Crossroads

The air in the village was thick with the cloying scent of decay, a shroud woven from despair. Zero had braced himself for it, of course. Humanity, in his scant encounters, had revealed itself as a tapestry of selfishness and cruelty. Yet, the sight of Four, his small frame quivering as he clutched a rough burlap sack, stirred an unfamiliar protectiveness within him. He remembered the boy’s wide, terrified eyes when the Warbeast had charged, the raw fear that had mirrored his own chilling captivity at the hands of the demon cult. Zero had christened him Four, a simple moniker for a child adrift, with no past to anchor him and no family to claim him. Now, this village, this collection of ramshackle hovels and hollowed faces, had taken him in. And for what purpose?

“He was more trouble than he was worth,” a wizened woman rasped, her voice like stones grinding together. “A drain on our meager resources. And then that beast… we couldn’t risk it. He was bait.”

Zero’s jaw tightened. Bait. The word resonated with the horrors he had endured, the callous disregard for life that seemed an inherent trait of this world. He looked at Four, who averted his gaze, his shoulders hunched in a posture of profound shame. Zero knelt, his dark cloak pooling around him like spilled ink. “Four,” he said softly, his voice a low rumble. “Are you alright?”