Sleep came quietly that night.
And without warning, it took him somewhere else.
Arin stood on a familiar balcony.
A place he hadn't seen since… before.
The faint hum of traffic drifted through the air, city lights glowing softly in the distance. The old metal railing stood just as it always had, worn at the edges.
Everything was the same.
And yet it felt wrong.
His father sat near the balcony door.
Still. Silent.
The man who never let himself look unkempt now looked… tired in a way Arin had never seen before. His beard had grown out unevenly, streaked with white. His hair, once carefully maintained, was left untouched, grey showing without effort to hide it.
He didn't move.
Didn't adjust.
He just sat there.
Smaller than Arin remembered.
"…Dad?" Arin called softly.
No response.
Inside the room, his mother sat on the edge of the bed.
Her posture slightly bent, her hands resting loosely in her lap.
She wasn't doing anything.
Just sitting.
Her face had grown thinner. Dark circles lay beneath her eyes, and strands of white had begun to show through her hair.
But it wasn't that which held him still.
It was her eyes.
Empty.
Not crying.
Not breaking.
Just… empty.
"Mom…"
Arin stepped closer, his voice quiet, uncertain.
She didn't look at him.
Her gaze remained fixed somewhere far away—beyond the balcony, beyond the night.
And then—
a tear rolled down her cheek.
Slow. Silent.
"…Why did you leave us?"
The words were soft.
But they struck harder than anything else.
Arin froze.
He tried to speak—
"…I didn't—"
But the words never came.
Because somewhere inside him—
he already knew.
The scene blurred.
The light faded.
Their figures dissolved into darkness.
Arin's eyes snapped open.
He sat up, breath uneven, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like a weight he couldn't shake off.
The room was quiet.
Still.
But his mind wasn't.
"…Why didn't I think about them…?"
The thought came first.
Clear.
Unforgiving.
He lowered his gaze, fingers tightening slightly.
"…Not even once…"
"I was their only child…"
The realization settled deeper.
"…They have no one."
Silence stretched.
Not empty.
Just full of something he couldn't push away.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
Not to escape it, but to face it.
Then, slowly, he spoke.
Softly.
Almost like he was afraid the words wouldn't reach.
"If you're really there…"
"…my mother prayed to you her entire life."
Lord Krishna
"…If you are truly watching over that world…"
"…then please take care of them."
That was all.
No grand words.
No promises.
Just… hope.
Arin opened his eyes.
The weight didn't disappear.
But it settled.
Just enough.
He exhaled slowly, then swung his legs off the bed.
The ground beneath his feet felt steady.
Real.
He stood.
And without saying anything more, he began his day.
————————
By the time Arin returned from the training grounds, the sun had already begun to rise properly over the East Dock District.
His body ached in familiar ways.
Controlled. Expected.
The kind of exhaustion he didn't question anymore.
After a quick bath, he returned to his room.
Everything was already packed.
The leather bag rested near the bed. The wooden crate sat beside it, closed and ready. There was nothing left to arrange, nothing left to prepare.
Only time remained.
Tomas was already there.
Dressed.
Awake.
Waiting.
"…You're really going," Tomas said, though it wasn't a question.
Arin gave a small nod.
"Yes."
Tomas leaned back slightly against the wall, arms folded.
"…Feels weird," he muttered. "Room's going to be quieter."
Arin glanced at him briefly.
"…You'll manage."
Tomas snorted.
"Yeah. I always do."
Neither of them seemed interested in filling it.
A knock came at the door.
Both of them looked up.
"…Come in," Arin said.
The door opened.
Miss Martha stepped inside.
Her eyes moved across the room once—taking in the packed bag, the crate, the two of them standing there.
Then they settled on Arin.
"Are you packing already?" she asked.
Arin straightened slightly.
"Yes."
For a moment, she said nothing more.
Then she stepped forward, carrying a neatly folded bundle in her arms.
"…Before you go," Miss Martha said, placing it down on the bed.
"Take these."
Arin looked at it.
Then at her.
"…Miss Martha, I—"
"Don't start," she cut him off calmly.
Tomas raised a brow slightly, watching.
Miss Martha unfolded the bundle with steady hands.
A clean white shirt.
Well-stitched. Properly fitted.
Not extravagant—but far better than anything he had worn before.
Next came a sturdy leather belt.
Simple.
Durable.
Practical.
Then—
a pair of boots.
Good leather. Strong make. Built to last.
And finally—
a travel bag.
Not cloth.
Not makeshift.
A proper one.
Tomas let out a low whistle.
"…That's not cheap."
Miss Martha didn't look at him.
Her attention remained on Arin.
"You think you're the only one allowed to give something?" she said.
Arin didn't answer.
"You've been here long enough," she continued. "If you're leaving, then you leave properly."
She adjusted the shirt slightly, as if making sure it sat right even before he wore it.
"You won't step out of this place looking unprepared."
"…Take it."
Arin stood there for a second longer.
Then slowly reached out.
"…Thank you," he said.
Miss Martha gave a small nod.
Tomas stepped closer, nudging the boots lightly with his foot.
"…Guess you're officially better dressed than the rest of us now."
And with that—
she stepped out.
The door closed softly behind her.
Silence returned to the room.
Tomas exhaled slowly.
"…She planned that, didn't she?"
Arin looked down at the shirt in his hands.
The stitching.
The weight.
The care.
"…Yeah," Arin said.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Tomas pushed himself off the wall.
"…Well," he said, "don't take too long. If you show up looking like that, everyone's going to think you've already made it big."
Arin let out a faint breath.
"…Not yet," he said.
And he began getting ready.
———————
The sky was still pale, the sun only beginning to rise beyond the rooftops of the East Dock District. A faint chill lingered in the air, and the orphanage grounds were quieter than they had any right to be at that hour.
Arin stepped out into the yard with his things already prepared.
The white shirt fit him cleanly, simple but well-made. His sleeves rested neatly at his wrists, the fabric still holding the stiffness of something new. A sturdy belt secured at his waist held his dagger in place, and the dark trousers paired with worn leather boots gave him a look that was no longer that of a boy staying behind—but someone stepping forward.
The leather bag rested across his back.
In his hand, the wooden crate.
He paused for just a moment near the gate.
Behind him—
footsteps gathered.
He didn't need to turn to know.
By the time he did, they were already there.
Children—small and tall—stood scattered across the yard, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, others wide awake despite the early hour. They had come out quietly, one after another, until the space behind him no longer felt empty.
Tomas stood closest.
Lyra beside him.
Miss Martha just a few steps behind them.
No one spoke at first.
For a moment, it was just… this.
Then Miss Martha stepped forward.
Her gaze rested on Arin—not searching, not uncertain. Just steady.
But there was something softer there now.
Something she didn't try to hide.
"You're leaving early," she said.
Arin gave a small nod.
"It's better this way."
She studied him for a second longer, then exhaled quietly.
"…You've grown," she said. "More than I expected."
"You're an adult now," Miss Martha continued. "What you choose from here… is your own path."
Her voice remained firm.
Grounded.
Just like always.
"If you decide to go to Lord Sylvaris Theron and learn under him, then do it properly," she said. "If you choose something else, then commit to it."
Her eyes held his.
"Whatever you do—do it well."
A softer breath followed.
"…Be a good man, Arin."
That one line carried more than everything else.
"Take care of yourself. Don't get dragged into things you don't understand. And don't waste your life doing nothing."
"…And try to enjoy it, if you can."
Arin nodded once.
"…I will."
He stepped forward slightly, setting the wooden crate down on the ground.
The lid opened with a soft creak.
Inside—carefully placed—were the tools he had gathered, the book he had guarded, and among them—
two small glass vials.
Clear.
Sealed with wooden stoppers.
Tomas frowned slightly.
"…What's that?"
Arin picked them up and turned back.
"These are for you," Arin said, handing one to Tomas and the other to Lyra.
They both took them instinctively, glancing down at the faint shimmer within.
"…Water?" Tomas asked.
Arin shook his head.
"Not exactly."
"Use it when you need it," Arin said. "Don't waste it."
His gaze moved between them.
"And start taking things more seriously."
Tomas snorted lightly.
"…You sound like an old man already."
But his voice didn't carry its usual ease.
"You'll be out of here soon," Arin continued. "When that happens—be ready."
"…Find me when you do."
Tomas looked at the vial in his hand for a second longer before tightening his grip slightly.
Then he looked up.
"…Don't die before that," Tomas said.
His voice wavered—just a little.
"…I'm not chasing you across the world just to find a grave."
A small laugh followed—
but it didn't quite hold.
"And don't blow yourself up with your rune experiments," Tomas added, wiping quickly at his eye like it didn't matter. "At least wait until I'm there to see it."
Lyra didn't laugh.
She held the vial carefully in both hands, as if it mattered more than she wanted to show.
Then she looked up at him.
"…Thank you," Lyra said quietly.
A small pause.
"…For being my friend."
Arin didn't respond immediately.
He stepped forward instead.
And without saying anything he pulled both of them into a brief, firm embrace.
No words.
None needed.
Then he let go.
For a moment, no one moved.
Miss Martha spoke again.
"…Go," she said.
Not pushing.
Not holding.
Just… letting.
Arin picked up the crate.
Adjusted the strap on his shoulder.
Turned toward the gate.
He didn't look back.
The gate opened with a soft creak.
Morning light spilled across the path ahead.
The sounds of the waking city reached him faintly from beyond.
And Arin stepped forward.
Out of the orphanage.
Out of the life he had known.
Into the world waiting beyond.