Sunshine. Warm and golden.
Evan ran through the garden behind their cottage, his small legs pumping, arms outstretched like he was flying.
"Look, Mama! I'm a bird!"
Helena sat on the porch steps, mending clothes, watching her son with a soft smile.
"You're the fastest bird I've ever seen."
"I'm gonna fly all the way to the mountains!"
"That's very far, sweetheart. Don't get lost."
Evan stopped, considered this seriously. "If I get lost, will you find me?"
"Always. No matter where you go, I'll always find you."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Evan beamed and went back to running, his laughter echoing through the garden.
His father, Marcus, emerged from his study with papers in hand—botanical sketches, notes on plant mutations near the barrier.
"Helena, look at this. The flowers near sector seven are developing bioluminescence. Actual light production. The elf magic is seeping through more than we thought."
"That's wonderful, love."
"Wonderful and strange. The barrier is supposed to be impermeable, but magic finds a way. Life finds a way." He looked at Evan, still running and laughing. "Rather like our son. We tell him not to track mud inside. He finds seventeen ways around it."
Helena laughed. "He's creative."
"He's stubborn."
"He gets that from you."
"Me? I'm the very picture of flexibility."
They smiled at each other.
Evan ran up, breathless and dirty. "Papa, what are you drawing?"
"Flowers. Special ones that glow in the dark."
"Really? Can I see them?"
"Someday. When you're bigger. We'll go on a research trip together. Just you and me."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
But Marcus Cross would be dead in two years.
And that promise, like so many others, would be broken by bullets and lies.
AGE 6 - THE FUNERAL
Rain.
Cold, relentless rain.
Evan stood between his mother and a closed casket, not understanding why Papa was in a box.
"Why can't we open it, Mama? I want to see Papa."
Helena's hand tightened on his shoulder. "We can't, baby."
"Why not?"
"Because... because Papa's body was too hurt. They fixed it as much as they could, but... it's better to remember him how he was."
Evan didn't understand. Adults said strange things sometimes.
A military officer approached—crisp uniform, cold eyes.
"Mrs. Cross. On behalf of the human military, please accept our deepest condolences. Your husband died heroically, defending against an elf incursion—"
"He was collecting plant samples," Helena said flatly. "He wasn't defending anything."
"Nevertheless, the elves are responsible for his death—"
"Are they?" Helena's voice was sharp. "Because I saw the wounds. I know what human bullets look like."
The officer's face hardened. "Careful, Mrs. Cross. Grief can make people say things they don't mean."
"I mean every word."
After he left, Helena knelt down, pulled Evan close.
"Listen to me carefully. Your papa was a good man. A kind man. He loved you very much."
"I know, Mama."
"And he would want you to stay kind too. No matter what anyone tells you. No matter what they try to teach you. Remember that kindness matters. Compassion matters. Understanding matters."
"Okay, Mama."
She hugged him tight, and Evan felt something wet on his head—his mother's tears, falling into his hair.
"Don't let them change you, baby. Promise me. Don't let them make you hate."
"I promise."
But six-year-old Evan didn't understand what he was promising.
Didn't understand that his mother was trying to save him from a fate she could already see coming.
Didn't understand that in two years, they'd take him.
And everything would change.
AGE 8 - THE TAKING
The knock on the door.
Late at night.
Evan was supposed to be asleep but had snuck out of bed to get water.
He heard his mother's sharp intake of breath.
Heard the official voices: "Helena Cross, you're under arrest for seditious speech and sympathizing with enemy forces."
"No! I have a son—he's just a child—"
"The child will be placed in military youth services. For his own good. To ensure he receives proper education."
Evan ran from the kitchen. "Mama?"
The officials moved toward him. His mother struggled against the hands holding her.
"Don't touch him! He's eight years old! PLEASE!"
But they took him anyway.
Pulled him from her arms while she screamed.
The last thing Evan saw was his mother reaching for him, her face twisted with anguish.
"Be kind, Evan! Remember! Be kind! Be good! Be YOU! I CARRY YOU ,EVAN!"
Then the door closed.
And Evan was alone with strangers in uniforms.
"It's alright, son. We're going to take you somewhere better. Somewhere where you'll learn to be strong."
"I want my Mama."
"Your mother was sick. In her head. She didn't understand the truth about elves. But we'll teach you. You'll understand."
They put him in a vehicle. Drove through the night.
Evan pressed his face against the window, watching his home disappear.
Watching everything he knew fade into darkness.
He cried for the first three hours.
Then stopped, exhausted.
"That's better," the official said. "Strong boys don't cry. And you're going to be very strong."
AGE 8-13 - IRONFORGE ACADEMY
The training facility was gray.
Gray walls. Gray floors. Gray uniforms.
Everything designed to be uniform. Identical. Interchangeable.
"You are not individuals. You are soldiers. You are weapons for humanity."
They took his name. He became Recruit 2847.
They took his clothes. Gave him a uniform three sizes too big.
They took his softness. Through drills and discipline and daily reminders that compassion was weakness.
The first week, Evan cried every night.
The second week, they punished him for crying.
"Weakness helps the enemy!"
Push-ups until his arms gave out. Running laps until he vomited. Isolation in a dark room for hours.
By the third week, he'd learned.
Don't cry. Don't show emotion. Don't care.
By the end of the first year, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to care.
The propaganda films started early.
Images of elves attacking human settlements. Killing children. Burning homes.
(None of it was real. But the children didn't know that.)
"This is what elves do. This is why we must be strong. This is why we must fight."
Evan watched the films with the other recruits.
Felt the anger building. The hatred taking root.
His father had been killed by elves.
His mother had been taken because she'd sympathized with them.
Everything bad in his life traced back to them.
The monsters on the other side of the barrier.
By age ten, Evan believed it completely.
By age twelve, he was top of his class in combat training.
By age fifteen, he volunteered for extra assignments. Extra hunts.
"Cross is exceptional," his instructor reported. "Cold. Efficient. No hesitation."
And Evan felt nothing when he heard it.
Felt nothing about anything anymore.
AGE 19 - THE FIRST KILL
His first real hunt.
Not training. Not an exercise.
A real elf. A real target.
"Intel says there's a scout near the western border. Young, probably inexperienced. Good first target for you, Cross."
Evan tracked him for three hours.
Found him by a stream, filling a water container.
The elf was maybe twenty. Dark hair. Lean build. Pointed ears just visible under his cap.
He looked... normal.
Human, almost.
Not a monster.
Just a person.
Evan's finger hesitated on the trigger.
Then he remembered. The films. The propaganda. His father's death.
"Elves killed your father. They're monsters. They deserve this."
He fired.
The bullet hit center mass. The elf went down.
Evan approached slowly, his heart hammering.
The elf was still alive—barely. Blood spreading across his shirt. His eyes wide and shocked.
"Please..." The elf's voice was barely audible. "Please... have family..."
Evan raised his rifle for the finishing shot.
Looked into the elf's eyes.
Saw a person. Not a monster. A person who was afraid.
Who didn't want to die.
Who had family.
Evan pulled the trigger anyway.
Because that's what he'd been trained to do.
The elf's eyes went blank. His body went still.
Evan stood there for a long time, staring.
Then turned and vomited into the bushes.
"Good kill, Cross. Clean. Efficient. How do you feel?"
"Fine, sir."
"Good. That's the right answer. Never forget—they're not people. They're targets. You did your duty today."
"Yes, sir."
But that night, Evan couldn't sleep.
Kept seeing those eyes. That plea. "Have family."
Kept hearing the sound the body made when it hit the ground.
By morning, he'd pushed it down. Buried it deep.
By the end of the week, it was just another mission. Another target. Another checkmark.
By the end of the month, he'd killed three more.
And each time, it got a little easier.
A little less real.
Until he didn't feel anything at all.
Evan graduated that year and was assigned to a hunting unit in the western territories.
That's where he met Yusuf Hassan.
Not as a fellow trainee. As a civilian contractor.
Yusuf worked in communications and logistics—setting up field equipment, maintaining supply lines. He'd come to the military through civilian channels, not through the academy indoctrination.
Which meant he still thought like a person, not a weapon.
They were assigned to the same forward operating base for six months.
Evan was cold, efficient, focused only on his missions.
Yusuf was... different. He talked to everyone like they were human. Told jokes. Asked about people's families.
"You're Evan Cross, right? The prodigy hunter?"
Evan didn't look up from cleaning his rifle. "What do you want?"
"Just making conversation. We're going to be working together for a while. Thought I'd introduce myself. Yusuf Hassan."
"Great. You've introduced yourself. Now leave me alone."
But Yusuf didn't leave. He sat down, started organizing communication equipment.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
"Talking doesn't kill elves."
"No, but it makes the time between kills more bearable." Yusuf glanced at him. "How old are you? Nineteen? Twenty?"
"Nineteen."
"And already the best hunter in the western division. That's impressive. Or sad. Hard to tell which."
Evan finally looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just thinking out loud." Yusuf went back to his equipment. "Forget I said anything."
But Evan couldn't forget.
Over the next few months, he found himself watching Yusuf.
The way he treated everyone with basic human decency.
The way he questioned orders that didn't make sense.
The way he helped wounded soldiers—elf and human alike—when he thought no one was looking.
One night, Evan found him tending to an injured elf scout they'd captured.
"What are you doing?" Evan demanded.
Yusuf didn't stop bandaging the elf's wounds. "He's bleeding out. I'm stopping that."
"He's the enemy."
"He's a person who's hurt."
"They will have you court-martialed if they find out."
"Then don't tell ." Yusuf met his eyes. "You won't, will you?"
Evan should have. Should have reported this immediately.
Instead, he turned and walked away.
"I didn't see anything."
A week later, the elf escaped. Somehow his restraints had been loosened, the guard rotation had a gap, and he'd slipped through.
Yusuf was questioned but nothing was proven.
After that, he and Evan had an unspoken understanding.
Evan did his job. Killed when ordered. Followed commands.
But when Yusuf was around, somehow fewer elves ended up dead. Somehow more "escaped." Somehow orders got "misunderstood."
They never talked about it directly.
But Evan knew.
And somewhere deep down, in the part of himself he'd buried, he was grateful.
Because Yusuf reminded him that humanity still existed somewhere.
Even in this hell.
When Evan was transferred to Morrison's direct command at age twenty-two, Yusuf stayed in logistics.
They shook hands before Evan left.
"Stay safe, Cross," Yusuf said quietly. "And remember—you're more than what they made you."
"Easy for you to say. You weren't raised in the academy."
"True. But that doesn't mean you can't unlearn it." Yusuf smiled sadly. "If you ever need help. If you ever want out. Find me. I'll help."
"I'm not getting out. This is my life."
"For now. But lives can change." Yusuf pressed something into his hand—a card with a phone number. "If you ever need it."
Evan took the card.
Told himself he'd throw it away.
Never did.
Kept it, folded in his wallet.
Just in case.
He wouldn't see Yusuf again for ten years.
Not until he was running through Pine Hollow with an elf child, desperate and hunted.
Not until the moment when he needed help most.
And Yusuf would be there.
Like he'd promised.
Because some people keep their promises.
Even when the world tells them not to.