Fifteen years ago…
Hungry.
He was always hungry.
It was a feeling so constant that he barely questioned it anymore. His body was proof enough, all bones and thin limbs, his arms smaller than those of other children his age.
Lately, though, something strange has been happening.
In the alley where he usually rummaged through trash, bread had been appearing. Whole loaves, tied carefully in cloth, then thrown away as if they meant nothing.
He didn't know who would waste food like that, or why anyone would throw away something so precious.
But he didn't question it.
Being able to eat was a privilege.
'I hope there's more today like yesterday, so I can share some with the others.'
He ran as fast as his small legs could carry him. He was late reaching the alley because of the rain, and fear gnawed at him. If the bread was there, it might already be soaked through.
Still, he ran.
Even wet bread was better than nothing.
After a few more minutes of running, weaving around passersby and keeping his head down, he finally reached his spot.
The narrow space between two old buildings, one selling worn clothes, the other dealing in weapons. Between them sat a massive pile of trash, always growing.
Always waiting.
He scanned the ground quickly.
'Please, please, please,' he thought, praying to whatever or whoever would listen.
Then relief washed over him.
Bread.
Just like before, tied neatly in white cloth. This time, there was more of it. Two bundles instead of one.
And somehow, miraculously, it hadn't been ruined by the rain.
'Thank you,' he thought, though he didn't know who he was thanking.
His stomach twisted painfully at the sight.
He took one step forward, then another, already imagining tearing the bread apart, eating his fill, and bringing some back for the others.
Then—
"No!"
A shout.
Voices.
"Just give it already, you brat!"
He froze.
The sounds came from the alley between the two buildings.
His instincts reacted before his thoughts could catch up.
He slipped behind a broken crate, crouching low and pressing his thin body against the wall. He held his breath, peering through the narrow gaps.
Three men stepped into view.
Older. Bigger.
Their clothes were dark and worn, their movements sharp and restless.
'Thieves.'
He had seen men like them before. Stealing from nobles, picking pockets, snatching goods from stalls.
And they weren't alone.
Between them stood another boy.
The boy looked older than him, maybe eleven or twelve. His clothes were clean, far too clean for this part of the district.
Fine fabric, polished shoes, not a tear or stain on them, aside from mud splashed up by the rain.
Rich.
A noble, without a doubt.
The boy's silver hair was ruffled, his eyes wide with fear, his back pressed against the wall as one of the men stepped closer.
"Hand it over," one of them said, voice low and rough. "Or you won't be able to get back to wherever you came from."
"Please… it's a keepsake from my mother, I—"
"It looks expensive," another cut in. "So what?"
He stayed frozen behind the crate, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure they could hear it.
'Should I do something?'
He could leave.
Take the bread. Run. Pretend he never saw any of this.
He could shout for help, but no one ever came when kids like him screamed.
And the thieves were already moving closer to the boy.
'What do I do? I-I don't know what to—'
Hands grabbed at the noble boy's clothes. One of them slammed him back against the wall while another twisted his arm behind him.
"Stop, please!" The boy cried out.
That was it.
He stopped thinking.
His gaze dropped to the ground, searching blindly. His fingers closed around something cold and heavy.
Metal.
A long strip of rusted metal, likely torn from a broken crate or an old sign. It was dented, rough, and sharp along the edges.
Good enough.
He sucked in a sharp breath, his chest burning, then burst out from behind the crate.
"HEY!"
His voice cracked.
But it was loud.
The three men spun around, startled.
"What the hell—?"
He didn't wait.
He was shaking, but despite that he swung the metal as hard as he could.
It slammed into the first guy's arm with a dull clang. The guy shouted, staggering back.
The second lunged for him, but he ducked and swung again, hitting ribs this time. He felt the impact vibrate up his arms.
'That hurts.' He thought he wasn't used to this, and it hurt him to hit the man, the vibrations felt odd.
"You little shit–" Another one of the thieves tried to grab him with his bare hands, which he immediately realized was one important thing.
They weren't armed.
"Leave…"
He was fast.
"…him alone!" he screamed at the top of his lungs as he swung the metal, striking the man lunging at him square in the leg.
"FUCK!"
The man retaliated immediately, landing a hit that sent him stumbling to the ground. Pain flared through his side, sharp and sudden, but he didn't care.
He'd grown up on the streets. He knew pain.
And right now, he was saving someone.
That was all that mattered.
"Run!" he shouted at the boy. "Go!"
He pushed himself back up and struck again, aiming low, anywhere he could reach. The man cursed, scrambling backward, clearly not expecting a scrawny kid to fight back.
But instead of hearing footsteps retreating, he sensed movement beside him.
"Get down!"
The noble boy shoved one of the men away, then snatched a loose stone from the ground and hurled it straight into another man's face.
"What are you doing?" he shouted, torn between panic and disbelief.
The boy didn't answer.
He simply grabbed another stone.
That confused him more than anything else.
The rich kid was helping.
He didn't have time to argue, so he nodded.
Both of them faced the three men. He tightened his grip on the metal strip, while the rich kid scooped up another stone, fingers white with tension.
Together, they forced the men back step by step, until one of them swore loudly and waved the others off.
"Not worth it!" someone spat.
"Come on! If this kid's family finds us, we're done!"
The men stumbled away into the alley, clutching their bruises and cursing under their breath.
He stood there for a moment, frozen.
'They… just left?' he thought as the metal slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.
'They left.'
Relief rushed through him, so strong his knees almost gave out.
"Are you okay—" He turned to ask if the rich kid was hurt, but he was cut off.
"What's your name?"
'He's…' He hadn't noticed it earlier, but the rich kid was tall. Taller than most boys his age.
And his eyes were a strange shade of yellow.
Or… orange?
"I-I don't have a name," he answered, suddenly embarrassed, though he wasn't sure why.
"You… don't have a name?"
He shook his head.
The rich boy frowned at first, then let out a soft laugh and smiled, shaking his head. "Then thank you, boy with no name. You saved me. And my pendant." He lifted the chain slightly. "My mother gave me this. To think you'd risk yourself just to help me… I don't even know how to thank you."
"It's, um… it's fine," he said quickly, looking away. "Just, uh… don't wander off too far from your guards. Or your family." He hesitated, then glanced back at him. "Do you have a name?"
Most kids he knew didn't. That was why he asked.
The boy's smile widened. He held out his hand, confident and warm.
"My name is—"
Present…
"Helios!" Ezra exclaimed, clutching Lior tightly against his chest.
Helios stood just beyond the bandits, knights fanned out behind him with weapons drawn and eyes sharp.
He looked the same.
The same as he had fifteen years ago, and the same as Ezra remembered from five years ago.
Silver hair catching the sunlight. Striking golden eyes that seemed to see everything.
"I've been waiting for you," Helios said with a small smile as he stepped forward and held out his hand. "Ezra."