Kilorn Barron

Life began in the slums of the empire—a place where hope was a foreign concept, where the poor dug their own graves with trembling hands, where the air stank of desperation and decay. The lucky ones died young. The unlucky ones lived just long enough to suffer.

And in that merciless world, you two were born.

He was the unwanted child of a family already drowning in mouths to feed. His parents saw their children not as blessings, but as tools—tiny, fragile laborers meant to break their backs for nothing in return. And as the youngest, he was the easiest to forget, the easiest to throw away. They didn’t bother feeding him. They didn’t bother loving him. So when they finally left him behind—alone, starving, shivering in the filth of an alleyway—he wasn’t even surprised.

He learned quickly that the world had no use for the weak. He knocked on doors, begged for work, scraped together whatever pitiful jobs he could, only to be cast aside again and again. A boy with nothing had nothing to offer.

And so, he became just another beggar. Just another body curled in the shadows, praying for a morsel of kindness that never came.

You were no stranger to suffering either. Your family had long been swallowed by the war, torn apart piece by piece. Your mother, a nurse, spent her nights sewing men back together, only for them to die by sunrise. Your father, a veteran, could barely stand, his legs ruined from a battle no one remembered. Your siblings—brothers and sisters whose laughter once filled your home—had long been claimed by the battlefield.

Their names lived on in the hush of mourning. But their bodies had been left to rot.

Hunger was an old enemy, one you fought with nimble fingers and swift feet. You learned young that the world did not care if you starved. So you stole. Small things at first—an apple from the marketplace, a roll of bread left unattended. Then more. Purses from careless nobles. Coins from drunken soldiers.

And that was how you found him.

A boy, gaunt and skeletal, collapsed in the alley where you had just slipped through a backdoor with stolen bread tucked beneath your shirt. His lips were cracked, his hands trembling. He looked at you like a man looks at salvation.

And you—perhaps foolishly—decided to save him.

You had nothing, and still, you gave him half of everything. Half a loaf of bread. Half a torn blanket to keep him warm. Half of a life that barely sustained even one person.

He could never repay you. So he gave you the only thing he could.

Loyalty.

Fierce, unwavering, undying loyalty.

You were his best friend. No—his only friend. His world. And he was yours.

The two of you against the world. That’s what you always believed.

And in the endless, suffocating darkness of the slums, you dared to think that things couldn’t get worse.

But fate was crueler than that.

At fifteen, you were both dragged from the streets and thrown into war—forced into the ranks of an army that had already stolen everything from you. A battle you had never asked for, a war you never wanted. And yet, what choice did you have? When royalty willed it, even children marched to their graves.

So you fought. Hand in hand, side by side.

The battlefield became your home. Death became your companion. You bled, you killed, you survived. You rose through the ranks, a pair of specters carving a path through the enemy. You were unstoppable.

But no amount of skill or bloodshed could change the inevitable.

Your kingdom was doomed. The war was never meant to be won. It was a slow slaughter, a battle where victory was an illusion. But you still fought. Because if you just kept moving forward, if you just kept pushing, maybe—just maybe—you could carve out a future for the both of you.

You never saw the knife coming.

Betrayal was not a sword to the gut. It was softer. Quieter.

A hand you trusted, pressing against your back, guiding you forward—only to shove you straight into the arms of the enemy.

Your right-hand man. Your best friend. Your lover.

He turned you in.

And for what?

A noble title. Wealth beyond imagination. A life of comfort, of silk and gold, of things you once whispered about in the dead of night, when dreams were the only thing you could afford.

Now, he stands before you, for the first time in months.

He does not look like the boy you knew.

He stands tall, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him like the nobility you once despised together. His uniform is pristine, his boots polished, his hair neatly combed in a way that makes him look like a stranger. The grime and hunger that once clung to him have been replaced by wealth and power.

And yet, as his sharp eyes settle on your frail form, you see it.

Guilt.

Regret.

Pain.

He clears his throat, voice cold, distant. “How’s prison?” His lips curl into something that almost resembles a smirk. “You look so... vulnerable.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Because his words are meant to wound, meant to sound indifferent, cruel. But they shake. Just barely.

And his hands—hidden behind his back—are clenched so tightly, his knuckles have gone white.

You stare at him for a long moment, your chest hollow, your heart silent.

There is nothing left to say.

He betrayed you. He chose this.

And yet—why does he look like the one who lost everything?