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Each time he closed his eyes, Zenos dreamed. The same dream, again and again.
But this time was different.
This time, it was not a dream—it was a memory. A fragment of his childhood in Garlemald.
He had been but ten years old, wandering the gardens of his father’s palace, cold and austere as the rest of the Empire. He had no purpose, no destination—only the desire to escape his tutor, as dull and lifeless as the mindless machines that called themselves his family’s servants.
He walked aimlessly until something unusual caught his eye.
A child, crouched among the bushes. Clutching something in his hands.
Zenos stepped closer. Only then did he notice—the boy was a Miqo’te.
He had never seen one up close. Those who served in the Imperial army were always hidden beneath their armor.
The Miqo’te’s feline ears twitched as he noticed Zenos’ presence, and he quickly stood, allowing the young prince a better look at him.
He was small—barely tall enough to reach Zenos’ chest. His hair, short and unkempt, was black with hints of deep blue. His clothes were layered and heavy, adorned with feathers and beads, yet despite the biting Garlean cold, he was barefoot.
But what struck Zenos most were his eyes.
One, a piercing blue-gray. The other, an unusual shade of periwinkle.
For a long moment, they simply stared at one another.
Then, Zenos spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.” The Miqo’te’s voice was laced with impudence. Zenos’ curiosity deepened.
“These are my father’s gardens.” The young prince stated. “Now, your turn.”
“My parents allowed me to explore the palace, as long as I didn’t touch anything.” The Miqo’te’s grip tightened around the thing he held.
“And yet, you disobey.” Zenos tilted his chin toward the boy’s hands.
“This is not a thing!” The boy shot back, opening his palms. “It is a someone!”
A tiny bird, trembling and wounded, lay within them.
Zenos eyed the creature—its breath was shallow, its wing pierced by a thorn. He scoffed.
“And what do you intend to do with it?”
“Help it, of course!”
“To what end?”
“What do you mean, to what end?” The Miqo’te looked at him, aghast. “It’s hurt. It must be saved!”
Zenos turned his gaze away from the bird, fixing it instead upon the boy. “It is but a mere bird. If it lives or dies, what difference does it make?”
He had seen many like it in these gardens—fragile, fleeting lives, gone within hours.
“That’s not true!” The Miqo’te clutched the bird closer, stepping forward. “Every life is precious. Every life is worth saving!”
Boring. Boring. Boring.
This child. His convictions.
Everything about him was so unbearably boring.
“If you truly wish to help it…” Zenos reached into his jacket, pulling free a small knife—taken, unnoticed, from the dining hall. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until their faces were but inches apart. His lips curled into a grin.
“…you should end its suffering.”
Then, a flash. A sudden sting.
Zenos stumbled back, caught off guard.
Something warm trickled down his cheek.
He raised a hand to it.
Blood. His blood.
Eyes wide, he looked at the Miqo’te boy.
His hands—now adorned with claws, glistening red.
No one—no one had ever dared strike him before.
And landed the blow.
“This bird will live! I’ll prove it to you!”
And with that, the boy fled.
Zenos stood frozen, watching as he disappeared beyond the hedges.
Only once he was gone did he lower his gaze—to his bloodstained fingers.
A tremor ran through him.
Something stirred in the heart he had thought long dead.
Rage. Hatred.
Exhilaration. Joy.
That little vagabond had performed a miracle.
He had made him feel alive.
Zenos returned to the gardens every day, waiting. Hoping.
But the Miqo’te never came.
He searched the palace halls, every corridor, every chamber.
Nothing.
With every failed attempt, frustration festered.
*Did he run? A coward?*
No. No, that wasn’t it.
Then, one day, as he walked through the corridors, he overheard the guards speaking amongst themselves, oblivious to his presence.
“It seems Lord Varis has driven out those Miqo’te merchants.”
“Shame. Their fabrics were exquisite.”
“Odd, given how much the lord seemed to favor them despite their… savagery. What happened?”
“Word has it their whelp—no older than eight—struck the son of some dignitary.”
“Hah! He should have lost a hand for such insolence.”
“Indeed. But Lord Varis chose to grant them mercy.” Laughter followed.
Zenos reached up, touching the now-faint scar upon his cheek.
Then clenched his fist.
He is gone.
His father had taken from him the first thing he had ever truly wanted.
And now, he was nowhere to be found.
When he opened his eyes, Zenos smiled.
For years, he had forgotten that face.
The first to stir within him the thirst for battle, for blood, for a worthy adversary.
For years, he had waited. Hunted. Yearned.
And fate, cruel and magnificent, had returned them to each other.
No longer was that child a nameless wanderer in the imperial gardens.
Now, she was the warrior who had dared challenge him at Rhalgr’s Reach—who, despite her defeat, had stood against him once more in Isari.
And in that moment, he recognized her.
Those eyes. Those brilliant, haunting eyes, burned into his memories—into his mind—through every battle he had ever fought.
He had willed her to grow stronger.
To endure. To fight.
To make him feel alive once more.
And this time, there would be no father.
No pathetic savages.
No one to stand in the way of his dream.