Burnt out flame

ㅤ Little Luke jumped off the running board of a passing cart, which he had secretly clung to while escaping his pursuers. There was only a short distance left to Baticul, but Luke didn't dare to follow the open path: they could still follow him. Or even wait at the main gate. As the heir to a politically important family, he was well-educated and even showed an inquisitive nature, reading books that weren't exactly childish. But more importantly, he possessed an unbending will that kept him moving forward despite hunger and fatigue. He reached the forest, choosing a dangerous path in the hopes of not only hiding but also finding food. He didn't risk eating every forage he could find; there was much he still didn't know. He drew water from a babbling spring, at least drinking his fill. He tried to catch fish, but only ended up soaking wet in vain. He had nothing to crack the nuts with, the mushrooms looked suspicious, and even the birds wouldn't peck at the berries. His stomach rumbled painfully. 'It's okay. Just a little bit left. I'll be home soon.' Night was falling slowly but surely. Luke didn't want to stop, wanting to get home as quickly as possible. He froze when he heard a growl. He had something to defend himself with (he always carried his trusty shortsword) but he wasn't confident in his skills. The thought of putting the knowledge he'd learned from Van into practice chilled his soul. Training and fighting for his life — a wolf's growl alone was enough to make the difference. 'Breathe,' Luke reminded himself. The body felt paralyzed. The beast, too, was in no hurry to attack, seeing that its prey had noticed it. Rustle. 'Another!' Luke realized in time, instinctively drawing his sword from its sheath: the unexpected sound brought him out of his stupor. Luke didn't have time to attack, only to turn and point the blade in front of him. This was enough for the beast to jump on the blade and pierce its chest with its weight, pressing its limp body on the boy. The second beast was vigilant, searching for vulnerable parts of its prey's body while Luke frantically tried to escape from under the dead body. He was forced to let go of his sword, bracing himself with both hands against the carcass, trying to roll it onto its side. The beast bit into his shoulder as soon as the boy opened his mouth. Luke howled like a wolf, his free hand trying to grab the hilt, slick with blood. It was no use! He had to try another way to save himself, pressing a short, untrimmed fingernail into the beast's eye. The beast unclenched its jaw in pain, immediately receiving a kick in the throat. Having gained some time, Luke climbed the nearest tree, feeling no pain or fatigue due to shock for a moment. The beast, enraged, tried to grab his heel, but was too late. Dissatisfied and menacing, it began pacing back and forth, glaring at its unreachable prey. Luke was breathing heavily, pressed against the trunk, sitting on a thick branch with his knees bent. His heart wouldn't stop pounding, and tears of pain and fear welled up in his eyes. And no matter how hard Luke tried to hold them back, they still trickled treacherously down his cheeks. 'I'm strong! I can do this! I'll survive... I'll come back home!!!' As the tears subsided, the emotions began to calm, but the physical pain began to intensify. Luke clutched his wounded shoulder, immediately letting go, gritting his teeth. 'You can't touch it with dirty hands,' he recalled the nurse's instructions, treating his abrasions after his vigorous play with Guy. 'You need to wash it,' he recalled, concentrating on his actions, trying to distract himself from the danger looming below. Uncorking the flask, he poured water over his shoulder. 'And then…' Luke remembered what he should do next, but what was the point? He had nothing but an empty flask. He couldn't even retrieve his sword. His torn, dirty clothes were soaked in blood, his hair was matted, his crooked nails were black — not the look of a noble aristocrat. Even the homeless sometimes looked more imposing than he did. 'It's all right. Everything is fine. One bath will fix everything.' The beast walked around the tree for a long time, not allowing to even think about peace. When the beast disappeared from sight, Luke slowly began to fall asleep, starting to nod off. Occasionally, he'd jerk his head up, afraid he was about to fall. Trying to cope with the night chill, Luke hugged his knees tightly to his chest, burying his frozen nose into them. 'It's good it's not winter,' he thought quietly. Consciousness was threatening to slip away, but Luke couldn't afford the luxury of sleep. With the first rays of the sun, maintaining consciousness became a little easier. After looking around and making sure the beast was nowhere in sight, Luke slowly descended. The shoulder ached terribly, so it took more strength to control the injured arm. An attempt to pull out the sword was unsuccessful: it was firmly lodged between the ribs. Luke tried to push with his feet and jump, but it was all to no avail. 'Oh whatever! There's still just a little bit left!' In the city, everyone looked at him, whispering, and sometimes even loudly making unflattering comments about the lost child. No one offered to help. Luke wasn't bothered by the stares; he walked with his head held high. He was destined to be the center of attention, and he had been trained to accept it with honor. In any situation. However, this skill didn't help him at the gates of his home… "Boy, stop talking nonsense, the young master is already back! Do you want to be thrown in jail? Go back where you came from! And tell the parents not to use their child for dirty purposes!" The guard roughly kicked the grimy boy, ending the conversation. Luke glared at him, but the guard cut off a second attempt to reason with the idiot who didn't recognize his master, placing his hand warningly on his weapon. 'You will pay for your behavior. I am the master of fon Fabre house. I know other ways to get inside.' He and Guy had once used a loophole to sneak into the city undetected, and Luke took advantage of it. 'At home…' he breathed a sigh of relief with a smile, stepping onto the estate’s grounds. He didn't go far… Behind the neatly trimmed bushes, they didn't notice him, but he saw a picture perfectly, a bewildering and heartbreaking one: he was sitting on the grass. Another him. Faithful Natalya and Guy fussed around him, completely oblivious to everything around them. '…It's not me. How come they don't understand?.. It's not me!' What he saw seemed unreal, like an illusion or a waking dream. He saw himself, his life, from the outside. He longed for it, but someone else was already in his place. And his mother… 'Mother!' The woman ran up to the child, lovingly stroked his head and hugged him. "Let's go inside, Luke. Your favorite treats are waiting at the table. Maybe you can at least remember them…" 'Mother…' Bitter disappointment surged through his chest. 'Even you… didn't realize it's a fake. Do you really believe it is me?' Luke swallowed, clenched his fist tightly, and pursed his lips. He tensed up so much that Guy felt his anger and turned around, but still didn’t find anyone: Luke was quicker, crouching down. 'Thief… He stole my life… Me!' A searing chill ran down the back of his neck, raising the fine hairs on end. His body flushed with heat, and his mind focused on a single thought, so intensely that even the pain in his shoulder faded into the background. 'I am no more… No… I have nowhere to return to…' The boy sat on the grass for a while, hiding behind the bushes. He didn't know what to do next. The people closest to him had betrayed him, accepting someone else. A stranger. There was no home, no him. No meaning in his existence. He even began to doubt whether he really was himself. That he even exists. 'Maybe this is all a dream?' The rumble in his stomach caused a sharp pain. The boy curled up into a ball, waiting for the spasm to pass. That's how Van found him. He'd come to check on his two puppets. Silently, he offered him his hand and led him out of the estate. He brought him to the inn, not wanting to expose himself to the knights any further. "Let me treat your hand, Luke." The boy jerked capriciously, not allowing himself to be touched. "That’s not my name," he answered relatively calmly, but a little strainedly. "Hm. Then what should I call you?" The Sacred Flame is a thing of the past, burned to ashes. Only its illusion remains, echoing in the heart. Smoldering embers… But they all share the same destiny — to turn to ashes. "Asch. My name is Asch." "Okay, Asch," Van agreed without question. It didn't matter what the instrument was called, as long as it served the right purpose. "Now let me treat the wound before it gets infected. I can't let you die..." Asch nodded. He winced when Van touched him. Even though he had become ashes, carried away by the wind, a fire continued to smolder fiercely within him. Anger, envy, and hatred tore him apart from within. Asch refused to give in. But everything else was already indifferent to him… ㅤ