Rain fell without mercy, turning the alleyways into rivers of grime and broken glass. Kirion stood beneath a rusted awning, drenched despite the shelter. Across from him, a small candle flickered in the window of what once was a bakery, now repurposed as a mourning house.
Inside, seven names were written on the wall. Seven fighters. Seven people Kirion had trained, fought beside, and lost in a single ambush last week.
He pressed his fingers to the damp concrete and whispered each name. Not as a ritual. As a promise.
War, he had learned, was not defined by battles won or lost—but by what it took from those who survived it.
Back at the safehouse, his daughter sat curled on an old mattress. She hadn't spoken much since the news arrived. One of the fallen had been her friend, Mara—a coder, a quiet soul who used to sneak in jokes between data breaches and line edits.
Kirion sat beside her, unsure of what to say. Eventually, he offered, "You can scream if you need to."
"I've tried," she whispered. "It just comes out as silence."
He put his arm around her. She didn't pull away.
Later that night, Kirion stood in front of the mirror. His reflection stared back, older than he remembered, eyes sunken, beard streaked with gray. He touched the scar near his temple—a reminder of a night he barely escaped, trading blood for breath.
His hands trembled for the first time in months.
The cost wasn't always life.
Sometimes, it was pieces of your soul slowly being carved away.
But still, he pushed forward.
Because surrender was a debt he refused to pass on to the next generation.