In the northwestern corner, where the streets sank beneath a fog that never lifted, and among alleys whose names had been forgotten for years, lay the city of Nirvana. It wasn't special, nor important—just a forsaken speck clinging to the edges of the continent of Orakil. Everyone passed through… and everyone forgot it.
But tonight, something had changed.
Ever since that scream split the skies last night, the city moved with a heavy slowness, as if walking on the edge of an unhealed wound. No one spoke of what was heard, but the whisper lingered in every alley, and in every frightened eye.
Inside the Hollow Wolf tavern, Leora stood by the hearth, draped in a robe of pure white, reciting words born from a light that had died long ago.
"Darkness does not last… and light cannot be extinguished. It may lose its way, but it is never truly lost."
Some patrons sighed. Others laughed, mockingly. Yet Mira, the tavern's owner, continued cleaning glasses, her eyes warm and gently fixed on Leora. She loved that girl. Believed in her. Even if she knew the light had vanished long ago.
"Go on, Leora… who knows? Maybe within you, the last of it still survives."
The door burst open suddenly, and the cold rushed in as if trailing behind someone.
The Scavenger had entered.
A man unlike any other. He had survived the Second World. Had sunk into it, and returned… and that alone was enough to make him a legend.
Behind him, three men followed. Their ages varied, but in their eyes burned the same hunger—the hunger for power, for understanding. They followed him with unwavering loyalty, even if they had yet to comprehend the path.
They took a seat at a table near the entrance. One of them looked toward Leora, then smirked.
"Still reciting those old myths? Forgive me… but what kind of 'light' can't even brighten this dreary tavern?"
The second chuckled:
"Followers of the Light… I love how they speak. Always noble. Always pure… while the world around them burns."
The third turned toward the Scavenger, grinning as he spoke:
"Sir, is this the contradiction you always tell us about? Those who believe in something they do not possess?"
For the first time, the Scavenger spoke.
But his voice wasn't angry… It was cold—cold like a sword before it's drawn.
"Light is no myth. And it is not weak. You simply do not see it… because you're still looking with ordinary eyes."
A moment of silence swept through the tavern.
Then, the Scavenger raised his gaze to the three men who followed him, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
"Don't provoke the Temple of Light, no matter how fragile its young members might seem. You've never seen cities vanish in a single night… just because someone brushed against the cloak of what must not be touched."
They fell silent.
It wasn't a threat. It was a lesson.
Then he turned his head toward Leora and said:
"Be silent when you must… and speak when they least expect it."
She gave a slight nod, then quietly returned to her seat.
Behind the bar, Mira smiled and said with a teasing warmth:
"Last night's scream… brought even the Scavenger back early."
The Scavenger replied with a heavy, distant gaze:
"Because the thing that screamed… wasn't of this world."
---
The air within the tavern settled again after that silent confrontation.
Everyone had returned to their drinks, their games, their whispered talk—almost as if the tension had never happened. But in the corners of their eyes… the look lingered. The warning remained—one that would not be spoken twice.
Leora sat on a wooden chair near the hearth, her hands folded tightly against her chest. She wasn't crying, but there was a quiet defeat in her posture. Not the kind born of weakness… but of living in a world that leaves no room for purity.
Mira approached, placing a cup of warm milk in front of her, then sat down in the chair across without asking.
In a gentle, low voice, she said:
"Why do you give in so quickly?"
Leora slowly shook her head and answered:
"I'm not giving in… I just feel like my words no longer have a place. Like no one wants to hear about the Light anymore."
Mira let out a short laugh, tinged with something bitter, and said while gazing into the hearth:
"The Light? Oh, sweetheart… it faded from this world long before you were born. But you… you still remind people that it once existed. And that alone is enough."
Leora lifted her eyes toward her, a faint glimmer stirring in them—Mira's words had shifted something deep inside.
"But they laugh at me."
Mira smiled gently and replied:
"Of course they do. Because you remind them of something they lost. Mockery… is easier than admitting they've been broken."
Then she reached out and touched Leora's hand with quiet tenderness.
"Keep going, Leora. Don't stop what you've started. Some of us still need someone to believe… even if the whole world calls it a lie."
Leora rose slowly, casting one last glance across the tavern before turning toward the table where the Scavenger and his followers sat. She didn't speak a word—only offered a slight bow as she moved to leave.
The Scavenger lifted his eyes to her and gave a silent nod.
She said quietly,
"Thank you for the warning… even if it wasn't meant for me."
He replied without a smile:
"Don't assume the Light has vanished just because it has gone unseen. Some absences… preserve their strength in shadow."
Leora stepped out of the tavern. The old wooden door swung behind her and creaked shut with a faint groan, like something mourning quietly.
Outside, the air was cold—cold like the breath of iron. Yet she didn't shiver.
She walked with steady steps toward the end of the alley—the meeting spot she and her friends had agreed upon after their nightly preaching.
She held her book close to her chest. In the dim light, it looked small, almost unremarkable. But to her, it was everything.
In this night, in this ash-choked world, walked a seventeen-year-old girl carrying just one thing…
A faith that had not yet been broken.
---
As Leora walked, the chill of the city greeted her—not piercing, but empty, like it had been drained of life, stripped of warmth or meaning. She looked up, but the sky offered no stars, not even a ghost of the moon. Only a dense veil of black, streaked with faint lines of metallic clouds—like scars across the skin of the night.
The streets of Nirvana were narrow, damp with rain that had fallen days ago and never fully evaporated. Mud clung to the corners, and the air carried a scent of rust and stagnant water. The city was quiet… but not asleep. Eyes watched from behind shuttered windows, from doorways left half-open, from under the veil of shadows.
The people here didn't sleep.
They hid.
From something.
Leora walked on with unwavering steps, even as the weight of the city tried to slow her. Her white robes—though stained at the hem—still glowed faintly, as if they belonged to neither this district nor this era.
She passed a street vendor closing his cart—he didn't look up.
Then by a man smoking against a wall—he stared at her for a moment, then turned his face away, as if the light from her robes stung his eyes.
Leora didn't stop.
She knew those looks well.
The kind of gaze that carried no words. Not out of respect… but fear.
The whole city feared the followers of the Temple of Light.
Not because they were powerful.
But because they were unpredictable.
"Those people won't kill you if you offend them… they erase your existence as if you never were," someone had once said. Since then, every footstep of theirs carried a silence too heavy to ignore.
But Leora…
She wasn't one of those who wielded swords or summoned lightning.
She was just a girl—carrying a book, a dream, and a faith that trembled.
She spotted a child watching her from behind a doorway, his eyes wide with curiosity. His mother quickly pulled him away and slammed the door shut.
Still, she didn't stop.
The dim, flickering glow of the metallic street lamps barely guided her way. The city seemed like a maze repeating itself—alleys that mirrored each other, as if Nirvana had been copied and pasted a thousand times over the same mistake.
But she knew the path.
Toward the small bridge overlooking the synthetic river—where she and her friends had promised to meet after their nightly duty. These brief meetings were the only thread tying her to anything that resembled childhood.
She pulled her white cloak tighter over her shoulders. The cold was seeping into her bones now—but she didn't complain.
Because deep down, she hadn't just left the tavern to fulfill her task.
She had come out to prove to herself…
that there was still something in this world worth lighting again.
---
By the time Leora reached the small bridge, the mist had begun to gather over the surface of the artificial water. The river wasn't real, of course—it had been engineered to remind people that some things still moved. The water was still, pale in color, reflecting only the dull gray from the hanging lamps bolted to rusted poles.
Three girls were waiting there, huddled together, their hands clasped as if trying to fend off the cold through shared warmth.
The first was Mayla, with wide brown eyes and black hair tied back in a single braid that hung down her back. Her face was calm, composed despite her youth—she had the kind of gaze that made you feel she thought more than she spoke. She was seventeen like Leora, but slightly shorter, with a slim, reed-like build. A small gray fabric bag hung from her shoulder, sacred booklets peeking from its seams.
The second was Neria, with short hair white as bone, cut just at the neck, and eyes a smoky gray that seemed too large for her face. She looked like she came from somewhere else. Her face was round, childlike—she couldn't have been more than fifteen—but her voice carried a seriousness beyond her age. She was the most eager among them, always raising her hand first to speak, and could recite the Temple's scriptures by heart. Her smile was sharp, hiding a relentless curiosity beneath it.
The third was Seria, the tallest of them, with wide green eyes, smooth wheat-colored skin, and chestnut hair cascading over her shoulders. She was eighteen—the oldest—and closest to Leora in temperament. Serious. Quiet most of the time. But when she spoke, everyone listened. On her right hand was a faded old tattoo—the mark of her first trial at the Temple of Light, inked when she entered the path at just ten years old.
As Leora approached, Mayla opened her arms.
"Late again, as always… we thought the tavern folk had eaten you alive!"
Leora smiled as she neared them, a warm look passing between them all like a small fire in the heart of this cold night.
"They tried mocking me… as usual. But I left before anyone got too loose with their tongue."
Neria chuckled, her laugh light and quick:
"If I'd been there, I would've left them with just one line: 'Those who mock the Light… find no path when darkness falls.'"
Seria said in her low voice, her smile barely visible:
"Your voice alone could silence a whole tavern, Neria. No need to invoke the Light."
They all laughed, then fell into a momentary silence, the only sound the soft trickling of the synthetic water below.
After a pause, Mayla spoke:
"I heard there's a family in the eastern district—sick, all of them. The father, the mother, even the infant. The neighbors are trying to help, but… no doctors have been there in months."
Leora's head lifted, concern filling her eyes.
"Was it reported to the Temple?"
Mayla replied quietly:
"I don't think so… the eastern district isn't directly under our reach. But I've been thinking of going tomorrow."
Neria lit up with eagerness:
"Let's all go! That's what our training is about, right? Bringing the Light to those who've never seen it… Even if we lack power, we carry purpose."
Seria nodded in agreement.
"And remember—we didn't join the Temple to wear symbols. We came to understand how to bring meaning back to this dying world."
Leora fell silent, gazing at each of their faces, one by one.
How young they all looked.
So unscarred by the world.
Then she said:
"We'll go. Not out of duty… but because they're human. And because, up until now, we haven't betrayed what we believe in."
Another silence followed—
but this one wasn't somber.
It was certain.
A silence that felt… as if even the dark sky had listened.
And so they stood on the bridge—four girls cloaked in white, their feet planted in a city that had long since forgotten hope.
But the wind shifted that night.
And somewhere, far beyond the gray clouds,
something… began to listen.