Fourteen Years Ago…
The air in the room was still and warm, smelling of clean linen and a faint, new-baby scent that felt alien in Fiero's world. He stood, a small, rigid statue of resentment, just inside the doorway, refusing to venture closer to the woven crib that had suddenly become the room's centerpiece.
"Fiero," his mother said, her voice a soft, tired melody. She gestured toward the sleeping bundle. "This is your new sister, Fiori. Please take care of her like a good older brother."
Fiero's gaze remained fixed on the intruder. A sister. The word felt like a stone in his gut. He didn't see a cherubic face or tiny, clutching hands; he saw a thief. This small, sleeping creature had stolen his universe overnight. The undivided attention of his parents, the quiet of the house, his place as the sole recipient of their smiles—all of it was now partitioned, shared with this silent, demanding interloper in the crib.
His father's large hand descended, ruffling his hair with a familiar, calloused affection. "I'm sure you'll grow to love your sister," he said, his tone meant to be reassuring. "Even if you find that hard to believe right now."
The gesture, once a token of pride, now felt like a dismissal, a pat on the head for the boy who was no longer enough. A hot spark of anger flared in Fiero's chest. He slapped his father's hand away, the sharp sound a crack in the quiet room.
Without a word, without a glance back at his sister, he turned on his heel and marched out, leaving the scene of his dethronement behind.
"I'm sure I won't," he muttered to the empty hallway, the words a vow sealed in the bitterness of a wounded child.
Thirteen Years Ago…
The sound drilled into his sleep, a relentless, piercing wail. Fiori. A year old, and her lungs had only grown stronger. Why weren't they silencing her? Annoyance, hot and sharp, propelled him out of bed. He stomped down the hallway, ready to yell at his parents for their negligence.
He pushed her bedroom door open. The room was awash in the pale, pre-dawn light, illuminating only the distressed child in her crib. The rest of the house lay in a deep, unnatural silence. His parents' door was ajar. Their room was empty, the bed neatly made.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach. He dashed through the silent rooms—the kitchen, the living room—each one a confirmation of the growing void. The house was hollow. It was just him. And her.
Back in her doorway, his eyes caught a slip of paper on the floor, weighted down by a dry, forgotten teacup. He snatched it up, his small hands trembling.
'Fiero, take care of Fiori and yourself, sorry for not being the best parents.'
The words were a gut-punch, breathless and final. The anger that followed was a white-hot shield against the terror. Yes, very shitty parents, aren't you? he thought, the words a venomous curse in his mind.
He turned back to the crib. Fiori's face was blotchy and red, her tiny body shaking with sobs. All his resentment melted away, replaced by a terrifying, crushing weight of responsibility. He was all she had.
His sigh was a shuddering surrender. He moved to the crib, his movements clumsy with dread, and gently gathered her into his arms. She was so small, her cries vibrating against his chest.
"It's okay," he whispered, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. He held her tighter. "Your older brother is here now…"
"I want Mum and Dad! Where are they?!" she wailed, her tiny fists clutching his pajama shirt.
Fiero's heart sank. He took a deep, steadying breath, the air feeling thin and insufficient. He crafted the words, building a fragile shelter for her with his voice. "They're… on a work trip. A very important one. They'll come back once they're done."
Fiori's desperate cries softened into ragged sniffles. She buried her wet face in the hollow of his neck, her small body going limp with exhausted trust. "Okay…"
In the aching silence of the abandoned house, holding his sister as the sun began to rise, the boy named Fiero was forged into something else entirely. He was no longer just a child. He was a guardian. A liar. A foundation. He was her only fire in the sudden, overwhelming dark.
Eight Years Ago…
The world was a blur of pain and shouting faces. A heavy boot connected with his cheekbone, snapping his head back against the cobblestones. Stars exploded behind his eyes.
"You filthy mutt!" an old man rasped, his voice thick with venom. "What happened to the debt? The silver your thieving parents swore to repay!"
Fiero tried to form a word, a denial, but his lips were split and swollen, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth. He could only spit a crimson streak onto the ground.
"Your good-for-nothing parents took our coin and ran!" another voice jeered from the encircling gloom. "Their debt is yours now! Pay us back!"
A small, furious shape barreled out of the alley's shadows. Six-year-old Fiori, a tiny tempest, slammed into the old man, her small head connecting hard with his thigh.
"Fiori, no!" Fiero's shout was a ragged, desperate thing, torn from his broken spirit. Run, he wanted to scream. Don't let them see you.
But Fiori stood her ground, tears carving clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. She tugged frantically at her brother's arm, her small hands insistent. "Come on, brother! Get up! Let's get away from here!"
She looked down at him, and amidst the terror, she tried to summon a smile, a fragile, trembling thing of pure hope. "A kind woman," she whispered, her voice quick and breathless, "she gave me a loaf. A big one! It can feed us for a whole month!"
In that moment, lying broken in the filth of the street, her smile was a kindling spark in the overwhelming dark. It was a promise of survival, of a tomorrow. The pain in his face faded beneath a wave of fierce, aching love.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. A real smile, tired and bruised but genuine, touched his own lips. Hers was contagious, a magic more potent than any spell.
"Okay," Fiero nodded, his voice finding a new strength. He let her small, determined hands pull him to his feet. "Okay, let's go."
Four Years Ago…
The alley was a dead end, a stone throat closing around them. The men, their fine clothes smelling of expensive spirits and arrogance, had cornered Fiori against the damp brickwork.
"Well, well," crooned a tall man, his smile a predatory flash of white in the gloom. "So this is the pretty ginger mutt the whole town whispers about." His gaze, slick and appraising, crawled over her.
Another man, shorter and stout, chuckled darkly. "Hm... just needs a little touching up, I'd say. She'd make a fine penny on the right market, wouldn't you say so, Harold?"
Harold, the obvious leader, stepped forward, his shadow swallowing Fiori's small frame. "Yes! Definitely!" he declared, his voice booming with a sense of ownership. He reached out, ringed fingers poised to grab her.
A thick piece of firewood whistled through the air, striking Harold's temple with a sickening crack. He dropped like a sack of stones, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Fiero stepped from the mouth of the alley, his chest heaving. He was no longer a boy, but the lean, hardened frame of a young man who had known too much hunger. He placed himself squarely between the men and his sister, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Hands. Off. Her."
The stout man recovered from his shock, sneering. "Oh! And what are you going to do about it, filthy mutt? You're still just a weak little boy."
"I'm an adult now," Fiero said, the words flat and final.
The man barked a laugh, gesturing to Fiero's wiry build. "Eh, still built like a twig, aren't ya?"
Something in Fiero snapped. It wasn't just anger; it was a tectonic shift, a lifetime of festering fear and rage erupting into pure, unthinking violence. He didn't shout. He simply moved.
The first punch broke the stout man's nose with a wet crunch. The second drove the air from another's lungs. They were older, softer, and utterly unprepared for the feral storm Fiero had become. He was a piston of raw fury, his fists falling long after their defenses had crumbled, until his knuckles were raw and slick with blood that was not his own.
Silence.
Panting, Fiero turned. The men lay in a broken heap, barely breathing. And then he saw Fiori.
She was pressed against the wall, her eyes wide with a terror he had never seen directed at him before. It wasn't fear of the men; it was fear of him.
The red haze vanished, leaving a cold, sickening clarity. "Fiori! I... I wanted to protect you!" he rasped, his voice ragged, his bloodied hands held up as if in surrender.
She nodded slowly, tears welling and spilling over. "I know," she whispered, the words trembling.
He stumbled forward, pulling her into a tight, desperate embrace, careful not to stain her clothes. He held her as if she were the only solid thing in a world spinning into madness. She was his light. His only light. And in that moment, he swore to himself he would become any kind of monster, bear any stain, to keep that light from ever being extinguished.