Chapter 1

"GET UP, YOU USELESS BASTARD!"

A bottle shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass skittering across the wooden floor.

I winced but didn't flinch.

"Yes, Father," I mumbled, staring at my feet, caked in layers of dirt and dried mud.

"Go to the market. Bring back food," he grumbled, his words slurring together like a river of thick, foul-smelling tar.

There had been a time when his voice was different—warmer. When he would sing under his breath as he worked, tell stories by the fire, and press his calloused hand against my forehead to check for fever. That voice was gone now, lost to the bottle, buried beneath years of disappointment and sorrow.

"Finally be useful around here," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I carefully pushed myself up from the wooden floor, wincing as the splinters dug into my palms. The planks beneath my feet groaned with every step.

I made my way to my room—or rather, the corner of our L-shaped shack, separated from the rest of the house by a tattered old quilt hanging from two nails. We called it "the boot" because it was barely big enough to sit in, let alone stretch out.

"Caleb," I whispered, nudging the small lump beneath the blankets. "Caleb, get up."

He stirred, yawning, one arm flopping over his face as he squinted at me, eyes blinded by the streaks of light that found their way through the cracks in our wall.

"Wha's it, Aysn?" he muttered sleepily.

I chuckled. His bright blue eyes peered up at me through a mop of unkempt blond hair, so tangled with dirt and hay that you could barely tell its color.

"We're going to the river," I whispered, my voice laced with the kind of excitement only desperation can bring. "So get up and meet me out back, okay?"

He grinned sleepily and stretched, and for a moment—just a moment—he looked like a boy who had never known hunger.

The path to the river was narrow and winding, cutting through the forest like a forgotten vein. Tall trees loomed above, their twisted roots pushing up through the damp soil, while the thick, tangled underbrush seemed to shift and sway with every passing breeze. Birds chirped from hidden branches, their songs a distant memory, only half heard over the rushing sound of the river ahead. The air, cool and fresh, was filled with the scent of wet earth and pine.

Caleb, running ahead of me, didn't seem to notice the heavy weight I carried in my chest. His small feet splashed in the shallow puddles on the trail, sending droplets of muddy water flying as he chattered non-stop, his voice ringing out with carefree excitement. The contrast between his lightheartedness and the heaviness inside me was stark, but I didn't mind. He deserved this—this innocent joy.

"Come on, Jason! You're so slow!" Caleb called over his shoulder, his laughter high and bright. His voice echoed in the woods, bouncing off the trees like it had nothing to do with the world beyond them.

I caught up quickly, my long legs taking strides that he couldn't quite match, even with his enthusiasm. "Keep running, little man," I teased, trying to hide the sharp ache in my shoulder as I lengthened my stride. 

We rounded the last bend of the path, and suddenly, the trees opened up, revealing the river. It was wide here, the water flowing fast over smooth rocks, swirling in spots where the current grew stronger. The edges of the riverbank were lined with tall reeds that swayed gently in the breeze, while clusters of wildflowers dotted the edges in patches of purple, yellow, and white. The landscape felt alive, even if the world around us had seemed so quiet lately.

Caleb didn't waste a second. He darted toward the water, his ragged tunic flapping behind him like a flag, and waded into the shallows, his bare feet sinking into the cool, smooth stones. The current tugged at his body, but he was small enough that it didn't knock him over.

"Come on, Jason!" he called again, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he splashed water in my direction. "The water's perfect!"

I paused for a moment, letting the scene around me sink in. The river was wide, almost like a small lake in parts, the water a deep blue-green with hints of silver where the sunlight caught it. The trees on the opposite bank were thick and dense, casting long shadows over the water. I could hear the wind rustling the leaves, mixing with the distant sound of the river rushing over rocks, but there was something soothing in the noise. The river was the one place that felt timeless, untouched by the crumbling world we lived in.

Sighing, I pulled off my tattered shirt, turned to a washed out brownish color, dropping it to the bank.The river was quiet that morning, the sun's early light dancing on its surface like golden fireflies. It should have been peaceful, maybe even pleasant, but as I stood at its edge, the cold wind whipping through the branches of the surrounding trees, I could only focus on the reflection staring back at me.

A lanky, tall boy with a mop of untamed blonde hair that never seemed to lie flat, even when I tried to smooth it down. I looked older than fourteen in some ways, my body long and awkward, all sharp angles and knobby elbows, like a tree that had grown too fast and now sagged under the weight of its own branches. My eyes were sharp, too blue like the rushing water of a spring, but colder, harder than they should have been for someone my age. My cheekbones were defined, more so than I liked. It made me look gaunt, like a skeleton trying to find a body to wear.

I looked at my reflection longer than I should have, letting the river's steady ripples distort my face before pulling my gaze away. 

My skin was pale from the lack of sun, but I didn't mind. It was the bruises that caught my attention—especially the one above my right eye. I winced as I glanced at the reflection in the river. The water was distorted, but I could still see the dull purple-black bruise staring back at me, a silent reminder of last night's fight with Father. My lip was still bleeding slightly, the copper taste lingering in my mouth. I couldn't stop myself from reaching up to touch it, feeling the tenderness of the cut. And my shoulder… it throbbed from where it was once hidden beneath the remnants of my torn shirt.

"You okay, Jason?" Caleb's voice broke through my thoughts, pulling my attention back to him. His small hands were cupping water and splashing it toward me.

"Yeah," I muttered, trying to push the thoughts of last night from my mind. I didn't want Caleb to see me like this—didn't want him to know. "I'm good."

But I wasn't. I wasn't good at all. I'd been fighting my whole life, struggling to hold on to what little we had, but the fight was getting harder. The world felt heavier than it should, and every time I looked at my father's face, I saw nothing but disappointment and anger. The river, with its cool water and timeless flow, was the only thing that didn't judge me.

Caleb waded further into the river, his small frame nearly lost among the rocks. He splashed, kicking up water and laughing, blissfully unaware of the world beyond this moment. He was just a kid, the way kids were meant to be—carefree, happy, and full of life. I envied him for that. Sometimes I wished I could be more like him, able to forget everything else and just enjoy the world around me.

I knelt by the water's edge, dipping my fingers into the cold flow, watching as the ripples spread outward. The water was colder than I remembered, but it felt like a relief to my aching body. I pulled my feet into the shallows, letting the current tug at my ankles, as the coolness of the water numbed some of the hurt.

"Do you think the river will ever dry up?" Caleb asked suddenly, his voice serious as he stood a few feet away from me, his hands resting on his hips.

I blinked at him, surprised by the question. "No, Caleb," I said softly, my voice almost a whisper. "The river doesn't dry up, not really. It always comes back."

He smiled at that, as if the idea of something constant in a world full of uncertainty was comforting. And maybe it was. I wasn't sure if I believed in it myself, but for a moment, I let myself think that maybe something—anything—could always come back, even if it seemed impossible.

After a while, Caleb started to climb out of the water, shaking his hair out like a dog. He was still smiling, his face lit up in a way I hadn't seen in months. "I'm going back home," he announced with a big grin. "Race you!"

Before I could answer, he was already darting back up the bank, his tiny feet barely touching the ground as he bolted toward the trees. I snatched up my shirt before following slowly behind him, my thoughts lingering on the river, on the bruises, and the life I couldn't escape. The sounds of the water flowing beside me, the rustle of the trees in the breeze—it all felt so distant. 

We walked back in silence, the sun casting long shadows as it began to sink lower in the sky. We were close to the shack when Caleb looked up at me, his small face earnest. "Are you really okay, Jason?"

I smiled, the kind of smile you force when you can't bear to show what's really inside. "Yeah, little man. I'm fine."

But as we reached the shack, I knew that smile didn't fool him. It didn't fool me either.

I stepped inside the rickety door of the shack, my stomach knotting already. The first thing that hit me was the smell—musty wood, burnt grease, and something far too sour to be anything other than my father's lingering presence. It wasn't even noon yet, but I could already tell he'd been drinking. The floor creaked under my weight as I stepped in, hoping my father wouldn't notice the water dripping from our hair.

"Where the hell have you been?" came the growl from the corner of the room, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor. My father's voice, thick with alcohol, rasped through the still air, seeping into my skin like oil.

I took a breath, hoping my voice would hold steady. "I was… just out by the river, cleaning up."

I could feel Caleb inching around behind me, trying to stay out of my father's line of sight. He was smart, even for a kid who hadn't quite reached double digits.

"What do you think this is, a bloody holiday?!" My father's voice rose, sharp as the crack of a whip. "I didn't raise you to be lazy. I told you to get me something from the market today."

I bit my lip, my heart racing as I felt his gaze fix on me. It burned through me like a branding iron, and before I could even react, my father's hand shot out, grabbing me by the collar of my torn shirt and jerking me forward.

"I told you to do something useful for once, but instead you just piss around like you've got all the time in the world!" His breath was hot and reeked of yesterday's drink. He pulled me close, so close I could feel his foul breath tickling my ear. "Now get out of here. Go to the market, and don't come back until you've got something to show for it."

I didn't dare argue. I couldn't. I just nodded quickly and jerked away from his grip, swallowing down the anger and helplessness that rose in my throat.

Caleb's eyes were wide, his little face pale with fear. He looked to me like I was supposed to protect him, but all I could do was offer him a brief, shaky smile before stepping back out the door.

I hadn't even made it halfway down the path before I could hear my father's yelling echo behind me. A sinking feeling spread through my gut, but I kept walking. Caleb was probably already inside, trying his best to stay out of the way. But me? I had work to do.

The market was a grim affair—if you could even call it that. Stalls lined the dirt street like row after row of decaying hopes, each one a sad attempt at survival in a village where it felt like everyone was already counting down to the end. Wooden tables sagged under the weight of whatever scraps were available that day—meats, vegetables, dried herbs, and old bread. The stench of sweat and animal dung mixed with the scent of rotting fruit, giving the whole place a sickly, overpowering smell.

I walked past a butcher's stall, my stomach lurching. A large carcass hung from a hook, its glassy eyes staring down at me like the village had already given up on us all.

I spotted the bakery stall, my heart giving a small thud in my chest as I approached. The bread was fresh today—thick loaves that promised something close to comfort. I hadn't had bread like that in weeks, maybe longer.

But I had no coin. I had nothing. So, like any good thief, I did what I had to do.

The stall keeper was busy with a customer at the far end. I seized the opportunity. With practiced hands, I slid a loaf under my arm, tucking it close to my body like a precious treasure. My breath came in shallow gasps as I turned to leave, my heart hammering in my chest. But as I made it halfway down the street, I felt the unmistakable weight of eyes on me. A sinking feeling spread through my gut.

"Jason," a voice called, cutting through the haze of fear in my brain.

I froze.

Robert stood there in front of me, his arms crossed, his green eyes studying me carefully. His gaze was calm, but there was a hint of disappointment there—something I hadn't expected from him.

Of course it was him. Who else would catch me in the act? The baker? The old woman who sold vegetables? No, no, it had to be Robert. My best friend, who seemed to have an uncanny ability to show up at the worst times.

"Really?" he asked, his voice softer than I expected. "Stealing bread? I thought better of you."

My chest tightened. "I didn't have any choice," I muttered, barely looking up. I didn't want him to see the bruises on my face, or the desperation that filled me.

"You always have a choice" He corrected, flooding my thoughts with guilt in a way that only he could.

Robert let out a long sigh, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin, tossing it onto the counter of the stall. "Take the bread. It's on me."

I stared at him, stunned. "You're paying for it?"

"I don't do handouts, Jason. But you're not doing this alone," Robert said, shaking his head. "Take it."

I stared at the coin, then back at Robert. "What do you want from me?"

He didn't hesitate. "Come with me tomorrow. Help me sell my family's produce in the capital market. We leave early."

He turned on his heel without another word, leaving me standing in the middle of the street like a fool who had just been handed a fortune and told not to ask why. The weight of the bread in my hands felt heavier than it should have, as if the universe itself knew I hadn't earned it.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to move, to act normal. Normal people didn't steal. Normal people didn't get caught.

I drifted back toward the baker's stall, feigning nonchalance, as if I'd simply forgotten to hand over my coin. The baker, a man with arms as thick as the loaves he sold and a permanent scowl carved into his face, watched me closely. His dark eyes, sharp as a falcon's, bore into me, and for one dreadful moment, I thought he might call me out right then and there.

But after a long, scrutinizing pause, he grunted and turned his attention to the next customer. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, clutching the bread to my chest like it was some precious artifact I'd barely escaped with.

The walk home was slow, my steps dragging as if the road itself was trying to keep me from returning. I could already picture what was waiting for me—my father, half-drunk and simmering with whatever unspoken fury had taken root in him that day.

By the time I reached our shack, the sun had sunk behind the hills, leaving only the deep navy glow of dusk. The wooden door groaned as I pushed it open, and instantly, I felt it.

The air inside was thick, charged, like the sky before a thunderstorm. The scent of stale ale and sweat clung to the walls, wrapping around me like a warning. Caleb sat on the floor, absentmindedly drawing shapes in the dirt with his finger. He looked up, his eyes lighting up the second he saw what I carried.

"Is that—"

"Shut up," I whispered quickly, shoving the bread into his hands before my father could notice. "Eat it before—"

Too late.

"What's this?"

His voice was slow and slurred, but sharp enough to cut.

I turned just in time to see him rise from his chair, his movements unsteady, but no less dangerous. His eyes flicked to the bread. Then to me.

"Where did you get that?"

The words tangled in my throat. Lie. Tell him anything. But my silence spoke for me.

His hand moved faster than I could react. Pain exploded across my cheek, knocking me sideways. The taste of blood filled my mouth, metallic and bitter.

Caleb let out a small yelp, shrinking back against the wall, clutching the bread to his chest like it might shield him.

A chair scraped against the floor—then the sound of splintering wood.

I barely felt it after that. The blows, the shouting, the way the world blurred at the edges. I was used to this dance. My body knew how to absorb it, how to let it pass through me like a storm that would eventually end.

At some point, it did. I must have crawled to my little corner of the house, because that's where I found myself later, lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling through the gaps in the wooden planks.

And that's when I saw it.

The moon.

Not the sickly pale glow I was used to, the kind that barely broke through the thick clouds, dull and distant like an old candle on its last flicker. No—this was something else entirely. It was as if the sky had been scrubbed clean, as if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this night to reveal something long forgotten.

The moonlight poured through the cracks in the roof, flooding our little shack in silver. It cast shadows against the walls, turned the dirt floor into a shimmering river of light. For the first time in as long as I could remember, the moon shone brightly—so brightly it felt like a sign. A sign that maybe there was more to this life than I had thought, that there was something bright in my future and all I had to do was take that first step.

I turned my head slightly, watching as beams of silver illuminated the silhouettes of birds gliding across the sky, their wings slicing through the darkness with effortless grace. Even the stars seemed to burn brighter, as if taking their cue from the moon's sudden brilliance.

The night smelled of damp earth and pine, carried in through the cracks in the walls. The soft hum of crickets filled the air, their song weaving into the steady rhythm of my own breath.

Caleb, now curled up a few feet away, had finished his share of the bread. He slept soundly, his face free of worry, as if tonight had been just another ordinary evening.

My body ached, my lip throbbed, and I knew that by morning, the bruises would bloom across my skin like ink stains on parchment. But somehow, staring up at that impossibly bright moon, I felt something stir inside me.

Like the world itself had shifted.

Like something—some great, terrible, wonderful thing—had begun.

And for the first time in my life, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, things wouldn't always be this way.