Chapter 8 - 08: Dying Wish VIII
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When the coins ran out, he slept in barns or under trees. He curled up in hay piles and prayed the cold would pass before his breath froze. Wild dogs chased him more than once, snapping at his heels until he climbed walls or trees. Many more thieves cornered him in alleyways, ready to rob him blind.
They always left empty handed. He had nothing worth taking. Except the ring. And they could never take that.
But he kept moving forward. He kept surviving. The world tried to crush him, but it never broke him.
Because the ring still pulsed. Always faint. Always distant. But alive.
At night, when the stars blinked overhead and the wind whispered through dry grass, he would lie on the ground, hold the ring to his chest, and whisper into the dark.
"You’re still building. Aren’t you?"
No answer ever came. But he knew. He could feel it, even without words. Something inside was waiting.
He turned seventeen beneath the broken arch of an abandoned shrine. The stone walls were overgrown with ivy, and the ceiling had long since collapsed, leaving the altar exposed to the sky. A full moon watched him from above. He had no candle. No feast. Only a strip of dried meat and a river nearby.
He washed his face in the water and stared at his reflection.
Lean. Scarred. Pale. But not weak. His eyes had changed. They no longer looked like those of a child.
Something else stared back from within them. Something deeper. A storm that had not yet begun.