Most people remember where their story begins.
Mine started in the cracks between other people's pages.
No carriage ride. No sword passed down by blood. No dying mentor whispering secrets.
Just a boy, small and silent, sitting by the window of a chapel, counting how many times the bell rang.
It was an orphanage, but they called it "The House of Mercy" to make it prettier.
Mercy, though, was not what raised us. Routine did.
We weren't mistreated, no. But no one held our hands either.
We grew up like ivy on a forgotten wall—spreading in silence, reaching for light we never received.
I was nine when Kael came.
He was golden even then. Literally. Blonde hair, bright laugh, the kind of charm that made adults soften and other kids follow like stars behind a moon.
I liked him at first. He gave me half a peach once. Told me my drawings were cool. But that was before he found the sword behind the chapel. Before the old priest gasped and started calling him The One.
I was in the corner when Kael lifted the blade. I clapped the loudest.
I was proud. Genuinely proud.
But that was the last time someone asked me what I drew.
Years passed like sand in cupped hands—slow but always slipping.
Kael left for training. I stayed and helped scrub floors. When I was sixteen, I joined the city guards. Not because I wanted to. Just because they needed someone who wouldn't complain about the night shift.
That's where I've stayed—watching the hero's tale from alleyways, rooftops, and moonlit towers.
I guarded gates while Kael saved kingdoms.
I lit lanterns while he burned through armies.
I existed like punctuation—there, but not spoken.
But lately…
Lately something's been stirring in me.
It started with the shadows.
They whisper when I walk home now. Not in words—but in feelings. In questions.
Why do I know the hero's story so well… yet not my own?
Why do I remember every line Kael spoke during his first victory speech…
but not the name of the woman who once held me when I cried?
Last night, I dreamed of fire.
Not Kael's flame, bright and loud.
No—mine was quiet. Blue. Cold around the edges. But steady.
And in the dream, I didn't follow.
I led.