The wooden wheels creaked loudly as the caravan rolled through Givera's narrow entrance. Leon peeked outside the cart. The town was nothing like the grand, sweeping cities Uncle Julian used to describe. The roads were uneven and slick with mud, old wooden buildings stood tightly packed together, and faded cloth signs hung limply above tiny shops. Yet, everyday life moved on. People walked the streets carrying baskets, buckets, or bundles of firewood as if nothing had changed. A baker placed fresh, steaming bread by his window. A man snoozed beside a broken fence. Children were simply being children, chasing each other through the alleyways.
It was ordinary.
Painfully ordinary.
Yet, the refugees entering the gates did not belong to that ordinary world. Tired, hollow eyes followed the caravan as it moved deeper into town. Some onlookers showed pity. Others looked irritated. A few simply averted their gaze entirely. Here, displaced human lives were seen as a mere annoyance—a burden, a parasite. This was the true, lingering scourge of 'War'.
"Unpack your loads!" a man shouted.
The refugees scrambled off. With the coordinator leading the way, the crowd shuffled toward the Governor's Manor. Only Leon didn't follow. Desperate to wash the grime of travel from his skin, he slipped away to find water.
"The sun's going down already, and I couldn't even find a place to stay," Leon sighed to himself.
"Boy?" a distant voice called out.
It was the man who had been helping the refugees.
"Sir? What are you doing here?" Leon asked, turning. "Weren't you going to ask for help from the Governor?"
"I did. The refugees are being cared for... but aren't you a refugee too?"
"It's fine, I found a place to stay," Leon lied smoothly.
"Oh, I see. Well, I came to check on you. I'll see you around..."
"Sir... can I have your name?" Leon asked eagerly before the man could walk away.
The man paused. "It's Kael."
Givera's slums were a lawless maze. Nearly a quarter of the district was a permanent crime scene. The mainland of Givera simply didn't have the coin or the guards to spare for the slums. By night, someone was killed, someone was robbed, someone was snatched. By day, someone died, someone was plundered, someone disappeared.
The war had only fed the chaos. Some turned to crime for survival. Some did it for fun. Some did it for power.
"I guess I'll sleep here," Leon muttered.
It was midnight. Leon was fast asleep on a battered chair in the deep recesses of the slum. A boy holding a knife—looking no older than twelve—approached stealthily.
"I- I need to do this. I need to... kill him. F- for brother," the boy whispered, raising the blade with both hands, his arms trembling with hesitation.
Where is this? Oh, must be a dream. Who is this guy? Why is he burning? His hands...? He's holding a knife. He... he is going to stab me. I need to get up.
Leon's eyes snapped open, shattering the dream just as a glint of steel plunged toward him. Everything seemed to slow to a gray haze; his life flashed before his eyes. With a panicked jolt, Leon threw himself out of the chair and crashed to the ground.
The boy gasped, startled.
No, oh no! Oh no! Oh no! He's going to kill me now. No, I have to stab him!
Locking his grip on the knife, the boy lunged at Leon again. "Ahhhh!!" he screamed, rushing forward.
Leon had never learned how to fight. His mind went entirely blank. Faced with a lethal weapon, all logic vanished. In a desperate, split-second instinct, he thrust his bare hand out directly toward the oncoming blade. He thought, frantically, that sacrificing his hand was better than losing his life.
Thk.
The blade pierced straight through his palm. Leon screamed, a raw sound of agony, as blood poured from the wound. Terrified by his failure to kill the target in one strike, the boy panicked, dropped the hilt, and fled into the dark.
The pain was unlike anything Leon had ever known. His vision blurred, threatening unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay awake. Stumbling, his balance slipping, he dragged himself back to the chair. He had to stop the bleeding. Steeling himself, he gripped the handle and pulled the knife out with a choked scream. He ripped a piece of cloth, tied it tightly over the gushing wound, and finally collapsed into a dead faint on the chair.
The morning sun woke Leon the next day. His hand throbbing with excruciating, pulsing pain, he pocketed the knife and stumbled into the main town to look for aid.
"Boy? Did you get a good sleep yesterday?"
It was Kael, calling out from behind as he spotted Leon walking unsteadily. As Leon turned, Kael's eyes widened. "What happened to your hand?!" he shouted.
"Someone... some kid in the slum—"
"In the slum?! Why on earth did you go there? Anyways, come with me, fast!" Kael urged.
They rushed to a nearby nursing home, where a healer finally treated and bandaged the wound.
"Thank you, Kael. I don't know how to repay you for all you have done for me," Leon said quietly.
Kael just looked at him, offering a reassuring tap on his shoulder. "Repay? This is my job, kid." His expression then hardened. "Did you see who stabbed you?"
"It was a young kid, maybe around ten or twelve. Also... he left this behind." Leon pulled out the weapon.
Kael took the knife, his eyes locking onto the grim word engraved into the metal: Ravexis.
"Ravexis..." Kael murmured. "Rebellion?"
"What does the word Ravexis mean?" Leon asked, nursing his bandaged hand.
"It means rebellion. Or, depending on who you ask... revenge."
Kael leaned in closer. "Listen. It's not just a faction; it's a movement. It sparked when the war broke out and the commoners started asking why they were the only ones bleeding for it. They say the King of Svalor was supposed to protect all of his people, but instead, he only shielded the nobles, leaving the peasantry to starve while he secured his own court. Some believe that story; others dismiss it as a myth. But Ravexis doesn't care about the truth of the tale. As long as enough desperate people believe in a cause, it's enough to ignite a rebellion."
"But why did a kid have a knife? And why was he trying to kill... me?" Leon asked, a shiver running down his spine.
"I don't know for sure," Kael sighed, handing the blade back. "But if I had to guess, he was either forced into it, or he was trying to prove his worth to the local gangs. You just arrived, which made you an easy target. In the slums of Givera, it doesn't matter if it's a child, a grown woman, or anyone else—they can all kill. That's just how they are raised to survive."