A Silent Vow

The evening smelled of burning wood and the faint traces of stew lingering in the air. It was the kind of warmth that made my eyelids heavy, the kind that made home feel safe.

But at that moment, I wasn't thinking about home.

I was watching Astrea leave.

Her small hand was wrapped tightly around her father's, her grip firm, unwavering. She didn't turn back. Not even once.

The fading light stretched her shadow long across the cobbled street, distorting it against the ground until it disappeared with her.

"Arden!"

The sound of my father's voice snapped me back. I turned to see him standing near the wooden steps of our house, arms crossed, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

"Come back now," he called, shaking his head. "How long are you planning to play? It's getting late!"

I hesitated for a moment before nodding. I felt a familiar pull at my wrist—Kai's hand gripping mine. He wasn't forcing me, just nudging me forward.

"Come on," he said, voice calm as always. "Your dad's gonna get mad if we don't move."

Kai was always like that. Leading, but never pushing. I followed without thinking.

As we reached the steps, my father let out a dramatic sigh. "Finally! My son returns!" He placed a hand on my head, ruffling my hair before turning to Kai. "Taking care of Arden again today, huh? I owe you one."

Kai just smiled. "I don't mind. I like spending time with Arden and Astrea, so it's no big deal."

His words felt easy, natural.

I didn't know why, but I envied that.

My father stretched, letting out a yawn that was more for show than anything. "Well, don't let your old man scold you for coming home late," he said, patting Kai's shoulder. "Get going."

Kai gave me a small wave before heading off. His figure disappeared into the deep orange glow of the evening, swallowed by the shifting shadows.

The house felt warmer than the outside. Maybe because of the stew, maybe because of the candles.

My father stretched again, cracking his neck as he grinned. "Alright, kiddo. What book do you want me to read you tonight?"

I didn't have to think. I already had one in mind.

Walking over to the wooden shelf by my bed, I pulled out a book with a worn, faded cover. Its spine was cracked, its pages old, but the golden letters on the front were still clear.

"The Seven Who Fought Against the End."

The moment my father saw the title, his smile twitched.

For a second—just a second—his expression froze, like a mask cracking at the edges.

"This book?" he repeated.

His hand went to his hair, ruffling it in that way he always did when he didn't know what to say. Not a playful ruffle, not this time. This was something else.

Something like hesitation.

"Yeah," I said, looking up at him. "You've never read this one to me before."

His reaction wasn't normal.

My father wasn't someone who hesitated. He was the type to laugh at everything, to brush things off with ease. He always had something to say, even if it was a joke.

But now, he just stood there.

Then, as if realizing how obvious his silence was, he forced a laugh—awkward, unnatural. I'd never heard him sound like that before.

He turned to my mother.

She had always been different from him. Where my father was loud, she was quiet. Where he was playful, she was composed. There was a weight in her presence, something refined and unshaken.

"Alexia," my father said, clearing his throat. "You're on this one."

She raised an eyebrow.

He stretched his arms, feigning exhaustion. "Maybe sometimes Arden should spend time with his mother too," he added, chuckling weakly.

I wasn't stupid.

He wasn't avoiding reading.

He was avoiding that book.

The warm glow of the candlelight flickered slightly. The room felt smaller, the air heavier.

My mother's gaze lowered to the book in my hands. A small, almost unnoticeable shift in her expression. Not shock, not alarm—just a flicker of something I couldn't place.

A second of silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

Then, she reached out and took the book from me, her fingers brushing over the worn leather cover.

"I see," she murmured.

My father rolled onto the couch, stretching like he was about to fall asleep. "I'll leave it to you two. I'm turning in early."

Liar.

I glanced at him, watching the way he kept his eyes closed too quickly, how his posture was too relaxed, like a bad actor trying to convince an audience.

He didn't want to read this.

And my mother—

She was willing to.

The candlelight flickered again.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window just slightly.

I sat down beside my mother, the book now resting on her lap.

She exhaled softly, flipping open the first page.

"Listen well, Arden," she said, quieter than before.

Then, with a voice both steady and solemn, she began.

"The year is 2378. The world you know now is not the world that once was. There was a time when the sky was veiled in darkness, when the sun was nothing more than a forgotten memory. For three hundred years, a shroud of black clouds covered the heavens, and beneath them, war raged without end. Kingdoms fell. Empires crumbled. The world itself seemed to teeter on the edge of ruin."

"But there were those who refused to let it fall."

"They were not kings, nor saints, nor chosen heroes. They were simply those who had lost everything… and yet still fought. In the end, they became legends—the last ones who stood when all else had crumbled. The seven who fought against the End."

"They were not the first to rise, nor the only ones to fight. But when the dust settled, their names—no, their deeds—were the only ones history chose to remember."

She turned the page, but her voice did not waver.

"First comes The Princess of Veyne"

"She had once been a ruler, a child born to lead, raised to believe in duty, in honour, in the unshakable bond between a sovereign and their people. But when war came knocking at her kingdom's gates, those very people turned against her. Not because they hated her. Not because they wished for her death. But because they feared what she carried."

"It was not gold or power they sought—it was the secret within her blood. A Sacramant. They burned her home. They slaughtered her family. They offered her kingdom as a tribute to those who desired her power."

"But she did not break. She did not kneel. She swore, beneath the scorched banners of her fallen house, that if the world wanted her power—then she would remove the cause of that power's very existence"

"And she would burn anyone who dared try to get in her way."

"Second comes The Storm Reaper"

"A warrior of the wind, whose blade carved through the silence before death could speak.

"Born into battle, raised in blood, his name became legend—not for the wars he fought, but for the ones he ended."

My mother's voice was calm, but I caught the slight tremor underneath.

"He moved as though the world itself parted for him. Where he stood, war died. Where he swung, history changed. And though they called him by many names—"

"He only ever called himself a man trying to end what should have never begun."

I swallowed.

There was no name.

The book did not speak of it.

"Third comes the Dawn Bringer"

"They said the world had been cursed, that the blackened sky was eternal, that the sun had been lost forever. But he did not believe in fate. He did not believe in curses. He believed in knowledge. And he believed that if something had been done—then it could be undone."

"He was not a warrior, yet he fought. Not with swords, not with guns, but with something far sharper—his mind. Where others saw the impossible, he saw possibilities. Where others saw only darkness, he sought the answer to bring back the light."

"And in the end, he did what no one else had dared to dream. He lifted the veil, tore apart the storm that had hidden the sky for three hundred years. And for the first time in centuries, the world saw the sun again."

"He was also the one to create a device capable of sealing all of the luminic energy present in the air"

"But even the greatest minds cannot foresee everything. And the price of breaking fate… is sometimes fate itself."

"Fourth was The Phantom That Walked Between Worlds"

"Some warriors are known. Others are felt. And some—"

"Some are never meant to be seen."

"There was one who walked between the seams of reality itself."

"A spear in hand, yet unseen."

"A name that existed, yet was erased."

"No records remain. No stories are sung. But if you listen closely, if you step where the world bends—"

"You might hear the echoes of her presence, lingering still."

I frowned.

This one—this one felt wrong.

Like something was missing.

Or maybe like something had been taken away.

My mother turned the page.

"Fifth comes the The Hollow Saint"

"She had once been a healer, a woman who wished only to mend, to cure, to understand. She studied the very essence of Sacramants, not to wield them as weapons, but to unlock the mysteries within them."

"But war is cruel. And knowledge, in the wrong hands, is more dangerous than any blade."

"She learned that too late. She learned that the line between saviour and monster is thin. That when the world is ending, when choices must be made, sometimes there are no good answers—only the least terrible one."

"And so she walked the battlefield, not as a healer, not as a scholar, but as something in between. A being who no longer fought to save the dying, but to ensure the living had something left to live for."

"Sixth was The Man Forsaken by the Gods"

"They called him a priest once. A servant of the divine, a voice of the heavens. But in the end, his gods abandoned him. Or perhaps, it was the other way around."

"He had dedicated his life to faith, to healing, to guiding the lost. But the church he had devoted himself to saw him not as a saviour, but as a tool. And when he refused to be used, when he refused to turn his back on those suffering, they turned their blades upon him instead."

"But he did not die. No matter how many times they tried, no matter how many wounds they carved into his body, he always stood back up. Some whispered that he had been cursed, that death itself had rejected him."

"But those who fought beside him knew the truth—he did not rise because he could not die. He rose because he refused to let the world fall."

The Seventh

Alexia turned another page. Then paused.

Arden shifted, his curiosity growing.

"The book says seven," he murmured. "But you only told me about six."

The fire crackled. The wind howled faintly outside the window.

His mother exhaled softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the book.

"There was a seventh," she said at last. "But… some stories are not meant to be told."

Arden frowned. "Why?"

"Because sometimes, the truth is heavier than the lie."

She closed the book gently.

"He was someone who should not have existed"

Silence stretched between them.

Some questions were not meant to be asked.

And some names were not meant to be spoken.

Arden opened his mouth to speak, to ask one more question, but before he could, his mother reached out and placed a gentle hand on his head.

"That's enough for tonight," she said softly.

Her touch was warm, familiar—comforting in a way that made the weight of the story settle deep in his chest. She brushed his hair back slightly, a gesture so simple yet filled with something unspoken.

"You should rest," she continued, her voice carrying the quiet tenderness of a mother, one that soothed even when words failed. "It's late."

 As the fire crackled and the night stretched on, exhaustion slowly pulled at his limbs.

He felt the weight of a blanket being adjusted over him, tucking him in just enough to shield him from the night's chill. His mother didn't say anything else—she didn't need to.

A yawn slipped past his lips. His eyelids grew heavy, the flickering firelight casting soft, swaying shadows across the room.

And as the warmth of sleep finally took hold, the last thing he heard was her voice—a whisper just above the wind outside.

"Good night, Arden."