The rain had just stopped, leaving the city enveloped in a heavy darkness illuminated by the shimmering remnants of the night. A thick, suffocating mist crept through the narrow alleys that separated the noble district from the common folk, highlighting the stark divide between social classes. Throughout the night, no one slept peacefully as the news of Lord Alfonzo Walter Caesar's death spread like wildfire across the camp, infiltrating every conversation among soldiers, at drinking tables, and even within the lords' chambers, igniting fear and speculation.

  Behind the cold stone walls, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed, announcing the arrival of the royal elite. A tall woman stood before them, her silver hair cascading neatly, her gaze fixed on the dew-soaked stained glass window. The sharpness in her eyes hinted at the uncertainty that only those who truly understand can possess.

  “What is happening here?” Lord Celine Ardente's voice cut through the rustling of the cool night wind. “Alfonzo... dead on the road? And the boy—Fitran, as they say—has vanished without a trace? Is this just a foolish joke or a veiled warning wrapped in fog?”

  In the dim corner of the room, an old man in a dark red cloak quietly sipped wine, not uttering a single word. His face was marked with dry scars, and his eyes sparkled with a sharp, profound intelligence that hinted at a wealth of untold stories. After a moment of introspection, he finally spoke, his voice soft and flickering like a flame in the night’s darkness. “Celine, never underestimate the rumors that circulate. I know well how the Caesar family operates. Their thirst for vengeance will not subside just because of a single night of rain. If Fitran is still alive, he is surely writing his own death sentence with each breath he takes.”

  “You’re always so pessimistic, Alaric. Vengeance can be reignited,” Celine replied, her breath coming in labored gasps, as if her words carried a heavy burden. “Yet here we are, conspiring, plotting our next move. Are all our efforts in vain?”

  Alaric frowned, “Be wary of your negligence. If the rumors about ‘Quintus Smyrnaeus’ turn out to be true, then it isn’t only the Caesar family that should be worried. That... could become a legendary steed, steeped in myth and power, a creature of the gods. How can a mere street boy like Fitran hope to ride it, to wield such a force that could rival an army?”

  Celine pivoted, her gaze penetrating the man before her with an unmasked intensity. “If this truly concerns ‘Quintus Smyrnaeus’, we are not just speaking of a family that should be afraid; we are discussing a force whose legend goes beyond mortality. That… that is a legendary steed, belonging to a deity. How can a mere street boy like Fitran hope to wield control over it? What right does he have to defy fate?”

  The old man shrugged, his expression revealing no signs of alarm. “The world is changing, Celine. The old rules no longer apply. Many creatures of myth, once confined to stories, are now among us.”

  Celine turned her body, her gaze sharp and unwavering as it bore down on Alaric. “He cannot possibly tame that steed. They are bound by the same fate, I’m certain of it. We must find Fitran before it is too late.”

  “This world is fraught with peril,” Alaric whispered, lowering his voice as if fearful of unseen ears eavesdropping. “If we continue to speak with such prejudice, we will only make matters worse. Tread carefully, Celine.”

  Celine regarded him with eyes ablaze, a fierce glimmer igniting within her. “Then tell me, if I choose to remain silent, what fate awaits me? Fear will not deter the powers we hold.”

  Suddenly, a guard burst in, his face ashen, as if he had borne witness to something unimaginable—a foreboding sign of the dark times that lay ahead. “Forgive the interruption, my lords, but there is urgent news. A girl named Rose Alexa has been found dead. Her body has vanished without a trace, consumed by the very darkness that envelops this city. Not even a drop of blood remains, only the remnants of ancient sorcery—a purple portal, the mark of Charderal, a name steeped in dread and mystery.”

  Celine drew a shaky breath, her eyes shimmering with tears she could no longer contain. “She was just a match seller… Why must the children bear the weight of the wrongs done by adults?”

  The old man rose, lifting his staff with unwavering determination, a testament to his resolve. “Because this city—and all the great cities beyond—are built upon the bones and blood of the innocent, Celine. Time and again, power arises from the tragedies we choose to overlook, tragedies we consciously choose to forget. The ghosts of the past demand acknowledgment, and our present can only be molded by recognizing their suffering.”

  Outside, the soldiers' whistles resounded, filling the dark night with a disquieting clamor. Their cheers seemed to celebrate liberation from pain, yet for Fitran, everything had shifted irrevocably.

  Meanwhile, far beyond the city walls, Fitran wandered among the ruins of an ancient tower. Each breath felt heavy, each step shadowed by the memory of Rose Alexa and the suppressed wrath of Alfonzo that stained his past with blood. Rain had washed away the physical sorrow clinging to his skin, but it could never cleanse the anguish embedded deep within his soul.

  Suddenly, a low and menacing voice echoed from the moss-covered debris. “Are you the one who believes that death will set you free, Fitran?”

  Fitran was startled and spun around. Amidst the ruins stood a tall man draped in a deep blue cloak that billowed in the wind. His eyes sparkled sharply, like a dagger poised to pierce something vital.

  “Who are you?” Fitran asked, instinctively gripping the hilt of the dagger concealed at his waist, prepared to confront the looming threat.

  The man stepped forward with a calm demeanor, a faint smile playing on his lips. “My name is Seraphus. I consider myself a hunter—and at times, a mentor to stubborn young souls like yours.”

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  Fitran straightened, meeting Seraphus’s gaze with a courage that flickered like a wavering flame. “If my purpose is merely to exact revenge on Alfonzo, you are mistaken. I will not mourn what has transpired.”

  Seraphus chuckled softly, his voice challenging the darkness with a sarcastic edge. “Regret? That is not my concern. I am driven by curiosity. How can someone like you summon the eternal steed? What do you offer this world, Fitran, that grants you possession of something even kings dare not approach?”

  With a vacant gaze, Fitran lowered his head, hiding the anguish that gnawed at his heart. “I have never sought anything from this world. All I possess is despair and fury. The steed came to me when all hope had faded, leaving only the resolve to endure life.”

  Seraphus began to circle Fitran, his gaze sharp, appraising like a jeweler examining a rare gem. “Many speak of you as more than just a boy. Whispers linger among them, suggesting that divine blood flows through your veins. Some even call you a curse. Among all these rumors, which is true?”

  Fitran's smile was bitter, resembling more of a heartache. “I am but an nobody. Yet, one thing is certain: this world is unjust, and I have played the victim for far too long.”

  Seraphus took position among the ruins, gazing at Fitran with unwavering sharpness. “Listen well, lad. This world is not a stage for heroes. Should you endure, they will brand you as wicked. Should you fall, your name will become a terrifying ghost story. Are you prepared to face this?”

  Fitran closed his eyes for a brief moment, striving to calm his trembling breath. “I do not aspire to become a legend. All I desire is for those who remain to have a place to return to, without the fear of facing the night or the silk-clad monsters that lurk.”

  Between them lay a suffocating silence, as if time itself had frozen in the weight of their conversation. At last, Seraphus shattered the stillness, his voice attempting to soften the harshness of reality, “Lad… this world is indeed dark. Yet sometimes, a person like you—who carries light in their pocket and wounds upon their chest—can become a blazing fire, consuming all that surrounds and illuminating the way for those lost in shadows.”

  Before long, news of Fitran and the eternal steed spread like wildfire through the dry woods, reaching every corner of society. Within the grand palace, sorcerers gathered with furrowed brows, discussing matters of urgency and the implications of these events. In the marketplace, mothers pulled their children close, urging them to return home before darkness shrouded the land. Some among them whispered that Fitran had forged a pact with the underworld deity, while others believed him to be the incarnation of ancient wrath, come to disrupt the long-established order and reclaim what was taken from the innocent.

  Yet, amidst all the clamor, Fitran walked alone, weaving through desolate corridors while bearing the blazing weight of vengeance and the fragile hope upon his back. Each night, the visage of Rose Alexa surged forth in his dreams, tearing at his soul, while the voices of the children he had once saved echoed in his ears—along with those he could not shield from the encroaching dark.

  “Yet another downpour,” hissed a young man, his eyes fixed on the leaden sky hanging heavy like a burden above. “It seems there is no end to this.”

  “Rain is a blessing for us who are cast aside,” replied a girl with flowing blonde hair, brow furrowed as if striving to comprehend the unfriendly weather. “Do not forget that, Leo. In the midst of rain, we might rediscover the paths that were lost.”

  In the distance, a silhouette of a black steed stood proudly atop the hill, waiting for its master to determine the course to take. With a tone tinged with uncertainty, Leo inquired, “Must I exact retribution for all that has transpired? Or…?”

  “Or what?” the girl interjected, her voice piercing through the roar of the rain. “Learn to forgive oneself? Thou knowest it is not as simple as turning thy hand.”

  “Thou dost not understand!” Leo shouted, his emotions consuming him. “I must take action. I cannot remain ensnared in this void any longer!”

  “I know more than thou dost suspect,” replied the maiden, her voice soft yet imbued with firmness. “The tale of the eternal steeds is a legend that even the sorcerers dare not speak of lightly. Why should we remain shackled by myth, when we possess the power to forge our own destinies?”

  “Speaking of myths,” Leo took a deep breath. “Homer, the steed of Hera… Dost thou truly believe they exist? Or are they merely elements of tales that haunt the dreams of children?”

  “Perhaps both,” the maiden replied, gazing far into the hills. “But remember, whosoever succeeds in summoning one is deemed to hold the key to reshape the ages. And if we possess the strength to call upon them…”

  “Perhaps we could alter everything!” Leo added, filled with fervor, his eyes sparkling with hope.

  “Or we might plunge everything into a deeper ruin,” the maiden retorted, her expression a mask of confusion as doubt flitted across her fair visage. “Charderal, the resting place of souls departed without justice, stands as a true testament to the consequences of ambition unchecked. Marina Charderal—the gentle spirit who once refused divinity—sought to impart compassion, yet such an emotion can be a double-edged sword. Is that truly sufficient to cleanse our past?"

  “We never know what is enough,” Leo replied softly, his voice now steadier. “We can only strive. Perhaps we might learn from the mistakes made by those who walked before us.”

  “Or we could become like them,” the girl responded, her eyes gazing with fervent hope toward the black steed standing upon the hilltop. “Our choice shall determine everything.”

  After that night of slaughter, this city languished within a moment of dread. Not a single path could be deemed safe. “Fitran…” the voices around whispered, full of hope yet shrouded in fear. “Will he come?” Some of them lingered in prayer, awaiting the figure of a savior who may yet emerge from the darkness. Meanwhile, others merely awaited the promised destruction.

  Amid the scattered remnants of nearly extinguished hope, the voice of Rose Alexa resonated, piercing the silence of the night like a beacon. “We are not animals! We deserve to be counted!” she cried, her voice brimming with fervor yet still shrouded in frailty, echoing the collective spirit of the forgotten. Beside her, the street children—viewed as nothing more than the detritus of existence by society—stood united, demanding that the world awaken from its folly and recognize their right to live with dignity.

  Seraphus, a formidable figure standing tall beside Fitran, gently placed his hand upon the young man's shoulder. “Listen, lad. There is no turning back from this point. You have stepped into the realm of the gods. Choose your path, or allow this path to choose you,” his voice was heavy, each word laden with the weight of the space between them.

  Fitran glanced towards the heavens, a bitter smile curling upon his lips. “If I must choose, I wish to be a light in the darkness for someone—if only for a single night,” he replied, his gaze distant, as if touching something deeper within his soul.

  “You possess a spirit fierce enough to set the world ablaze,” Seraphus remarked with a nod, his expression softening, revealing a sincerity seldom seen. “But remember: not all who walk alone are demons. Sometimes, they are merely souls delayed in their return, seeking the way home.”

  The sky began to unfurl its darkness, as if signaling hope hidden behind the clouds. The dew from last night's rain faded, casting a soft glow upon each blade of grass. From the distance, the city's bells echoed, ringing out a clarion call that a new dawn had broken, promising a day rich with possibilities.