Kresos woke with a sharp breath.
The dream was gone, but its weight still clung to him—like smoke in his lungs, refusing to leave. He lay motionless, watching pale light leak through the ragged curtain that sagged over his broken window.
Morning.
Probably past nine.
His body throbbed, but the pain had dulled—just another ache to fold into the background. Familiar. Almost welcome.
He sat up, joints stiff and protesting, then moved into the main room.
His father hadn't moved.
Still slumped at the table, buried in more empty bottles than Kresos remembered. One had tipped over, leaking something dark and sticky into the wood grain beneath his arm.
He didn't stir.
Kresos stared for a long moment. There was no sadness in his eyes. No concern. Just something flat. Cold.
Resentment, polished smooth.
He turned and left without a word.
Outside, the air was crisp. Clean, if you ignored the smell of ash drifting in from the heart of Mirkull. The streets here were quiet—too far from the markets for the city to care. A few carts creaked by. A couple of dogs nosed through trash.
Kresos walked with his head down, hands hidden in the folds of his cloak.
His thoughts weren't here.
They were behind him.
Back then.
Before.
His parents had met young—barely fifteen. Back when his father still had fire in him. When the Dragonbane name hadn't yet turned sour. He had trained early, devoured every book in the family's vault, memorized wyrm names like prayers, studied weaknesses like scripture.
He had wanted to be ready.
And by eighteen, he was.
He joined his father on a real hunt—a dragon, deep in the dwarven mountains. It nearly killed him. A single breath closer and he would have been ash.
Instead, it left a scar.
Not just on his body.
After that, he turned away.
Walked off the path. Spat on the legacy. Said he wanted a different life.
A safer one.
He'd just married her then—Kresos' mother. She fought him on it, but he promised. Promised her peace. Promised her more.
He meant it.
But promises rot quickly in stagnant air.
Over time, she watched the fire drain from him. Watched him shrink into a man who talked about what could've been like it was still owed to him. A man who lived in the past because the present offered nothing.
And when she finally tried to leave—
She found out she was pregnant.
Kresos.
So she stayed.
For a time, he was enough. A reason. A light in a house full of shadows. She sang to him. Read him old texts, stories of dragons and blades and glory. Told him he was born for something greater.
But even love frays.
The disappointment she once reserved for her husband turned inward. Twisted. Hardened. Grief curdled into bitterness. And one day, without warning—
She stopped fighting.
And left the world behind.
Kresos barely noticed the streets anymore. The sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows between crumbling walls. He passed shuttered stalls, rusted fences, muddy stones.
Somewhere, a baby cried.
A dog barked once. Then silence.
His mind stayed buried in the candlelit past, where old words burned brighter than anything real.
So when his shoulder slammed into someone, he staggered back without thinking.
"Watch it, candle boy."
Kresos looked up.
The boy was about his age. Wiry. Taller by a bit. He recognized him vaguely—lived a few blocks over. His father cleaned noble stables.
Another nobody.
But the look in his eyes was all arrogance. All mockery. Like he had just scraped something off his boots.
Kresos opened his mouth.
Too slow.
The boy grinned and jerked his chin.
Three others emerged from the alley. Thin. Dirty. Same gutter. Just enough pride to want someone lower.
That someone was him.
"Well, well," one of them said, circling him lazily. "If it isn't the mighty dragon slayer."
Laughter.
"Doesn't slay dragons anymore," another said. "Just melts wax."
More laughter.
"Waxbane," the first one snorted. "Nothing left of that name worth burning."
Kresos didn't respond.
Didn't need to.
The words were knives. Old ones. Rusted, but still sharp.
Once, kings had knelt for the name he carried.
Now even stable boys spat on it.
He lowered his head.
Didn't speak.
Something broke.
He moved.
Fast.
One second, the boy was smirking. The next, Kresos had him by the collar, slammed against the nearest wall hard enough to make the dirt crack.
The boy gasped.
Kresos' hand found his throat.
And squeezed.
Everything else vanished—the street, the voices, the years.
Only pressure remained. And the throb in his skull. And the boy's feet kicking against the ground.
Kresos didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
The hands came fast.
They grabbed. Pulled. One punched him in the ribs. Another shoved him backward, tore his grip free.
The boy dropped, choking, wheezing, clutching at his throat.
The others turned on him, fists balled, rage in their eyes.
And then he looked at them.
Just once.
No threats. No words.
Just a stare.
Heavy. Hollow.
Like he'd already lost everything worth protecting.
It stopped them cold.
The silence dragged.
Then, one by one, they backed off. Someone spat. Someone muttered. Another called him a freak.
But none of them touched him again. They vanished into the alleys.
And Kresos stood alone.
He didn't chase them. Didn't look back.
Just kept walking—past the gutters, the slanted walls and the rusted nails pretending to hold it all together.
Back to the man slumped at the table.
Back to the name that used to mean something.
But something in him had shifted.
Not healed. Not burned.
Just… tightened.
The road ahead was still empty. But for the first time, he wasn't afraid of the silence.