"I remember my past. I hate my past. Sometimes I want to forget it all… to forget I'm even me, forget I'm even alive. But still, I move forward."
The moon hung low, a pale witness in the night sky, spilling silver across the cobblestone streets. Every stone gleamed like scattered stars, every shadow breathing quietly.
I was small then, tiny against the weight of the world. My father walked beside me, large and round, a mountain of a man whose armor creaked like old wood. He smelled of iron and sweat and fire—the smell of battle, the smell of home. His laughter rumbled like distant thunder, shaking the air with warmth.
My mother's hand held mine, delicate and sure, guiding me through the soft moonlight. Her eyes glimmered with patience, but behind them… a storm. I couldn't see it yet, but I would learn.
"Careful, Nessy," my father boomed, stepping over a jagged stone. His voice could scare wolves or comfort children with equal weight. "The night hides tricks for those who rush."
I nodded, barely looking up. His shadow stretched across me, a fortress and a cage all at once.
The streets were empty, except for the whisper of wind through the trees lining the outskirts of our village. Moonlight caught the edges of my mother's braid, silver threads in the dark, and I remember wanting to touch them, to anchor myself in that softness before the world began to harden.
"Father… will we… always be safe?" I whispered.
He laughed again, deep and unyielding, shaking his belly. "Safe? No, Nessy. Not in this life. But strong… yes. Strong enough to survive. That's all that matters."
I pressed my small hand against his, trying to feel the strength he promised. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe in anything.
The moon followed us silently, tracing our steps, as if it too wanted to see the girl who would grow to defy fate.
And that night, I first learned the weight of being alive.
The village gate creaked behind us as my parents guided me home. Lanterns swung in the night breeze, casting trembling light across the mud walls. Every step carried the scent of firewood, smoke curling like memories I would later try to forget.
I remember feeling… lucky. Lucky in a way most girls in our tribe never were. Most women with children were cast aside, left to fend for themselves, abandoned to the harshness of the world. Their screams haunted the streets at night, whispers carried on the wind.
But not me. Not my mother, not my father. They held me close, not as a burden, not as a slave, but as their child. I had a place. I had a family.
The house was small, walls lined with rough wood, but warm. The fire in the hearth crackled, throwing golden light across my father's round face, the sweat of the day glinting like tiny jewels. My mother moved with careful grace, her hands never still, tending the hearth, the food, and somehow, me.
I wasn't an orphan. I wasn't a slave. I wasn't a child who had to fight for scraps or shelter.
For the first time, I was… truly happy.
I remember lying that night on the straw mattress, the smell of smoke and home wrapping around me, the sound of my father snoring like a drum in the next room. My mother hummed quietly, a soft, steady song that seemed to chase the shadows away.
I closed my eyes and wanted to freeze that moment forever.
Because I didn't know then how quickly the world could take everything away.
One day… a man appeared near our village. I remember it clearly.
He came riding alone at first, cloak trailing behind him like a shadow kissed by sunlight. The villagers whispered, unsure if he was friend or foe. But when he spoke… everything changed.
"My friends," his voice rolled over the crowd, deep and calm, "the world is larger than any one of us. But together… we can shape it. We can rise. We can be more than survival—we can build a future."
The elders frowned, shifting nervously. My father's large hands clenched at his sides.
"He talks of ambition," my father muttered to my mother, his voice low, wary. "Ambition can be dangerous, Nessy. Dangerous for children, dangerous for fools."
My mother's eyes were soft but sharp. "And yet… I feel something in him, something rare. Listen to his words. Feel them."
The man turned his gaze toward us, scanning the villagers with eyes that seemed to pierce the soul. He smiled faintly, as if he already knew our thoughts.
"I am not here to fight," he said. "I am here to unite. Every tribe, every family, every soul willing to rise together. The future does not belong to the weak… it belongs to those who can imagine, and then build, what others only dream of."
I remember standing on my tiptoes, tugging at my mother's sleeve. "Mama… is he… great?"
My mother looked down at me, a faint smile touching her lips. "Yes, child. He is… one of a kind. A genius. But genius… can be heavy. You watch carefully."
He rode through our village days later, visiting every home, speaking to every elder. His words were fire, but gentle fire, the kind that makes you want to follow, to rise, to become part of something larger than yourself.
Even my father, the mountain of a man, nodded with a rare seriousness. "He… may be the one. The one who can change everything."
I didn't understand then what that meant. I only knew that when he spoke… the world seemed bigger. The stars seemed closer. And for the first time, I felt that the future was waiting… and maybe, just maybe, I could be part of it.
He finally spoke his name.
"I am Toravon," he said, voice smooth, carrying both promise and weight. "And I will show you what the world can become… if you dare to reach for it."
Even then, I felt it—a pull in my chest, a shiver along my spine, like standing too close to fire. Not fear… not exactly. But caution. Unease.
He smiled, and it wasn't the easy smile of someone kind. It was sharp, precise, brilliant—like a blade that could cut both wood and bone. And yet… I wanted to believe him. I wanted to follow.
There was something in him, something impossible to name. A light… but a shadow flickering behind it. A weight beneath the greatness.
I remember thinking, as I watched him move among the villagers, speaking with each elder, each warrior, each child, that someone could be so… formidable, so clever, so utterly inspiring… yet carry a tremor of danger, a flicker of something that didn't belong.
But the people… the tribes… they didn't see it. They saw only the hero. The uniter. The one who could rise above all of us, and maybe… save everything we had.
I felt torn. I wanted to trust him. I wanted to cheer with the crowd. I wanted to believe in the dream he promised.
But deep inside… somewhere I couldn't name yet, a part of me whispered that greatness often comes with a price. That to be the one who can do everything… sometimes you must step over the very thing you claim to protect.
I didn't understand it then. Not fully. I only felt it—a tension, an almost invisible thread, pulling at my gut whenever he spoke.
Toravon. Even his name carried weight. Even his smile left marks.
I remember thinking… someone like him could change the world. And maybe, just maybe… someone like him could change me.
Days passed, and life returned to its rhythm. I ran through the village streets, barefoot, laughing as I chased the other children under the silver moonlight. My small hands felt alive in the cool night air, my heart lighter than it had ever been.
But not all children were kind.
Some mocked, shoved, or tripped the weaker ones. I remember one boy, taller and crueler than the rest, kicking a smaller child to the ground. His laughter rang harsh in my ears.
I couldn't stand it.
"Stop!" I shouted, voice sharp, trembling with anger. "Leave him alone!"
The boy sneered, stepping closer. "Or what, little Nessy? You'll hit me?"
I clenched my fists, chest tight, but then I remembered Toravon. His words. His presence. The way he carried strength not just in muscle, but in the way he commanded respect.
I didn't need to fight him with fists. I could fight with something stronger.
"Look at me," I said, voice firm. "This is not how we live. Not how we treat each other. You are better than this."
The other children stopped, unsure. Even the bully paused, startled by the certainty in my tone.
And that moment… I realized I could be someone who mattered. Someone who could protect others—not by being the strongest, but by standing for what was right.
I started helping the smaller children, teaching them to stand tall, to speak up. I became a role model among my peers, the girl who didn't just fight, but guided.
All the while, Toravon's presence lingered in my mind. The way he carried himself. The brilliance, the drive, the promise of greatness. I wanted to be like him—someone strong enough to protect, someone clever enough to lead.
And so, even as a child, I learned that justice wasn't just about anger. It was about action. It was about making others see their own potential.
The village nights stretched on, moonlight painting our laughter and lessons across the streets. I felt alive. I felt purpose.
I felt… like I could become someone like him.
Slowly. Quietly. Like a shadow creeping over sunlight.
It started with my father.
The man who used to lift me onto his shoulders, laughing so loudly the whole village heard.
The man who kissed my mother's forehead every morning before work.
The man who always told me:
"Justice is simple, Nessy. Protect the weak. Stand tall."
One evening, I found him sitting outside our home, staring into the fire as if the flames were whispering secrets.
His expression was… distant. Hard.
"Papa?" I asked softly. "Are you okay?"
He didn't look at me.
Didn't smile.
Didn't even blink.
Instead, he muttered, "Justice… is not simple, child. Justice requires… strength. Requires choices. Hard ones."
I stepped closer. "But… Papa, you always said—"
He cut me off sharply, turning his head, eyes darker than I'd ever seen.
"Forget what I said."
The words felt like a slap.
My mother froze behind me, hands tightening on her dress. She knew something was wrong.
She felt it before I could.
Day by day, he changed.
His voice grew colder.
His patience, thinner.
His ideals… twisted.
Where he used to break up fights, now he joined the stronger children, laughing when the weak were pushed down.
Where he used to teach kindness, now he spoke of power.
Of order.
Of following "the greater plan."
I remember watching him one afternoon as he grabbed a boy by the hair and shoved him aside for "disrespect."
My breath shook.
"Papa… stop!" I cried.
He turned slowly, his shadow stretching long in the dirt, and said,
"This is the world now, Nessy. Wake up. Justice belongs to those strong enough to take it."
My chest tightened.
My throat burned.
This wasn't the man who raised me.
This wasn't the father who protected me.
Something — or someone — had shifted him.
Bent him.
Twisted him into something unrecognizable.
Toravon's teachings echoed across the village every day.
His ideals.
His speeches.
His growing influence.
But even then… I didn't dare connect the two.
Not yet.
All I knew was this:
The man I loved most was changing.
And the world around me was changing with him.
And I… had no idea why.
That evening, something in her father's footsteps felt wrong. Heavy. Crooked. Not like the man who once lifted her onto his shoulders.
The door slammed open.
Nessy froze.
Her father's eyes were wild—filled with a twisted conviction she didn't recognize. He marched straight to her mother, gripping her wrist with a force that made her gasp.
"H-Honey?" her mother whispered, confused. "What's wrong? Did something happen—?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he yanked out a metal collar—rough, cold, nothing like anything Nessy had seen in their home.
"Please… don't," her mother trembled.
He forced it around her neck.
The lock snapped shut.
Then came the first strike.
Her mother stumbled to the floor, hands raised, voice cracking.
"H-Honey, why…? Why are you punching me?" she cried, tears streaming. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I did something wrong. Please—please talk to me. Please…"
Another blow.
Nessy wanted to run to her—scream—anything. But her feet wouldn't move. Her heart felt trapped in her throat.
Her mother reached out weakly, eyes searching for the man she once knew.
"Please… just talk to me," she whispered.
But the man standing there wasn't her father anymore. Not the one who taught her to walk. Not the one who told her she was precious.
Something darker had taken root inside him.
Nessy's voice softened, trembling at the edge of breaking.
"That's… all I can bear to remember."
The memory shattered, and the present rushed back.
She looked at Gareth, eyes cold.
"Now you know why I hated you."
Thyssara chuckled quietly.
"Enough."
With a flick of her fingers, the guard released the Veil technique holding Gareth's form twisted.
Nessy blinked—her perception snapping back into focus.
And Gareth's distorted, fat-man illusion melted away.
He stood there in his real shape again.
His face was shocked.
Hurt.
Silent.
And for the first time, Nessy realized… her words had cut deeper than any blade.