The house stood in a good area compared to its structure, its skeletal frame leaning precariously as if bowed by the weight of years and neglect. The walls, once whitewashed, were now stained with moss and grime, their surface cracked and peeling. The roof sagged in places where time and rain had taken their toll, and the faint aroma of decay lingered in the air. Beside it stood a far grander home—a stark juxtaposition. The neighboring house was robust, with fresh paint and an intricately carved door, exuding an air of prosperity. This silent division spoke volumes of the people within.
Breeze hesitated as he approached the dilapidated structure. The overgrown path was lined with patches of cracked stone, weeds sprouting in every crevice. The stark contrast between the rickety house and the sturdy, well-kept one next door gnawed at him. He rapped on the warped wooden door, the sound echoing hollowly through the quiet air.
The door creaked open after a long pause, revealing a frail figure hunched over a walking stick. The old woman’s skin was parchment-thin, clinging to her bones, and her eyes, clouded with age, searched his face with an almost desperate intensity. Her tattered shawl barely clung to her shoulders, the edges fraying like the unraveling threads of her life.
“Who are you?” she croaked, her voice brittle like dry leaves.
“My name is Breeze. I’m here about the quest you posted,” he replied, bowing slightly out of respect.
Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in suspicion. “Another one, eh? Come to rob an old woman?”
“No, ma’am,” Breeze said gently. “I’m here to help.”
She studied him for a moment longer before stepping aside to let him in. The inside of the house was as pitiful as the exterior. The furniture was sparse, and what little there was had seen better days. A single chair with a wobbly leg, a table marred by burn marks, and a narrow cot with a thin, patched blanket. The air was thick with the scent of mildew, and the dim light filtering through the grime-coated windows did little to dispel the gloom.
The old woman shuffled to a stool and sank down with a groan. “If you truly wish to help, sit. Let me tell you the burden I carry.”
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She clasped her hands together, her knuckles gnarled and swollen with arthritis. Her voice trembled as she spoke, each word heavy with sorrow.
“My son lives next door,” she began, motioning weakly toward the sturdy house visible through the window. “He has all the comforts a man could want—wealth, family, respect. But he has no heart. No shame.”
Breeze listened intently, his expression somber.
When I was younger, I was blessed with two sons, and I devoted myself entirely to raising them despite the immense challenges of widowhood. My husband passed away unexpectedly at a young age, leaving me to manage his store alone. Two years later, tragedy struck again when my youngest son fell gravely ill. I lacked the resources to secure medical care for him, as every doctor demanded payment upfront. To my enduring grief, I lost him due to my inability to afford his treatment. What shocked me most was my eldest son’s reaction—he seemed entirely unbothered by his brother’s death, almost as if relieved that he would now inherit everything. Despite this, I found it impossible to harbor resentment toward him; he was the only family I had left. As he grew older, he began assisting me with the store, showing remarkable aptitude as a merchant. Over the span of fifteen years, through relentless effort and diligence, we amassed enough wealth to build the luxurious house you see next door. Eventually, he married and insisted that I relinquish my duties at the store, urging me to rest. He argued that I was too old to continue working as I once did. Trusting his intentions, I complied."
Sniff...
“He threw me out of that house years ago, calling me a burden. But I stayed silent, accepting my fate. What broke me was when he cast his own son away… my grandson. The boy was born with a face that… well, it’s not fair to judge a child by his looks. He’s kind, clever, and pure as his name—Acacius. But my son, he…” Her voice faltered, and she wiped at her eyes with a shaking hand.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“He said the boy’s ugliness would ruin his eldest daughter’s chances of marriage. That no suitor would come if they saw the brother. So he cast him out like trash. Acacius has been gone for over a year now. My heart aches every moment, wondering if he’s alive and if he’s safe. I’ve spent nearly all I have trying to find him. Eight silvers, gone to those who promised help but only stole from me. I have two left. It’s all I can offer.”
Her voice broke, and tears carved tracks down her weathered cheeks. Breeze’s chest tightened with a mix of anger and sorrow.
“You don’t need to pay me until I fulfill the mission first,” he said softly. “I’ll find him. I’ll bring him home.”
The old woman looked up, her expression a mixture of hope and disbelief and with eyes full of tears. “Bless you, child. Bless you.”
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Breeze embarked without hesitation, the old woman’s trembling voice and plaintive entreaty resonating in his thoughts. The labyrinthine alleys of the Bastion stretched out before him, pulsating with the vibrant yet heavy rhythms of its diverse inhabitants. His initial objective was the impoverished quarter, where those on the margins of society clustered in stoic resilience. Here, the acrid scent of burning refuse intermingled with the pervasive damp of neglected infrastructure, and the walls bore layers of graffiti—some defiantly optimistic, others a testament to despair.
He approached a group of children absorbed in a rudimentary game of sticks and stones. "Have any of you seen a boy named Acacius? He’s around nine years old—thin, dark-haired, and… distinctive in appearance."
The children exchanged skeptical glances, one eventually pointing toward a dimly lit alley. "There’s a boy like that near the old bakery sometimes. He doesn’t say much. Always keeps to himself."
Expressing his gratitude, Breeze proceeded toward the bakery. Along the way, he questioned shopkeepers, scavengers, and passersby, methodically piecing together the scant threads of the boy’s movements. Hours slipped by in painstaking effort before his search culminated in a somber discovery.
Acacius sat slumped against the deteriorating masonry of a crumbling wall, his gaunt frame swathed in tattered rags. The wild disarray of his black hair fell over angular features etched with scars, a visage shaped by both neglect and hardship. His deep-set eyes, vast and shadowed, bore a poignant gravity, betraying an incongruous depth of suffering for someone so young.
Breeze felt a visceral pang of recognition. This boy’s plight mirrored his own not long ago—a testament to the harrowing cycles of abandonment and survival. Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he approached cautiously.
“Acacius?” he called in a voice tempered with gentleness.
The boy’s entire body flinched, his frame quivering as he recoiled instinctively. "I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t mean to stay here. I’ll leave—please don’t hit me!" His words came in a torrent of fear, a desperate plea for mercy punctuated by sobs.
Breeze halted, momentarily shaken by the depth of the boy’s terror. 'Why is he in such a wretched state?' he wondered silently. Kneeling slowly, Breeze softened his voice further. "It’s alright. No one is going to hurt you. I’m here because your grandmother sent me."
Acacius’s tear-streaked face tilted upward, uncertainty and a flicker of hope vying in his expression. "Grandma?" he rasped, his voice cracked with disuse and emotion.
Breeze nodded reassuringly. "She’s been searching for you tirelessly. She misses you more than words can convey."
Tears spilled anew from the boy’s weary eyes. "I miss her, too," he confessed, his voice quaking. "But I thought… I thought she had forgotten me. Like everyone else."
“Never,” Breeze stated with quiet conviction. "She loves you deeply. Every coin she saved was for finding you, to bring you home."
Acacius’s fragile composure crumbled. "It’s been so hard," he admitted between gasping sobs. "Nights without food, freezing in the cold, hiding under carts to escape the rain. Summers were unbearable, and no one would take me in. They called me a monster—ugly, unworthy. I know I’m hideous, but… it’s not like I chose this face." His words dissolved into a torrent of grief.
"Don’t cry, little brother," Breeze urged, his voice thick with empathy. "Keep your heart and soul unblemished. That beauty will outshine everything else someday."
"Easy for you to say," Acacius muttered despondently. "You seem perfect—inside and out. But people hate me just for existing. They hit me when I walk by as if my face is a crime."
Breeze’s chest tightened. Denying the boy’s harrowing reality would serve no purpose. Instead, he placed a steadying hand on Acacius’s shoulder. "Despite all of that, you're no longer alone, kid. Let’s go home. From now on, things will be different.”
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Breeze scooped the boy into his arms, cradling him as if he were the most precious thing in the world. Acacius weighed almost nothing, his body so light it felt as though a gust of wind might carry him away. As they made their way back to the old woman’s house, Breeze’s tears continued to fall. How could a parent—a human being—discard their own child so callously?
When they arrived, the old woman’s joy was indescribable. She wept openly, holding her grandson close and showering him with kisses and words of love. Breeze watched the reunion with a bittersweet smile, his heart heavy yet full.