Somewhere in the passage of time, on a plain sat betwixt the surrounding upheavals, there was a town.

This town, dubbed "Yarhone", was ordinary enough–except for the fact that it was now barren. Yet, the ordinary nature of this town remained in its sterile nature.

Inside its brick walls were small tables, beds, quills, and ink, the ordinary components of a home in this age. The wooden doors of these homes did not seem particularly strewn about or ajar, they were only slightly askew.

Neat rows of cottages lined both sides of the narrow street, their roofs heavy with moss and eaves that sagged slightly. Their gardens seemed to have been tended to with ample consistency, and signs of warmth were ever-present.

Only, the presence of those keeping this in order was not to be discussed.

Almost as if in perpetuity, a sense of normalcy appeared to reign amongst the lack of urgency and disarray in this alarming spectacle.

This, however, did not go unnoticed.

To break this unnerving atmosphere, there were no footsteps, only a dim shadow moving across the ground, its path zig-zagging between homes, doors being only slightly opened.

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As if the shadow's nerves had been remedied, it began to coalesce into a finer point; as if something would emerge.

Touching down on the dirt roads was a single foot – bare – accompanying another shortly after. The shadow beneath began to outline a figure from below.

Draped in the customary, unadorned, dull, and slightly worn robes of this era, the figure began to walk toward a specific house. This one in particular was no different than any other.

A gentle hand laid on the door and pushed slightly. With a creak, the inside revealed itself, and to no surprise, the interior was no different. Dim, bronze-tinted light, heavily impeded by the dense clouds above, whisked itself into any openings, illuminating the inside.

Tables, mats, clothing, food, and more of the ordinary were located in their stations; the same air of desolace there all the same.

The figure acknowledged this, but their attention was attracted to an area beside the small table in the center of the room.

On a mat, a black-haired boy sat as if ready for dinner. His hands were on his lap, legs folded as he looked down slightly. The figure at the door noted that this boy had a lack of focus in his eyes.

His clothing was simple, consisting of worn-out trousers and a faded shirt.

Observing, the figure appeared to be slightly taken aback and reached into their memories, as if to reaffirm their previous findings in this town.

The figure's eyes darted across the room, attempting to make sense of the situation.

When looking back toward the boy, however, it noticed that the sitting figure had twisted their neck, now facing toward the door. The boy's brown eyes had gained a hint of clarity and looked to be observing the figure at the door.

After a time, the boy looked around the room at a loss before once again focusing on the figure once more.

"Who are you?"