The metallic rasp echoed in the silence until a fragile spark caught, blossoming into a tiny, defiant flame.
And then—
The fire began to rise.
It didn't leap wildly or burn with furious abandon. Instead, it ascended with a quiet, dignified grace—a reflection of the woman it now embraced.
Tears, hot and relentless, blurred his vision, but he made no sound, no cry of anguish. He simply stood, a statue carved of grief, watching as the flames danced higher and higher, their flickering light casting an ephemeral glow against the darkening sky. The wind, a mournful whisper, carried faint trails of ash upward, spiraling like forgotten dreams toward unseen stars, vanishing into the deep, black-blue twilight.
He remembered…
His mother's melodic laughter as his father had playfully lifted her into his strong arms near the bustling town square. The warmth of their hands intertwined, the three of them walking together through the vibrant market. Evenings spent by the comforting glow of the fire, his father's low hum a steady rhythm as she prepared their simple meals. He recalled the gentle conviction in her voice when she once said, "Whatever happens, my love, we'll face it as a family." And his father's unwavering smile and nod, a silent promise that the world, with all its cruelties, could never truly break them.
Now, only he remained.
A boy, solitary and adrift, holding a mysterious Rune. His heart, a desolate chamber, was filled only with the bitter taste of ash and the haunting echoes of a life now gone.
He whispered, his voice barely louder than the sighing wind, "Thank you for everything… Mama. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you." The words were torn from his soul, a confession of helplessness that pierced the profound silence.
The fire burned long into the night, a beacon of sorrow against the encroaching darkness.
When only a bed of glowing embers remained, casting a faint, dying warmth, he turned away.
He didn't look back, not even once.
He walked away from the only home he had ever known, from the charred remains of his past, and stepped into a future he did not comprehend, a terrifying void that stretched before him. His mother, in her final act of love, had found her peace.