Zeron curled on the cold stone floor, knees drawn tight to his chest. At ten, he was small and trembling—his pale skin ghostlike in the dim light. Bright gray eyes shimmered with tears, jet-black hair plastered to his forehead.

  He waited.

  He wasn’t allowed in the room with his mother. All he could do was sit in the hallway and hope. Hoping the silence would hold. Hoping the news wouldn’t ruin him.

  He tried to remember the sound of her voice—soft and warm, humming lullabies as she stroked his hair. But the silence pressed too tightly against his ears now, squeezing everything else out.

  Raised voices shattered the stillness.

  His father’s sharp, commanding tone cut through the walls like a blade, and Zeron flinched. He knew that voice—he had grown up beneath its shadow. There was no comfort in it. Only control. Only fear.

  The shouting stopped. A door creaked open.

  Zeron’s breath hitched as his father stepped into the hall. The man’s towering frame seemed to blot out the light. His eyes locked on Zeron—piercing, fierce, and unfeeling.

  “She’s gone,” he said, flat as stone. “Go. Say your goodbyes.”

  Zeron didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on his father’s, wide with terror. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to see her like that—still, quiet, fading.

  His father’s lip curled. For a moment, his eyes shifted toward the doorway behind him. Not hesitation. Not grief. Just a flicker of something that died before it could take shape.

  Then he stepped forward and yanked Zeron to his feet.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growled, dragging the boy through the doorway.

  The air was stale—thick with sickness and something worse. Zeron stumbled as he was shoved toward the bed. He tripped, landing hard on the floor beside it.

  One of her slippers had fallen to the floor, overturned and forgotten. It lay a few inches from his hand—still holding the faintest warmth from where her foot had last rested.

  “Get up,” his father barked. “Show your mother the respect she deserves.”

  Zeron trembled as he rose. Each step toward the bed felt heavier than the last.

  His mother lay still. Her face was pale, her lips drained of color. One hand rested outside the blanket—fingers slightly curled, as if she’d meant to reach for something but never could.

  He remembered her smiling. Sunlight catching in her hair as she leaned over him, warm hands brushing his face, humming softly to herself.

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  Now, there was only silence.

  Zeron reached out. His fingers touched hers.

  It was colder than he expected. Stiff. Wrong. Not her.

  His legs gave out, and he sank to the floor beside the bed. He gripped her hand with both of his, as if he could will the warmth back into it.

  “Mama...” he whispered, his voice breaking.

  The tears hit all at once. His body shook with sobs as he buried his face against her arm. Her scent clung faintly to the linens—lavender and Rosewater. The last of it was slipping away.

  Grief and fear crashed through him, leaving him breathless.

  Don’t leave me. Please... I don’t know how to be alone.

  He clung to her hand like it could anchor him to the world.

  The sound of footsteps behind him made Zeron freeze.

  A servant’s voice broke the silence. “Sir, what about the boy?”

  Zeron turned his head slightly, just enough to hear.

  Maybe his father would hold him. Maybe—just once—he wouldn’t be angry.

  “Sell him,” his father said. “I can’t stand to look at him.”

  The words struck like a blade.

  Zeron didn’t cry. He couldn’t. His sobs vanished, crushed beneath something heavier than grief.

  “Sir… are you sure?” the servant asked hesitantly.

  “Yes,” his father snapped. “He’s a rare bloodline. He’ll fetch a good price.”

  He didn’t even look at Zeron. His gaze was fixed somewhere else—past him, through him. Like Zeron wasn’t even there.

  He didn’t feel the weight of the world—only her cooling hand in his.Then came footsteps. Heavy. Unwelcome.

  A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder, tearing him away from the bed.

  Zeron’s body resisted, but it was instinct, not strength. His legs crumpled. The servant hauled him upright like dead weight.

  He twisted once in the man’s grasp, desperate for one last glimpse of her.

  But the door had already closed.

  Her face was fading from his mind, slipping through his memory like sand through open fingers.

  Zeron’s heart didn’t just break.It collapsed—quietly, completely.And with it, so did the only place that had ever felt like home.

  Before he knew it, Zeron was shoved into a cage, his hands trembling as they wrapped around the bars. The space was small, dark, and suffocating. The cold iron gnawed at his skin.

  The wagon jolted forward, wood groaning beneath the weight. His heart raced—not just from fear of where it might take him, but from the ache still clinging to his fingertips. The memory of her hand. Her scent. The lingering trace of lavender on her skin.

  He tried to hold on to it.

  The wheels creaked and rolled. As the cage shuddered over uneven stone, Zeron caught a glimpse of his father standing behind the wagon.

  “Father, please...” he called out, his voice breaking, tears streaking down his cheeks.

  Their eyes met.

  For a heartbeat, something flickered in the man’s gaze. Not rage. Not hatred. Was it… regret?

  Zeron couldn’t tell.

  The look vanished. His father’s face twisted into a scowl—jaw clenched, lips curled. Whatever had stirred in him was buried again, sealed beneath a mask of cold, unfeeling anger. Without a word, he turned and gripped the hitch, shaking the wagon with the force of it.

  Zeron pressed his face against the bars, the metal cold and unyielding.

  Then came the latch.

  It slammed shut with a brutal clang—louder than the wheels, louder than the wind.

  It was the sound of the world closing.

  The last sound of the life he knew.

  And somewhere beyond the road, in the dark between trees,the silence began to whisper.