Ronan ran.
The cold evening air sliced into his lungs as his footsteps hammered across the cobblestones of the lower town. Behind him, the shouts of the city guards echoed—sharp, commanding—accompanied by the clatter of metal armor. He darted into a narrow alley, vaulted over a stack of crates, and hauled himself onto a low-hanging branch with the last of his strength.
With a practiced swing, he climbed into the crown of the old tree beside his house. Hidden among the leaves, he held his breath.
The guards reached the door to his house.
"Open up! City guard!"
Garron, Ronan's father, opened it. His blacksmith's apron was still tied around his waist, his beard smudged with soot, his eyes weary.
"Your son caused trouble again," one of the guards said.
Garron exhaled heavily. "I'll handle it."
The guards left. Ronan waited until the street was empty, then slid down from the tree, crept to the window, and climbed inside.
Garron sat on his bed, arms crossed, gaze calm but disappointed.
"Ronan."
That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.
Ronan lowered his head. "I'm sorry."
Garron stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come. Let's eat."
They sat at the small wooden table. The fire crackled softly as Garron divided their simple supper. The silence between them was heavy but familiar—an empty space neither of them knew how to fill.
Later, in his room, Ronan took the small coin from his pocket—the coin he shouldn't have taken—and placed it in his drawer. A silent promise to himself.
I have to get better. I have to… change.
The next morning, Ronan felt tired but determined. He hoped the day would be calmer. But as soon as he entered the school, history class began.
The teacher, an older man with a gray beard and a surprisingly strong voice, stood before the class and tapped the blackboard with a stick.
"Today," he began, "we will discuss the four magicians who defeated the Demon King three thousand years ago."
A soft murmur rippled through the room. Ronan straightened up—more out of politeness than interest.
The teacher drew four symbols on the board: a flame, a wave, a mountain, a whirlwind.
"These four magicians were the most powerful of their age. Each mastered an element in its purest form: fire, water, earth, and air."
He pointed to each symbol as he spoke.
"How they attained this power, no one knows. There are no records, no traditions, no clues. Some believe they were born with it. Others claim it came from a source beyond our world. But the truth…"
He paused.
"…remains a mystery to this day."
The class listened, spellbound. Some whispered reverently. Others took notes.
Ronan did neither.
He stared at the symbols, but nothing stirred within him. No fascination. No connection. No strange feeling. No memory.
To him, it was just a story—an ancient legend as distant as the stars above the lower city.
During recess, Bram, the biggest bully of the school, blocked his path.
"Well, little thief?" he growled.
Before Ronan could react, Bram's fist slammed into his cheek. He hit the ground, pain flaring hot. Bram laughed, turned away, and walked off as if nothing had happened.
Ronan lay there for a moment, then slowly pushed himself up and brushed the dust from his clothes.
The day went on.
Ronan, Kaelor, Eldrin, and Seren sat together in the cafeteria. The mood was tense. Then Bram passed by, stopped behind Eldrin, and slapped him hard on the back of the head.
"Watch it, weakling," he sneered, walking off.
Kaelor shot to his feet, but Bram ignored him. Ronan saw the anger in Kaelor's eyes, the helplessness in Eldrin's, and the silence that fell like a shadow over the table.
After school, Ronan went home. Garron wasn't there yet. Ronan sat on his bed, took the coin from the drawer, and turned it between his fingers.
What am I doing? What will become of me?
A soft knock on the window snapped him out of his thoughts. Kaelor, Seren, and Eldrin stood outside.
"Ronan," Kaelor whispered, "we've got a job. A house. Valuable stuff. Quick in, quick out."
Ronan hesitated. He looked at his friends. At the coin. At his reflection in the window—tired eyes that knew too much.
If I say no… I might lose them.
"Okay," he said at last. "I'm coming."
They climbed through an open window on the upper floor of a large house. Inside, it was dark, lit only by faint moonlight slipping through the curtains. Ronan stopped before a wall of children's photos. A family. Smiling faces.
Something inside him tightened. This is wrong. This isn't me.
But before he could speak, a noise echoed. A creak. Footsteps.
The homeowner was awake.
"Damn," Kaelor whispered. "He's coming down!"
They rushed to the front door—but it was locked.
"The key!" Seren cried.
Ronan grabbed the key ring, hands shaking.
"Who's there?!" a voice shouted from the stairs. The homeowner was descending—gun in hand.
"Ronan, open it!" Kaelor yelled.
Ronan found the right key, turned it—
The door flew open.
They bolted into the night.
And then it happened.
Gunshots cracked through the street. Bullets struck the wall, the ground—one grazing Eldrin's arm.
"Ah—!" Eldrin cried, stumbling as blood began to seep through his fingers.
"I can run!" he gasped. "Just go!"
They ran until they reached an abandoned backyard. Eldrin collapsed against a wall, clutching his wound. Seren tied a cloth around it. Kaelor knelt beside him, trembling. Ronan stood apart, unable to look away from the blood.
It could have been worse. Much worse.
"I'm done," Ronan said suddenly. His voice was quiet but firm. "I don't want this anymore."
Kaelor turned. "What are you talking about? We need you!"
"No," Ronan said. "You need someone who's all in. I… I can't do this. I don't want to disappoint my father. I don't want to become—"
"Become what?!" Kaelor hissed. "A coward?"
"Someone who hurts people," Ronan said softly. "Or worse."
Kaelor grabbed him by the collar. "Then go! If you betray us, don't come back!"
Ronan met his eyes. He saw anger. Fear. Desperation.
"I'm sorry," Ronan whispered.
He turned and walked away.
When he climbed back through his window, Garron still wasn't home. Ronan lay in bed, but sleep refused to come. He thought of Eldrin's blood. The gunshots. The children's photos. Kaelor's stare. Seren's fear. The coin in his drawer.
What if Eldrin had been hit worse? What if it had been my fault? What if I really do become like the men who killed my mother?
He tossed and turned, unable to find peace.
"I have to get better," he whispered. "I have to… become different."
He didn't fall asleep until dawn.