Night settled over Orphanage Seven like an old coat patched, drafty, and familiar in a way only the poor understood. Most of the children slept already, but Vyre and Kaze lay awake, staring at the ceiling from their adjacent bunks.
Kaze turned first.
"Vyre," he whispered loudly.
"You're supposed to be asleep," Vyre replied without looking at him.
"I tried. But my brain keeps moving around. Like a rat."
"You are a rat."
"Thank you. That means cunning."
"It does not."
Kaze scooted closer, lowering his voice.
"Earlier… you asked me how I ended up outside. So now I'm asking too. How did you end up… like this? Homeless? Orphanage? All of it."
Vyre didn't answer immediately. He propped himself on his elbows, eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"You start," he said.
Kaze nodded.
"I never knew my parents. Not even a blur." His voice softened, unusual for him. "I grew up in the market alleys. People threw scraps at me sometimes. Trash too. Depends on their mood."
His fingers drummed against the blanket.
"The men chasing us that day? I stole the wrong thing. I only wanted bread. Somehow left with jewelry. Thought it was shiny. Didn't think they'd hunt a kid for it."
"It was hunger," Vyre said. "Not your fault."
Kaze blinked, stunned. "That… was almost poetic."
"It wasn't."
"That makes it even more poetic!"
Vyre sighed.
"…Your turn," Kaze finally pushed.
Vyre's breath tightened. But he spoke.
"I don't remember anything before here," he said. "Nothing. No parents. No names. No clan crest. The matron found me at the door as a baby. Wrapped in nothing. Badly injured. One eye missing."
Kaze's eyes widened.
"Someone left you here?"
"Someone wanted me gone," Vyre corrected.
Kaze didn't know what to say this time. His usual jokes died in his throat.
Vyre continued, quieter:
"I don't know my clan. My bloodline. Nothing. The matron said whoever left me didn't want anyone to know who I belonged to."
Silence settled like dust.
Then Kaze said softly, "Well… I'm here now. So you're not alone."
Vyre blinked once. Twice.
"…You're loud," he said.
But the warmth beneath the words was unmistakable.
Kaze grinned and sat up fully.
"Now, future plans," he announced proudly. "I'll go first."
Vyre groaned. "Why?"
"Because I have ambition. Listen carefully."
Kaze puffed up his chest.
"I'm going to the Empire Academy."
Vyre sat upright, actually shocked.
"…Do you even know how expensive that is?"
"Very," Kaze confirmed confidently. "Which is why I need money. Lots of it. Huge money. Mountain money."
Vyre stared. "You're five."
"And yet visionary," Kaze said, pointing to himself. "The Academy trains commanders, elites, strategists, empire soldiers only the best. If I get in, we'll never be hungry again."
Vyre frowned. "You really think kids like us can go there?"
Kaze tilted his head. "Of course. Why not?"
Vyre exhaled slowly, as if explaining reality required more energy than he had.
"Because we don't have clan status. We don't have savings. No noble letters. No sponsor. We barely have enough soap to make it through the week. The Empire Academy is built for the best of the best, not… us."
Kaze stared at him really stared like he was reading a system report he didn't agree with.
"…So you think it's impossible?" he asked.
Vyre didn't answer right away. His fingers curled into the blanket.
"It's not about possible or impossible," he said finally. "It's about how the world treats kids with nothing. People like us don't reach places like that. That's just how the system works."
The silence between them tightened.
For once, Kaze didn't joke. Didn't smile. Didn't try to charm anything.
He sat on Vyre's bed, elbows on his knees, voice lower than usual.
"Then we'll break the system," he said.
Vyre's head jerked toward him. "What?"
"You heard me," Kaze replied, tone firm, almost uncharacteristically decisive. "If the door is locked for kids like us, then we kick it open. Or climb in through the window. Or dig under it. There's always a way in."
Vyre shook his head slowly. "You talk like everything is easy."
"It's not," Kaze said. "But it's possible."
Vyre swallowed hard. Possible. That was a dangerous word for someone who learned early to never expect good things. Dreams were liabilities they hurt when they broke, and his life had been one long lesson in not wanting too much.
"Don't say things you can't guarantee," Vyre whispered.
"I don't guarantee," Kaze replied. "I commit."
Vyre looked away quickly before emotions could betray him.
The room felt too full suddenly.
"Vyre?" Kaze asked.
"…What now."
"I still want to know," he said softly. "How you ended up homeless."
Vyre froze.
"And I'll tell you mine too," Kaze added. "Everything. No jokes. No distractions."
The lantern flickered. The night seemed to hold its breath.
Vyre's voice came out barely audible.
"…I don't know where I come from. The Matron said she found me at the door when I was just a baby. No note. No blanket. Nothing."
Kaze's playful energy collapsed into stillness.
"So you really have no idea what clan you're from?" he asked.
Vyre shook his head. "None."
Kaze's expression tightened with something close to protectiveness.
"Then we'll find out someday."
Vyre didn't respond. He couldn't. His chest felt too heavy for words.
The air went still.
Then Kaze whispered:
"Vyre… how exactly did you end up outside? What happened before we met?"
Vyre turned his head.
"And what about you?" he murmured. "Who were you before the streets?"
Both boys stared at each other.
Two pasts wrapped in shadow.
Two answers too heavy for one night.
Two truths waiting at the threshold
and neither of them ready to say it first.