Faint smoke rises in towers, meandering in the air, nudged by a calm breeze until they sway like forgotten flags, forlorn and in tatters.

  A young boy, not even ten, walks aimlessly through soot and dirt. He’s covered from head to toe in ash, making him look even smaller. His face is frozen in apathy, as if he wasn’t even there—as if all that happened didn’t. Like this was a dream. A nightmare he’d soon wake up from.

  He continues walking through the ashen ruins of what used to be a quiet village. Now and then he steps over bodies—some burned to a crisp, some decapitated or dismembered. All dead.

  Finally, after a time, he stops in the middle of the village square.

  The only thing left unblemished, untouched, not even darkened by soot, is a statue of a warrior. A towering figure, sword piercing the sky as his mane drifts in the wind and his heel crushes his enemy. Both the enemy and the warrior are faceless—just silhouettes, with no armor or cloth.

  A glimpse of motion catches the boy’s attention behind the statue, making him circle it to see what’s amiss. He moves, and another boy is revealed—just as pitiful-looking, no, worse. Not only is he coated in ash, he’s caked in blood as well. Not his. The boy has no injuries.

  The blood-caked boy stares aimlessly at the back of the statue. Streaks of dried tears cut lines through the ash and blood on his face. His expression is locked in grief, unchanging as the other boy approaches.

  The air reeks of iron and ash.

  The boy’s breath catches. My breath.

  “Hein?” The name slips out in a whisper. My face twists with confusion before I can stop it.

  ’The blood-caked boy looks just like Hein. What is he doing here?’

  The thought barely forms before my head flares red-hot. I grunt and clutch my skull as memories rip through me.

  Flashes slam into me—Hein and I as kids under the tree, cutting through the village square, running through the wheat. That faceless boy in that dream… that was Hein.

  The pain spikes as the memories flood. My knees buckle. I hit the ground, both hands clamped to my head like I can hold myself together by force.

  At the sound, Hein finally snaps into focus.

  Shock flickers across his face. He crouches beside me, trying to see what’s wrong.

  “Kaizer… are you okay?” His voice comes out rough, scraped raw like he spent it screaming.

  I curl into a ball as the pain intensifies, sharper and hotter, until my body finally gives out and I pass out. The world narrows, then snaps to black. The tension bleeds out of me as sleep takes me, like someone cut my strings.

  Hein frowns, worry etched into his face. His gaze sweeps the surroundings—the open square, the bodies, the spotless statue—and he decides fast. He moves to drag me somewhere safer, somewhere that might count as cover.

  ***

  Steam towers up from a pot over the hearth, wavering as it climbs.

  A woman gasps as a five-year-old boy clutches her leg.

  “Darling, be careful. I’m preparing us dinner,” she says, her voice warm.

  The boy freezes, then takes two steps back.

  “Sorry…” he whispers, shy, his eyes darting down in regret.

  The woman notices and smiles at the adorable display. She lifts a hand and pats his head with a gentleness only a mother could show.

  “Go sit at the table. The food’s almost done,” the mother says, her voice soft.

  A breeze blows through making the tattered curtains flutter like a forgotten flag.

  The boy nods and darts off—quick, clumsy. He wrestles the heavy wooden chair away from the table, one leg snagging on the uneven plank floor. After a few stubborn tugs, he finally gets it into position.

  He plants both hands on the seat, heaves one leg up, then twists and drags the other after it. He scoots closer to the table until he’s near enough, his legs dangling over the edge. He swings them back and forth, humming as he waits for his mother’s food.

  Finally—after what feels grueling to a child, though it’s only a couple of minutes—his mother brings over a steaming bowl of porridge. She sets it down in front of him with a spoon.

  “Careful, it’s hot,” she warns.

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  Then she turns to retrieve a bowl for herself. As she finishes serving, a small, sharp sound cuts through the room.

  “Ouch.”

  The boy pulls the spoon from his mouth, lips puckered in pain.

  “I told you,” she says, not unkindly. “Blow on it first.” She sits down at last.

  The boy starts blowing on the next spoonful, too impatient to wait for it to cool properly. Across from him, his mother watches with quiet affection, waiting for her own food to lose its steam.

  A peaceful dinner passes. The mother watches in quiet adoration, and the child eats happily, like worry is something that only exists in stories.

  When they’re finished, she stacks the bowls and utensils in the middle of the table. There’s no running water in their village—she’ll have to wash everything tomorrow at the well.

  She urges her son to go to bed. The boy objects, insisting he isn’t tired. A back-and-forth follows—heated only on his side—until he finally wins a compromise: a story before bed, on the condition he falls asleep right after.

  So his mother tucks him in, pulls up a chair, and sits beside him.

  “What story should I tell you, dear?” the mother asks, a soft smile on her face.

  The boy falls into a stupor, pondering which story he wants to hear tonight.

  “Ah!” he exclaims, bright with sudden certainty. He sits up a little, beaming with anticipation.

  “The one about the two gods!”

  “The story of the two gods?” she repeats, and her smile turns fond, like she’s said these words a hundred times.

  “Okay… but you have to listen, and you have to try to sleep, even if it gets scary.”

  The boy nods hard.

  “All right,” she begins. “Long before there were kings, and long before there were villages, there was an Elder God who grew tired.”

  “He died?” the boy whispers.

  “He did,” she says softly. “And when he died, his body became the world. The mountains, the rivers, the soil beneath our feet. And his soul… his soul shattered into so many pieces that it turned into people.”

  The boy frowns, trying to picture it.

  “But two pieces,” she continues, “two pieces were too big to break like the rest. They woke up as brothers.”

  “Brothers,” the boy repeats, wide-eyed.

  “Brothers,” she confirms. “And they remembered just enough to know they were missing something. Like a song with half the notes gone. Like a name stuck on the tip of your tongue.”

  She pauses, watching him. He doesn’t blink.

  “They both felt the same hunger,” she says. “An old hunger. Not for food. Not for gold. A hunger to be whole again.”

  The boy’s voice drops. “How?”

  Her smile doesn’t leave, but it thins at the edges.

  “They learned a cruel truth,” she says. “Only one of them could ever become whole. And the only way to rise… was to take what the other held.”

  “To steal it?”

  “To consume it,” she corrects gently. “Piece by piece. Until there was only one brother left to look up at the sky and remember what it felt like to be a god.”

  The boy’s hands curl into his blanket.

  “One brother chose crowns and banners,” she goes on. “He gathered people into lines and laws and armies. He promised them safety if they moved like one body.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other chose names,” she says. “He promised that no one would be forgotten. He promised that even the dead would still have a place in the world.”

  The boy relaxes a little. “That one sounds nicer.”

  Her thumb strokes his hair once. “Listen. They were both hungry.”

  He quiets.

  “The brother of crowns made a bargain with his soldiers,” she says. “He told them: ‘Give me your name while you carry my banner. Names make you afraid. Names make you hesitate. Without a name, you will not break.’”

  “And did they?”

  “They did,” she says. “And they won wars they should not have won.”

  The boy leans forward. “So it worked.”

  “It worked,” she agrees. “But when the war was over, and the villages tried to thank the heroes… they couldn’t remember their faces the same way.”

  He blinks. “Why not?”

  “Because a name isn’t just a sound,” she says. “It’s a handle on the soul.”

  She looks toward the fire, as if listening to it.

  “So the statues they carved…” she continues, voice low and steady, “the statues wouldn’t hold the details. Smooth stone. Blank faces. A hero shaped like a shadow.”

  The boy swallows.

  “And the other brother?” he asks.

  “The other brother did what he thought was right,” she says. “He hid names where crowns couldn’t reach. In stories. In lullabies.”

  “In dreams?” the boy whispers.

  Her smile returns, warmer again.

  “In dreams,” she says. “And sometimes… those names don’t stay asleep.”

  The boy swallows, eyes fixed on her like she might vanish if he looks away.

  “Is that bad?” he asks, voice small.

  His mother hesitates—just long enough for the fire to crackle and the steam to tower up from the pot again, drifting and swaying like it’s listening.

  “It can be,” she says finally. “Names are heavy things. When they wake up in the wrong place… they make hearts ache for things the hands can’t reach.”

  The boy frowns. “Like when I want something and I can’t have it?”

  “Like that,” she agrees, brushing his hair back. “Only deeper.”

  He shifts under the blanket, trying to be brave. “Did the brothers… did they fight?”

  Her smile returns, but it doesn’t fully soften.

  “They did,” she says. “Not always with swords. Sometimes with promises. Sometimes with fear. Sometimes with hunger.”

  “Hunger,” he repeats, quieter.

  She nods once. “To be whole again.”

  The boy’s gaze drifts past her shoulder, to the tattered curtain stirring in the draft. For a heartbeat, it flutters like a banner.

  “What happened to the people?” he asks.

  “They lived,” she says, and that answer is too simple to be comforting. “They lived, and they chose. Over and over. Sometimes they chose safety. Sometimes they chose remembrance. Sometimes they chose whatever made the pain stop fastest.”

  He chews on that, eyes glossy.

  His mother leans closer, lowering her voice like the story might hear her.

  “So you listen to me, okay?” she murmurs. “If anyone ever asks you for your name like it’s a price… you hold it tight. You don’t hand it over just because they promise you something pretty.”

  The boy nods, throat bobbing.

  “And if you ever feel like you’re forgetting who you are…” She pauses, thumb stroking his forehead once. “You say it out loud. Even if it’s only to yourself.”

  He blinks hard.

  A tear slips free anyway.

  His mother’s expression softens at the sight, and she doesn’t tease him for it. She just wipes it away with her thumb, gentle.

  “Hey,” she whispers. “It’s all right.”

  The boy tries to nod again, but his chin trembles. Another tear follows. Then another, like his face is betraying him even as he tries to be good.

  He doesn’t understand why it hurts.

  He only knows it does.

  His mother leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead.

  “Sleep,” she says. “Right after. That was the deal.”

  He gives a small, hiccupping breath.

  The fire pops.

  The steam climbs in thin towers.

  And the room feels warm enough to forgive the world.

  His eyelids grow heavy. The last thing he sees is his mother’s outline in the firelight—soft edges, a smile, a face he knows better than his own—

  And then the details start to slide, just a little. Like a name on the tip of his tongue.

  ***

  I wake up with my face wet.

  For a second I don’t understand why. My lashes stick. My throat burns like I swallowed smoke. When I blink, tears spill again, quiet and relentless, like my body is mourning something my mind refuses to hold.

  Cold air bites the warmth away.

  The blanket is gone.

  So is the fire. So is her voice.

  All that’s left is ash and the faint, sour stink of iron.

  I suck in a breath and it scrapes.

  ’What—’

  My hand comes up automatically, wiping my cheek, and comes away gritty. Soot. Not tears. Both.

  A shadow moves beside me.

  A fallen beam sags low overhead, close enough that I can feel its weight in the air. A charred log.

  “Hein?” I croak, and the name breaks on the way out.

  He’s there, crouched close, eyes wide like he’s been waiting for me to open them. He looks worse up close. Not injured—just hollowed. Like the day scraped him down to whatever was underneath.

  “You’re awake,” he says, voice still raw.

  I try to speak again, and my jaw trembles like it doesn’t want to cooperate. My chest tightens, and more tears push out for no reason I can explain.

  Hein’s expression twists, helpless. “Kaizer…”

  I swallow. It feels like swallowing ash.

  ’Don’t forget your name.’

  The thought hits like a punch. Not mine. Not his. Hers.

  I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to hurt.

  And for one terrifying heartbeat, I can’t remember what she looked like.

  Only the warmth. Only the gentleness.

  Only the shape of a face that won’t hold.

  My eyes snap open.

  I grab Hein’s sleeve with a strength that surprises even me. “Don’t—” My voice cracks. I force it through. “Don’t let me… lose myself.”

  Hein goes still.

  Somewhere outside our cover, the wind shifts, and the towers of smoke sway like forgotten flags.