A Question To Be Asked

The fire crackled beneath the starlight, embers drifting into the night sky like dying stars. A boy sat at one end of the flame, his body shivering from the knowing cold, yet behind his black eyes burned an unwavering flame. His short, curled, messy black hair was the only part of him that seemed to retain the warmth his body gave off.

Across from him sat a man. His black hair drank in the firelight, each strand indistinguishable from the next, forming a curtain of void-like darkness. He was cloaked in something darker still—so dark it seemed to devour the light around it. What little glow reached him revealed a face pale as bleached snow.

He sat cross-legged, back straight. Resting on his lap was a sheathed sword—its presence ancient, dangerous, and inscrutable.

The fire flickered between them, casting long shadows on the surrounding trees. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the soft crackle of burning wood and the distant rustle of the wind through the leaves.

Loids gaze remained fixed on the man, his eyes drawn to him in a way that felt natural, an unspoken rule of nature, like a moth drawn to a flame. A quiet storm churned in his chest—questions, doubts, a thousand things unspoken. His fingers twitched, as if eager to grasp something—anything—to disrupt the stillness. But he knew better. The man would speak when he was ready. Yet nothing came, so he spoke.

The boy blinked, swallowing the dryness in his throat. His lips parted, but no words came out. What should he say? what could he say? The world he had awoken to was broken, fractured in ways that made no sense. The constant sense of dissonance pulled at him, as if the very fabric of existence itself were unraveling around him.

"Why," the boy finally said, his voice rough. "Why did you save me."

The man's gaze didn't shift. He was still, almost statue-like, as if his very presence was a part of the world, woven into it like the trees and the stones. There was an air of timelessness about him—someone who had seen countless moments come and go, each of them insignificant in comparison to the greater pattern.

"What did you feel," the man said softly, almost as if to himself. His fingers brushed the sword at his side, a small, unconscious gesture, yet it was enough to send a shiver through the boy's spine even the trees seemed to tremble.

Loid leaned forward, brow furrowed, eyes gazing into the fire. "Hatred," he muttered, his voice soft and quiet, the wind threatening to blow the words away.

"I couldn't feel anything else, i couldn't think of anything." Loids gaze became distant as if he was looking at himself, at his own mind.

The man's lips curled into something like a half-smile, though his expression remained unchanged. "Good." He paused, his eyes flicking to the sword resting on his lap.

"You will learn what that means... when the time is right."

The boy's gaze flicked down to the sword. There was a palpable tension in the air, the same kind of pressure that came before a storm. He had the distinct feeling that the sword was not just a weapon—but a test. A reminder of something he could not quite grasp yet.

"I didn't ask for any of this," the boy muttered, his voice tinged with fear and frustration.

The man's gaze softened, just for a moment. "None of us do," he replied, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. "But the world doesn't ask permission to change. And neither do you."

The boy's eyes hardened. He stood abruptly, his legs shaky but determined. "Then show me," he said. "Show me what I'm supposed to do. I'm tired of waiting."

The man stood as well, moving with an effortless grace. His cloak billowed out, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch far beyond the fire's reach. His eyes locked with the boy's.

"You are already on the path," the man said. "Now, we wait. For the storm to come."

The boy's gaze flicked to the horizon, where the sky grew darker—clouds swirling in unnatural patterns, as though something vast stirred behind them. The air thickened with the promise of something coming. Something terrifying. Inevitable.

The fire crackled louder, as if reacting.

"What are you willing to give?" the man spoke, voice low but heavy, like it carried the weight of an age.

Loid's eyes flickered—not just with confusion, but with a stubborn, desperate determination. He didn't know what awaited him. He didn't understand the hatred that had burned within him, nor the glimpses he had seen in the void.

But one thing was certain.

That spark—the desire to control, to shape the world—had never faded.

"Everything."