He knelt there.
Broken.
Blade embedded in the earth before him.
Humming.
A quiet, tuneless sound something his mother used to hum when he couldn't sleep. He didn't know what he was humming but he knew deep down, it was related to his mother. It was buried deep within him and now it has been dragged up through grief and pain.
The pendant at his chest began to crack.
Hairline fractures spread across its surface.
The air shifted.
The creature recoiled, sensing something had gone horribly wrong.
Owen lifted his head slowly.
His eyes were empty.
And then they suddenly burned purple.
The pendant shattered, no it screamed.
A sharp, crystalline shriek split the air as fractures spider-webbed across its surface, light bleeding through the cracks like something trapped had finally found a way out. Then it burst—shards scattering, dissolving into violet embers before they could even touch the ground.
Owen screamed with it.
A cry ripped from his chest, raw and animal like, tearing his throat bloody. It wasn't pain alone, it was loss, rage, grief, and years of swallowed misery all forced out at once. The sound rolled through the valley like a curse.
The beast stepped back.
Not in confusion but in fear.
Mana exploded from Owen's body in violent waves, purple and unstable, ripping through the fog and flattening the ground around him. Trees bent. Stone cracked. The air howled as if the world itself had been offended.
Thunder answered.
The sky split open, lightning cracking wildly overhead, rain slamming down like it wanted to drown the moment before it could exist.
Owen's eyes burned a dull violet.
There was no thought in them.
No restraint.
Only hurt.
Memories tore through him all at once.
Brunn's laugh.Lysa's smile.Their voices. Their warmth. Their stupid jokes.The nights by the fire. The stupid dreams. The future they talked about like it was guaranteed.
Gone.
"WHY—!"
His scream broke again, voice cracking as he dropped to his knees, mana still raging uncontrollably around him.
"WHY IS IT ALWAYS ME?!"
"WHY AM I THE ONE ALWAYS LOSING?!"
"WHY—!"
The ground shattered beneath him.
The beast chose that moment.
It lunged, sensing weakness, claws tearing through rain and thunder alike, a killing blow aimed straight for Owen's exposed back.
Too late.
Owen didn't even turn.
The attack slammed into his outstretched hand.
Stopped.
Just… stopped.
The impact didn't throw him back. Didn't shake him.
It ended.
Owen slowly rose to his feet, fingers still wrapped around nothing as mana coiled violently around his arm. He looked over his shoulder, eyes glowing, empty of mercy.
With a single, casual backhand...
The beast vanished.
No explosion.
No scream.
It evaporated, erased so completely it was like it had never existed.
The rain kept falling.
Thunder rumbled once more, quieter now. Almost… afraid.
Owen collapsed.
The mana storm died as suddenly as it had begun, leaving behind only silence and rain. He crawled back to them hands trembling, body shaking violently.
Brunn.
Lysa.
He laid down between them, pressing his forehead to the ground, fingers clutching at their cloaks like a child afraid of being abandoned in the dark.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry I didn't save you. I'm sorry-"
His voice broke completely.
"Why did you leave me?" he whispered, rain mixing with tears. "What did I do wrong?"
His hands curled into the mud.
"Why is my life like this?" he cried. "Why do I lose everything? Why—why—why—"
There was no answer.
Just rain.
Just bodies that didn't move.
Owen stayed there for a long time.
Crying.
Broken.
When dawn finally came, the valley was unrecognizable.
And Owen…was no longer just a boy who wanted to live.
He was a survivor standing on a mountain of loss.
He arrived in Stonehaven a day later with both Lysa and Brunn on his back.
Stone Heaven didn't feel the same on the day of their burial.
The sky was overcast, a pale gray sheet stretched tight over the city as if even the heavens didn't want to look down. The mercenary district usually loud, filthy and lively stood unnaturally quiet. Weapons were sheathed. Banners were lowered. Drinks went untouched.
At the hill overlooking the guild grounds, Lay Lysa and Brunn their headstones standing side by side. Simple. Honest. The kind of graves mercenaries preferred, no titles, no lies, just names and silence.
They came in droves.
Veterans with scars older than Owen. Rookies who had only heard stories. Party leaders, solo hunters, even some guild clerks. People who had never spoken to Lysa or Brunn but had fought beside them once, shared a fire once, lived because of them once.
Brunn's shield was planted upright between the graves, cracked clean through the center. Lysa's daggers and staff lay across it, its crystal dim and lifeless.
Owen stood at the front.
He hadn't changed his clothes. Dried blood still stained his sleeves. His hair hung loose and unkempt, shadows swallowing his eyes. His blade was planted tip-first into the ground, both hands resting on the hilt not in strength, but because without it, he wasn't sure he'd stay standing.
The ceremony went on around him.
Words were spoken. Drinks were poured into the earth. Laughter broke out in short, painful bursts as people shared stories of Brunn's dumb courage and Lysa's sharp tongue, the way she always pretended not to care.
Owen heard none of it.
All he could hear was her voice.
"Don't join me too soon, idiot."
His knees hit the ground.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. They just… gave out.
His hands trembled as he leaned forward, forehead pressing into the dirt between the graves. His shoulders shook, silent at first, then violently, like something inside him finally snapping loose.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Again.And again.And again.
His voice broke apart as the words kept spilling out, messy and raw and useless.
"I was supposed to be strong enough. I was there. I was right there…"
Someone reached out. A hand hovered over his shoulder.
Owen's mana flared—dense, suffocating. The air warped. The ground cracked faintly beneath his knees.
The hand withdrew.
He screamed then.
Not loud. Not proud.
Just broken.
When the ceremony ended, people left quietly. No one tried to stop him when he stayed behind. No one tried to comfort him. They all felt it, the pressure rolling off him like a storm cloud. This wasn't grief you interrupted.
When the sun dipped low, Owen finally stood.
His tears had dried. His face was hollow. Empty.
He looked down at the graves one last time.
"I swear it," he said, voice dead calm.
"I will find them."
"Every last one."
"And I will end them."