My heart is beating with no strength left,
and yet I keep walking.
I ask you —
why do you open your eyes in the morning?
Why do you drag yourself onto that shitty subway in your city
just to get to a job that pays just enough?
I have something that forces me to stand up —
love, pure and burning,
and hate, the kind that corrodes,
that kills me from the inside.
My heart?
Oh, it beats.
Sad, tired, fucked — but beating.
Muscles pull, blood pushes, and I… continue.
Not because I'm fine.
But because stopping hurts more.
Now answer me —
no really, look inside your chest for a second —
why do you get out of bed?
Why do you wake up before the sun,
take that crowded, sweaty subway,
pressed between twenty people and a guy who smells like expired industrial dye…
just to work at a job that pays you just enough to survive?
I'm not judging.
I do the same shit.
Just… with monsters, explosions, and war
instead of spreadsheets, ledgers, swords and every other kind of bullshit.
The difference?
I have a reason.
Or at least… I try to believe I do.
I have love.
A love so strong it lifts me when I should be dead on the ground —
so strong it burns the weak.
And hate.
A hate so hot it eats me alive from the inside.
They both live right here —
right in the middle of my chest.
One whispering:
Get up. Please. Someone needs you.
And the other:
Get up. I want to watch them burn.
Funny, isn't it?
They push me the same direction.
The only difference is why.
I don't know which one you carry.
Maybe love.
Maybe hate.
Maybe just habit.
But you get up.
Every day.
Even broken.
Even exhausted.
Even when nothing makes sense.
Even sad.
Even dying on the inside.
You get up.
---
"Ahhhhhhhh."
Seralyn woke up.
Sunlight cut across her vision.
The morning looked quiet.
She tried to breathe something other than the dust in her room.
But there was nothing holy there.
She inhaled.
Dry air. Dust. Silence.
Silence… too quiet.
Not peace —
absence.
As if something had been taken.
She sat up slowly, blankets wrinkled, still smelling of a night that wasn't really sleep.
The world looked normal.
And that, somehow, was the most alarming thing.
Because Seralyn knew —
when the world is quiet, it's because it's waiting.
Waiting for the next shadow.
The next flame.
The next time he comes back.
She ran a hand across her face, wiping away pieces of dreams — or memories.
"Idiot…" she whispered.
Not sad.
Not afraid.
Something in between.
She stood.
The day had begun.
But the day had no idea what was coming.
---
Her ears heard the door creak before the handle even turned.
Perks (or curses) of being an elf —
you never really sleep.
You just wait for the next annoyance.
"Seralyn, get up. Get ready, we're leaving."
The voice was calm —
which to Seralyn's ears was the equivalent of a war horn.
She pulled the pillow over her face.
"You don't need to yell. I'm an elf. Hearing is kind of my whole thing."
Tila crossed her arms.
"I didn't yell."
Seralyn lowered the pillow just enough to look her in the eyes.
"Okay, okay. You're awake."
Tila looked at the window.
The sun was already very high.
"It's noon."
Seralyn blinked.
Looked at the ceiling.
Blink. Again.
"And I slept way more."
Tila put her hands on her hips — the universal pose of I'm tired of your bullshit.
"That's not something to be proud of."
Seralyn finally stood up, hair messy, face uninterested — because she didn't care.
"Relax… I was just… restoring my spiritual energy."
She made a mystical hand gesture.
"You pretty much passed out for 12 hours."
"Spiritual. Energy."
Tila sighed. The long kind.
Because arguing with Seralyn is like arguing with wind —
pointless and irritating.
"Come on. There's work. A lot of it."
Seralyn paused while tying her hair.
For a second — just one — everything inside her went still.
Then she breathed.
"Okay. Let's go."
---
Seralyn arrived still adjusting her hair — fast steps not because she wanted to, but because she was embarrassed.
She was fast… just tired.
In a strange way.
Like her body was here but her mind remained in bed.
"She's already waiting. That scares me," Seralyn muttered to Tila.
Tila just raised an eyebrow — the you caused this eyebrow.
Anaalyn didn't blink.
"You're late. As always."
Her voice was stone.
Polished stone — but still stone.
Seralyn opened her mouth to respond — some excuse or sarcastic remark —
but Anaalyn had already turned away.
"Let's go. The day is short, and we are not."
Seralyn frowned.
"I am not shor—"
Tila grabbed her arm.
"Just walk. I know where this goes."
Seralyn puffed — loud, dramatic, violent sigh.
"Ugh. How far are we even walking?"
"One or two hours," Anaalyn answered, still ahead. "Depends on the donkey's pace."
Seralyn stopped.
Looked at Tila.
Then at Anaalyn.
Then back at Tila.
Expression: I will store this in my heart as eternal hatred.
"You just called me a pack—"
"Don't even think about talking shit, elf," Anaalyn cut, voice like forged iron.
Seralyn raised her hands, wounded like a theater actress.
"But I didn't say anything, dwarf."
Tila dragged a hand down her face — slowly — sensing the incoming headache.
"Why am I the most adult one here?"
No one answered.
They just walked.
---
After a while…
"The dwarven village… what's the name again?" Seralyn asked.
Anaalyn visibly inhaled the way someone prays not to commit murder.
Tila answered:
"Khazdrim."
Seralyn blinked.
"Bless you."
Anaalyn stopped breathing for a full second.
"It's the name of my village."
"So… does it mean 'bless you'?"
And that was when Tila knew she'd lose her forehead from rubbing it so much.
"Seralyn…"
"Okay, okay! Khaz…rim…drin??"
Anaalyn stopped walking.
Dropped her axe.
Looked up at the sky like she was asking a god for permission to kill.
"You have a tongue. A voice. A brain. Use one."
Seralyn pointed to herself.
"I have LOTS of brain. More than—"
"And where is that proven?" Anaalyn cut.
Seralyn started again:
"You and these ethnic names are so hard to remem—"
Tila stepped between them.
"Girls. Walk. Before I drag you both by the hair."
Silence.
Steps resume.
Wind. Grass. Earth.
After a while, so low it was almost a prayer:
"Khazdrim…" Seralyn whispered.
Anaalyn didn't smile.
Didn't say anything.
Didn't praise her.
But her step got just a little lighter.
---
"Look — just because my village name is strange," Anaalyn said, suddenly defensive,
"There are worse ones. Tila, what's the name of yours?"
Tila froze.
Her step stiffened.
"…Why do I have to be involved in your stupid fights?"
Seralyn grinned.
Anaalyn waited.
Predatory silence.
"Well?" Seralyn teased. "It can't be that bad. It's not like it's… Alakazam."
Anaalyn lost it laughing.
"HAHAHAHA AL-A-KA-ZAM—"
Tila inhaled. Deep. Deadly deep.
"My village is called…"
Seralyn leaned forward, ready to pounce.
"…Belonir."
Silence.
Wind.
And then Seralyn:
"...…Okay. I admit. That sounds like medicine."
Anaalyn howled.
"IF SYMPTOMS PERSIST, SEEK THE NEAREST VILLAGE!"
Seralyn clapped:
"Take BELONIR 400mg for pain, fever, and emotional trauma!"
Tila stared at them.
Expression blank.
"My father taught me how to break bones without interrupting travel."
They shut up instantly.
Walked again.
For three quiet minutes.
Then Seralyn — of course:
"Alakazam is still better."
And Anaalyn:
"Much better."
Tila raised one hand.
Just raised it.
The two ran.
---
The village finally appeared on the horizon.
Not large.
Not beautiful.
But hers.
Broken stone houses.
Thin smoke.
Tools scattered.
And lying across the ground —
the remains of the iron serpent, still smoldering, still refusing to die.
It was there.
Huge.
Still.
Like a corpse that didn't know it was a corpse.
The air smelled of burned metal and memory.
Tila swallowed hard.
Seralyn — who just moments ago was pure jokes — now only watched.
Quiet.
Eyes soft.
Anaalyn stepped forward first.
"Don't worry," she said.
Her voice steady — but her hand trembled on the axe.
"Dwarves are raised to take hits. If there is ground…"
She crushed a piece of metal under her boot.
"We build again."
Seralyn's voice came small:
"Even when it hurts like this?"
Anaalyn didn't turn around.
"Hurt is part of it."
She took another step.
Another.
"But fall?"
She kicked a gear out of her path.
"That we don't do."
Tila adjusted her pack —
like she was putting armor under her skin.
"Come on… before my mother kills us for being late."
Seralyn laughed softly.
They walked.
Through ruins.
Through memory.
Through the place where him almost died… again.
The story isn't over.
It never is.
Especially not for heroes like him.
And least of all —
not for him.