The sight was the first thing that would have best been left forgotten.

So little as opening his eyes brought about stress akin to lifting barrels, and they were greeted by the scorching aftermath of the greatest place in Takera. Charred bones were scattered about the streets—some from Demons, others from what he could only wish weren't any he knew.

Not a single soul accompanied him on the roads.

Even the grandest structures were burned to a crisp, and the only ones left standing had already stood for hundreds of years without faltering. Their crimson architecture sent flashing images of Duke Aronne Oberon cascading into his newly awakened mind.

The memory of that man carried with it the memory of his confession to the true fate of Kyoya's only sibling—and one of the only people he'd ever admit to truly treasuring. The story was that Fate's hand befell her when she took it upon herself to stop an invasion alone, but knowing now that their mentor hid the truth...

That devastation still brought adrenaline, even to his mangled form.

"Why did he hide it?" the boy mused. "Was it guilt? Did he think I'd hate him?"

While the thought may not have answered any questions, it still posed more. Kyoya cringed inwardly at the idea of receiving the news, to say nothing of whether or not the truth would've changed anything.

If that weren't enough, his claim echoed eerily through Kyoya's psyche. "The All-Mother's holy word..."

He'd never known Oberon to be a fanatic of any sort—yes, he was a devout follower of The Mother's will, but never once had his ambitions become crooked or clouded by something so vicious. Yet, now, her word had become something so much more tangible; it wasn't offering her tribute or spreading her influence...

She wanted him dead.

The Miscreant could've laid for an eternity, trying to piece together exactly why such a thing could ever come to pass... and, even if the offer of giving up there was tempting, there'd be no cozy fireplace to wake up to when the sun rose again.

The ground beneath him was nothing but brick and wood, burned to blackened coals, and several more pieces of said wood were piled on top of him. Luckily, they shifted and buckled with enough force—otherwise, this oaken prison would have been his deathbed.

He mustered the strength to push himself up and out of the debris, but a vicious pain in his abdomen sent him right back to the ground. While lying there, contemplating if laying down and letting Fate take him really would have been the favorable alternative, he stared at the sky.

The sun's absence spelled a starless night, but distant violet hues suggested the advent of a morning. Clocks on still-standing towers pointed to two days since he'd last opened his eyes.

Forcing himself to his feet once more, Kyoya lifted his top to assess his injury.

He ran his hands along the edges of a deep, diagonal gash, reaching from the left side of his ribs down to his stomach. Though tender, the wound was dry. In fact, it was bone dry and flaky to the touch, as if something had cauterized it. With that relief, the sharpness slowly dulled, until one foot could finally go in front of the other.

An array of 'WANTED' posters with a rather flimsy portrayal of the boy strung about what remained of the city's buildings. He looked upon them with shattered will, fighting off another round of bawling.

"Just in case I lived, huh...?" Kyoya whispered to no one, kicking up settled ash with so little as breathing. The sound of a horse-drawn carriage almost made him shout to it, but remembering what he'd just told himself, he held his tongue instead.

Even still, few knew Teleo's ins and outs quite like him; he mustered something like determination at the prospect of making a move. The boy looked upon his crash site: the remains of a roadside shop, whose timbers had caved in on themselves. More small constructs lined the road, making this stretch of the kingdom a market district.

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With dawn quickly approaching, Kyoya settled with the knowledge that there was no time to waste if he was to leave here with any breath. He began clenching his teeth to the point of aching so as to distract himself from his torso. He hugged walls and slipped through whatever corridor presented itself in a desperate bid to push south.

Even still, amidst that baleful journey, nothing could wrench his attention from simply thinking.

All of Kyoya's ire, that malicious enmity he'd cast upon Oberon before... Now, it fell upon himself. He already struggled to dodge lines of sight, but dodging the thoughts of Takera and her motives proved vicious.

Even the sun, as it crested the sky, sent scorching beams of light that felt piercing against Kyoya's skin.

It had become so malicious.

The tender, radiant sun that once blessed his world with precious warmth—suddenly, so terribbly cruel. Making amends with it would come later; for now, he found solace under a collapsed bridge.

The boy nimbly hid himself beneath rubble to avoid being sighted by wandering patrol teams. Their crimson armor matched that of Oberon's with lessened bulk, inspiring inhuman levels of blistering rage to well up in his throat. Though, in his critical state, better judgment kept him at bay.

In fact, Kyoya still wrestled with the idea of whether he could even resent the man anymore.

Oberon fought for his home just as he had, tooth and nail, and to the very end. He'd lost one pupil already, and was prepared to defy the word of a deity to save the one that remained...

If only Kyoya could have answered him—provided some kind of solace, even if only a cold and temporary comfort to sate his ravenous need for a cause—maybe he wouldn't be limping through the ruined streets of Teleo.

Though, in that, another brutal realization arrived. "What could I have ever said to prove it?"

Up until two days ago, he'd only ever heard of the Mother in scripture, spoken of in tales that took place a great many lifetimes before his own. Her authority was absolute—unquestioned, unrestrained, and unforgiving... so, if Oberon had acted against her wishes, the Miscreant shuddered at the potential results.

One such wonder questioned if the old man truly would've risked his very being to defend the last bearer of his torch. If Her Benevolence would have denounced his defiance and sought to destroy them both instead, or if She'd have seen his devotion as just, and looked past whatever Kyoya had done to become worthy of Her enmity.

In spite of his drowning in thought, his walking continued, and the kingdom's outer wall brought an involuntary smile. His nerves grew less wracked every time he had to hide, but the rest he'd needed eluded him still.

Really, he was only diminishing.

Each step tried to pull him down to earth more than the last, but the sight of the southern gate practically forced him to keep trudging forward. He occasionally stepped on a bone or ash pile and winced, not out of pain, but on impulse.

The once-luminous flags of the kingdom of Teleo now flew their banners torn, burned, and tattered. Such a sight very effectively shattered what little pride he had left. Even the kingdom's wall was ravaged, spattered with holes and the remaining embers of the onslaught.

For a moment, the boy wrestled with his racing thoughts in an effort to put them down, for at least long enough to let him rest, however briefly it may be; even if he never actually witnessed the bulk of the event, the idea in itself was what pushed him forward. He would go on, not only for himself—but for those lost fighting for the place they called home.

Kyoya mulled over the thoughts of those involved in the futile effort against the Demons. He did so with scorn and bitter malice, certain that most had no idea of any divine decree. To him, that only served to make their sacrifices even more worthless.

The shout of a patrolman and subsequent shots of cannons snapped him back into reality, even though they weren't directed at him. Kyoya's limp quickened to a quick-paced hobble as he trudged beneath the demolished southern gate. His first steps upon soft, taught grass caressed his aching joints, and once one step led to the next, he didn't look back.

Only minutes into moving south, toward no objective but liberation, Kyoya's eyes fell upon vast, rolling hills blanketed with pine trees. The spindly chill of a late-autumn wind whipped and lashed at his face, but he'd made it through far worse already. It would undoubtedly be the first of many excuses to give in to the biting cold of Teleo's wilderness.

Deep down, there was an understanding. It was a solemn recognition—one of acceptance that it could have been for better or for worse.