The chariot's wheels rolled gently across the road, the soft rhythm barely noticeable inside the luxuriously designed cabin. The cushions were deep and dark, stitched with noble threads. Every corner of the space was made for comfort. Yet, within it, a heaviness lingered—settled between Fortis and the Fourth Sword like the weight of memory.
Ervian sat with his back straight, gaze distant, yet present. He had spoken of Croven before. Just briefly. Enough to plant questions. And now, Fortis had asked one that left no room for evasion.
"I had a family, sir," Ervian said quietly, his voice low but clear. "A family of four. My older sister… Elira. My mother, Liane. And my father, Deren."
He spoke the names with reverence, like laying flowers over old graves. Fortis didn't interrupt.
"I lived with them in Croven," Ervian continued. "We shared a small room—two spaces, divided by a torn curtain. A single window. The roof leaked. But it was home. And it was enough."
He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused. The chariot rocked slightly as the path dipped, but he didn't shift.
"The walls were painted black. Everything was. Even our clothes. Not by choice… but because of the moon. Xein."
Fortis raised a brow slightly, his curiosity genuine.
"That moon," Ervian said, voice darkening, "was the closest to Croven. And it's cursed. Once every few nights—no pattern, no warning—it would glow. A strange, rust-colored light. Not like a blessing from the skies… more like poison."
Fortis leaned in slightly. "And anything not black?"
"Gone," Ervian said. "Vaporized. Dissolved like paper tossed into fire. Red, white, blue—didn't matter. Only black could survive. And because we couldn't predict the nights it happened, we painted everything. Furniture. Floors. Walls. Our food bowls."
The chariot fell silent.
"But the nobles weren't affected?" Fortis asked, already knowing the answer.
Ervian shook his head. "Of course not. They had their devices—strange equipment, barrier artifacts. They created shielded zones. Only their homes, their carriages, their private streets remained untouched by Xein's light."
His voice tightened. "The rest of us had paint."
"But it's not like that anymore," Fortis said. "Right? That changed about twenty years ago?"
"Yes," Ervian confirmed. "Thanks to King Marcus. He deployed artifact engineers to that region. People began receiving basic shielding stones for free. Commoners could finally build homes in color. But that wasn't the world I knew."
He paused.
"My father was a bartender. Mother, a hairdresser. Neither job brought real money, but it was enough to get by. We ate. We survived. And my sister..."
He exhaled softly, eyes turning distant.
"Elira was... beautiful. Truly beautiful. Not like how men talk in taverns. No. She had this calm to her. Her skin was pale, but not sickly. Her hair was black, but when the moonlight touched it, it shimmered like liquid night. And her eyes—gray. Cloud-gray. She looked like she belonged somewhere else. Not Croven."
He smiled for a moment, then lost it.
"I don't remember every detail now. But I remember how I felt when I looked at her. I remember thinking—beauty could be a weapon."
He looked up at Fortis.
"But only if you're born noble. If not... it's a curse. A devastating one."
Fortis was silent.
"She turned fifteen. I was five. And I remember my mother's fear. Always warning her. 'Don't go outside. Don't let the neighbors see you. Don't open the curtain.' That wasn't protection—it was desperation. Because Croven was rotting. Thieves, gangs, slavers. And a beautiful girl outside the safety of a noble's walls? That was blood in the water."
Ervian's voice grew harder.
"But what does a fifteen-year-old know? What does a five-year-old care? We were children. We wanted to laugh. To play. So we did. We snuck out. Just once. Just for an hour."
He looked down.
"It was enough."
The silence in the chariot deepened.
"She was seen. By him."\n\nHe didn't say the name. He didn't need to.
"The current head of the Croven family. He was about thirty-four at the time. He was passing through, returning from the slave markets. Everyone knew him. Everyone feared him. He was infamous. Took girls from the alleys. Disappeared them. Used them."
Fortis's jaw tightened.
"She didn't know. We didn't know. She smiled. She played. She didn't know he'd seen her."
Ervian's voice turned cold.
"The next day, father left early. Mother was about to leave too. Then they came. Men dressed like assassins. Hoods. Blades. But not killers. Now that I think about it... they moved like knights. Trained. Silent. Efficient."
He gripped his knees, knuckles white.
"They broke in. They grabbed her. Elira screamed. My mother tried to stop them—but they shoved her into the wall. Hard. I remember her bleeding. Elira was dragged out... through our little black-painted door."
Fortis's heart was beating slow, steady—but the weight in the cabin was rising.
"My mother went mad. She cried until she collapsed. My father came home, saw the blood, saw her on the floor—and then ran. He ran for weeks. He didn't eat. Didn't sleep. He searched every alley, every den, every street."
Ervian's voice cracked slightly.
"And after fifteen days... he found her."
The chariot swayed gently. Fortis didn't move.
"She was in the slave market," Ervian said. "Chained. Dirty. Her dress torn. Her wrists... bleeding. Her face was bruised. Her mouth swollen."
His eyes burned.
"The slave trader was laughing. He said—'This one's used. But she's still high-quality. We'll start the price at two gold.'"
The chariot fell into dead silence.
Ervian looked away.
"My father looked at her. Just looked. And then... he dropped to his knees. Right there. In the filth. In front of the trader. In front of everyone."
A long pause.
"He didn't cry. He didn't speak. He just... dropped. His arms hung limp. His face lost everything. Like something in him died."
Ervian's voice dropped to a whisper.
"He looked like... the weakest person in the world."