His na was Theron.
Not the Theron of the Unbroken Shield who taught Elias mathematics and astronomy, a different Theron, since this was a common na in Stormfall’s lower districts. This Theron was a leatherworker by trade, a man who had spent twenty years building a quiet life with the woman he loved and the son she had given him.
That life had ended three days ago.
He had been at the tannery, working late to finish an order that would have paid for his son’s winter clothes. When he returned ho, they were gone. Just... gone. The door had not been locked, aning that his wife did not expect to be gone for long.
Stormfall was a relatively safe city, but it was massive, and people went missing every day due to the multiple dangers prevalent in a city of this size. Theron had almost gone mad with worry when his greatest fear had been realized.
He had searched for three days. Through every alley, every market, every place where desperate people gathered to trade information. He had spent his savings on bribes, his voice on pleas, his hope on prayers to gods who had been dead for millennia.
At the end of the third day, he found himself at the temple.
He did not know why he ca here. He was not a religious man; few were, in these tis. But he knew that the chances of finding his wife and son after the third day were nearly impossible, and so his mind, broken with fear and loss, could only search for any possibility, including praying in the temple of a god that was long dead.
It was said that there was a chance that the old gods still listened, and to regain their followers, they would answer the prayer of mortals. Theron did not care for such rumors before, but now he was a drowning man who would take any chance that was given to him.
He had been here for hours now, kneeling before an altar that held nothing but dust and shadows. He prayed to gods he did not believe in, begged for rcy from beings who had never shown any, and wept for a wife and son he would probably never see again.
"Please," he whispered, his voice cracked and raw. "Please, if anyone is listening... bring them back. I’ll do anything. I’ll give anything. Just bring them back."
The temple offered no answer. Only silence, and shadows, and the faint sll of incense burned so long ago that even its mory had faded.
Theron did not hear the footsteps behind him, and did not sense the presence that slipped through the door like smoke through a cracked window, even when a cold entered the temple, creeping across the floor and frosting the ancient stones... he did not feel it.
Not until a voice spoke, a child’s voice, clear and bright and... wrong.
"Father?"
Theron spun, his heart lurching. For one perfect, impossible mont, he thought — And then he saw that the boy standing in the temple doorway was his son. The sa dark hair, the sa small fra, the sa face that Theron had kissed goodnight a thousand tis.
He cried out in celebration and joy, but the eyes of his child stopped him cold; those were not his son’s eyes. Those were yellow, gleaming as coins dropped in blood, and they held nothing that could be called innocence.
"Father," the boy said again, and the word was a mockery, a child’s voice wrapped around sothing ancient and hungry. "I found you."
Theron’s mouth opened, but no sound ca out. His body was frozen, caught between the desperate hope that this was real and the certain knowledge that it was not.
The boy walked toward him, each step silent on the stone floor. He moved wrong, too fluid, too smooth, as if his bones were hinged in places where bones should not hinge. The face of the boy rippled, as though sothing beneath was alive and shifting under his skin.
"I’ve been looking for you," the boy said. "All over the city. But you were here, in this place." He looked around at the temple with sothing like curiosity. "Mother’s place, did you know that she brought here once, a long ti ago. Before..."
He trailed off, and for just a mont, sothing flickered in those yellow eyes, sothing that might have been pain or confusion, then it was gone, replaced by that too-wide smile.
"She’s gone, Father. Mother is gone. I saw it happen."
Theron’s legs gave out. He collapsed to his knees, his hands reaching toward the boy, toward the thing that wore his son’s skin, but unable to close the distance.
"What..." His voice broke. "What happened to you?"
The boy tilted his head, considering the question seriously.
"I died," he said. "And then sothing else happened. Sothing ca into . Or maybe I ca into it. I don’t know yet." He stepped closer, close enough that Theron could feel the cold radiating from his small body. "But I rember you, Father. I rember your hands, your voice, the way you used to lift onto your shoulders so I could see the market. I rember love."
He said the word as if tasting it for the first ti.
"Is that what this feeling is? This warmth in my chest when I look at you? I thought it was hunger at first. But it’s not. It’s... sothing else."
Theron’s tears had stopped. In their place was sothing colder, a dawning horror that went beyond fear.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, whatever you are, leave him. Leave my son."
The boy’s smile faded. For a long mont, he simply looked at Theron with those ancient yellow eyes.
"I can’t," he said. "He’s gone, Father. I’m what’s left. But I rember enough to know that I don’t want to hurt you. Co ho with . Co ho, and we’ll... We will figure this out together."
Theron stared at the impossible creature before him. His son’s face. His son’s voice. His son’s mories.
"Together?" he repeated.
"Together." The boy held out his small hand. "I need you, Father. I don’t know why, but I do. Please."
And Theron, broken, grieving, desperate for any connection to the life he had lost, took the hand.
’Did I not pray for this?’ he thought, ’The old gods do not give a gift without taking sothing in return. What is a miracle but the thoughts of gods made manifest, and what can a man do but endure the weight of the love of their god?’
My wife is gone, and my son should be dead, but I have sothing... sothing that I can take ho with .
The journey ho was strange. Theron held the cold hand of his son, but a part of him was screaming that he had forgotten the na of his child and that what he was holding had no na.
When he got ho, he moved chanically, pushing the chairs into their place and sorting out the ss after he had scattered the house in the hopes that this was a bad prank and his family was hiding sowhere in the house.
As he arranged, not saying a word, his movents were those of a man operating on autopilot. Behind him, the boy watched with unblinking yellow eyes.
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