The wind over the grasslands had grown colder. The blades swayed like whispers of a thousand voices, but between Sunny and Zayeron there was only silence.
When Zayeron finally stood, brushing the dirt from his palms, Sunny thought he would continue the tale. Instead, the boy's face hardened, shadows settling over his sharp eyes. He looked less like a boy, more like someone carved from grief.
Sunny tilted his head.
"…What is it?"
For a long moment, Zayeron said nothing. When he did, his voice was flat, calm — far too calm for the words he spoke.
"My family," he said. "They were burned alive."
Sunny blinked. The matter-of-fact tone made the words heavier than any scream could have.
"Why?" Sunny asked quietly.
Zayeron's gaze drifted to the horizon. For the first time, he looked… almost human. Almost sad.
"Because they were afraid of us."
Sunny frowned. "Afraid? Of what?"
Zayeron's jaw clenched. His long hair shifted with the wind as he raised his face toward the pale sky.
"Because we carried too many secrets. About this world. About the towers. About the Creator himself. Secrets that were never meant to be known."
The silence deepened. Sunny watched him, feeling a knot in his chest.
"They killed us for it," Zayeron continued. "One by one. My bloodline erased. But before it ended, one of us — a poet — left behind words. A prophecy." His lips curved into something caught between sorrow and defiance. "That one day, someone would come. Someone who could break our chains. Someone who could give us freedom."
Sunny's eyes narrowed. "And you think that someone is me?"
Zayeron shrugged, though the weight in his eyes betrayed his casual tone.
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I've waited long enough. If you want answers — real answers — then stand with me. Help me take revenge. Succeed, and I'll show you the history this world tried to bury. I'll show you truths that even the towers fear."
Sunny lowered his gaze to the grass beneath his boots. The blades shimmered faintly, bending with the night air. His hand brushed over the fresh wound on his palm, the mark that pulsed like a secret heartbeat.
"Revenge, huh…" He exhaled slowly. "Alright. I'll help you."
For the first time, Zayeron's lips curved in something like a smile.
But Sunny wasn't finished. He pressed his palm against the grass, speaking more to himself than to Zayeron.
"You know," he muttered, "everyone has their own definition of freedom. Some think it's eternal life. Some think it's peace. Others find it in destruction, in evil. People never stop to ask what it really is. They believe freedom means doing what you want, chasing desire without restraint, going wherever you choose without being stopped."
His voice grew quieter, colder.
"But I don't think so. Freedom isn't one thing. It's different for everyone. A truth twisted by the one who holds it. And sometimes, it becomes nothing more than another chain."
The grass bent beneath his hand, and for a moment the wind seemed to hush — as if the world itself had paused to listen.
Sunny lifted his head, eyes steady.
"…That's why freedom is dangerous."
Zayeron tilted his head, watching him in silence, the faintest glint of curiosity sparking in his gaze.
The night closed in, heavy with unspoken promises.