After the coup, the Zarethi vanished. Their purpose fulfilled, their names faded into dust. Only Tharek remained, no longer a rebel, but a lord.
The old royal house held no power. The king was there only for show.
Ten years of peace ended in greed. The lords wanted more—more land, more gold, more control. So they turned on each other. Bloody civil wars began.
As the lords fought, the capital was forgotten. It held no armies, no wealth, no power. The king, still feasting in his castle, offered no help. The people starved.
With no soldiers to guard it, the capital became a target. Raiders came, again and again. Fields burned. Wells dried. The land turned to ash. Nothing left to give.
And then… silence. The raiders stopped coming. Why attack a land that has nothing left to steal?
37 years later.
The capital baked under the unforgiving heat of summer, its silence heavier than the heat. Tucked behind a half-collapsed playground near the city's southern edge, three kids sat, eyes fixed on a small fire they started out of boredom, dazed from the sun.
Theo: "My mother made us soup the other day," he said, grinning with pride. "And get this, it had onions."
Ressa: "You're such a liar, Theo."
Yara: "I'm not lying! There's still some left, you can come see for yourself."
Ressa: "Ugh, shut up," she said playfully.
Theo: "If I were king, no one would have to live on scraps just to survive."
Ressa: "Well, you are not the king, are you?"
Yara: "We only have to get through a few soldiers to get to the king, though. I am sure he would understand if we explained our situation."
Theo: "If only it were that simple."
The weight of the silence settled over them as the sun dipped lower, turning the fire's glow fragile against the dusk.
"It's getting late," said Ressa.
"We should get going," said Theo, kicking dust over the embers that remained.
"Tell Aunt Lyra I said hi," said Ressa as she walked away.
"Yeah, yeah," muttered Theo, exhaling sharply.
The streets were weary. Buildings leaned against each other like old men too tired to stand alone, their walls cracked, their roofs sagging under the weight of time. The heat of the dying sun settled thick over the capital, turning the air heavy, suffocating.
Theo walked the same path he always did, past homes stitched together from wood and rusted metal, past doorways where figures sat, hunched over, staring out with empty eyes. A woman whispered lullabies to a child too hungry to sleep, her voice fragile as the wind tugged at torn fabric hanging from the window.
The roads had long since given up trying to be roads—just stretches of packed dirt, worn thin by footsteps and desperation. Stray dogs moved like ghosts, ribs jutting from their sides, watching Theo with dull, tired eyes. Smoke curled from a distant fire, the scent of burning refuse clinging to the air like a stain.
The market had closed early. There was nothing left to sell. A few merchants still lingered, sitting in the shade of their empty stalls, their hands tracing lines in the dust. No one spoke. No one bargained. Hunger had stolen their voices long before it stole their goods.
As Theo neared his home, the capital felt smaller, the silence pressing against him like hands on his shoulders. The city was dying, but it wasn't sudden—it was slow, patient, like the weight of time carving away at stone.
Theo pushed open the door to a house made of wood and steel—a good house.
"Welcome home," said an old lady, stirring thin soup made from water, salt, and onions.
He sat on the mattress with a sigh, the day's heat still clinging to him. He spoke about his day with her, mentioning the conversation he had with his friends, but as he went on, his words slowed down until finally, he asked, "Why does the king just watch as we suffer?"
"Oh, my sweet boy," she sighed, still stirring the pot of soup, "it's because some people care about themselves and only themselves. As long as their plates are full, they don't care who goes hungry."
"But… that's wrong," Theo murmured, frowning. He waited, but the old woman said nothing.
"If I was king, we all would be eating like kings."
Alice walked in just as he was speaking, pinching his cheeks. "Don't say that nonsense so loud—someone might hear and think you've lost your mind." Her tone was light, but the worry in her eyes lingered.
She turned her attention to the old lady. "Mother, you need to stop giving him these ideas."
"Let the boy dream, Alice," she said—firm, unwavering.
The silence between them was heavy.
Theo broke the tension. "Oh, Ressa told me to say hi, Grandma," he muttered as he settled in.
The old woman chuckled. "Such a sweet girl she is."
They ate their thin soup in silence. No words, just the faint sound of spoons scraping bowls.
Later that night, the fire had burned low. Theo slept in the corner, his breath shallow and even. Aelis sat across from Lyra, arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Aelis whispered: "He's not ready." Lyra didn't respond. Her eyes stayed on the fire.
A moment passed. Lyra slowly stood, joints stiff, and walked over to her bedding. She lay down beside Theo, facing away from Aelis.
She didn't say another word. The room returned to silence.
"Wake up, you idiot," Ressa said, overtaken by anger as she slapped Theo's face.
"What's going on? Is it morning already?" Theo groaned as he rubbed his eyes.
The answer was in the room itself. Crowded, tense, filled with sharp breaths and wide eyes. Ressa, Yara, and their families were huddled in tight clusters, backs pressed against walls. Something was wrong.
Alice was rushing around the house, searching for something—anything—to reinforce the door.
Theo, heart pounding, turned to Ressa. "Seriously, what is going on?" he asked, worry laced in his voice.
"Raiders," Ressa sighed. "They were spotted by one of the lookouts. We came here as fast as we could." She tried to calm herself, but fear wove into every word.
"We will be safe here," said Lyra, writing something carefully in her diary. She was the calmest person in the house. "Just block the doors. They will go away on their own." She barely glanced up from her diary, her calm almost irritating.
The children huddled close, backs pressed against the cold walls, fingers clutching at fabric, at hands—at anything solid. Their breaths were shallow, their eyes darting between the locked door and the adults whispering in frantic tones.
They were only 11 years of age. Too young to understand. Old enough to know there was no mercy in this world.
Morning came.
The house had not slept. The air inside was stiff, wrapped in quiet unease. Shadows stretched long across the walls as the last traces of night clung to the corners of the room. No one spoke—not since the hurried whispers had settled into tense silence hours ago.
Theo sat near the mattress, arms draped over his knees, eyes fixed on the faint sliver of light creeping beneath the door. It was thin, fragile, like it didn't belong in this place.
Alice moved about the room, slow, careful. She straightened objects that didn't need straightening, touched the door once, twice, then backed away. Ressa and Yara remained still, their backs pressed against the cold wall, listening.
A deep breath. A pause.
Lyra turned a page in her diary, the only sound cutting through the stillness.
Outside, the capital waited.
The lock clicked, its resistance weak from years of use. Theo hesitated before pushing the door open, the wood creaking under his touch.
Outside, the capital was still. The usual morning sounds—shuffling feet, hushed voices, the distant clang of metal—were missing. The streets stretched out before them, empty but not abandoned, like something had pressed pause on the city itself.
Theo stepped forward, dust rising beneath his heel. The air felt thick, hanging in place rather than moving with the breeze. Ressa and Yara followed, their gazes flickering toward each shadowed corner, their breaths shallow.
There was no sign of struggle. No broken doors. No discarded weapons. No fleeing figures.
Just silence.
A dog limped across the street, ribs jutting like knife handles, pausing only to sniff at the ground before continuing its weary path. The sight should have been ordinary, yet in the absence of anything else, it felt wrong.
Theo's fingers quivered. Why was everything so quiet?
Behind him, Alice rested a hand on the doorway, scanning the road with careful eyes. Lyra remained inside, still gripping the diary she had refused to put down during the night.
Theo turned to Ressa. She wasn't looking at him—her gaze was fixed ahead, toward the market, toward the buildings that should have burst with life in the early morning.
They didn't.
The capital had not been attacked. It had been emptied.
And then, realization settled.
Their food. Their security. Their guards.
Gone.
The guards assigned to protect them by the people of the capital—disappeared with all their family members.
It was a heavy blow to all living in the capital.
Theo exhaled sharply, but the breath felt shallow, as if the air itself had thickened in his throat. His feet shifted on instinct, yet he remained still, caught in the weight of it all. Something was missing—something he hadn't yet named but could feel pressing into his ribs.
His hand hovered near the lock again, fingers brushing against the worn metal as if closing the door could erase what lay beyond it. A useless thought. A desperate one. It wouldn't change what had already been taken.
He scanned the street again, searching for signs of struggle—shattered crates, discarded weapons, anything that hinted at resistance. But there was nothing. Only silence, heavy and unwavering.
Disbelief clung to the edges of his mind like fog, thick and stubborn, refusing to clear. The capital had not been attacked. It had been abandoned. They had been abandoned.
His pulse hammered against his skin, steady but strained. His fingers curled into fists, the tremor barely visible, but there. Something inside him cracked, slow and unforgiving.
Then, finally, the rage came. Not in a burst, but in a steady, crushing wave. It settled into his bones, cold and absolute.
His breath was controlled—not with calm, but with necessity.
He would not break here. Not yet.