The night began like most of Cain's nights did — with silence and rot.
The fire came first.
Not in the sky, not in the street — but in the tavern he called home.
A blast shattered the front door. Flames licked the ceiling like starved wolves, earth cracked the floor like something buried deep was trying to escape.
The rebels stormed in — voices sharp, magic wild, demands already dripping with bloodlust.
Cain barely had time to react.
The girl was in the stairwell — frozen, exposed, too human to be this close to death.
He moved.
Instinct. Not heroism. That part of him was long dead.
He grabbed her, pulled her down just as the fire scorched past.
Took the full force across his back — skin split, flesh bubbled.
Then the floor exploded beneath them — the rebels using earth like a hammer, breaking the tavern apart.
A beam cracked across his shoulder. Blood pooled in his mouth.
But Cain held on.
Because that's what the worthless always do — hold on long after they should've let go.
⸻
He couldn't breathe.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
But in the chaos, in the smoke and screams, something inside him whispered:
"Guess in the end... I really was just a worthless piece of shit."
"Didn't deserve to live."
"The villagers were right. My mother was right."
"I'm finally getting the end I always deserved."
And for the first time in months...
he felt calm.
⸻
When the Royal Guards arrived, Cain was kneeling in ash and blood. The girl beside him, shaking, crying, bleeding.
They didn't ask what happened.
They saw fire.
They saw rubble.
They saw him — the outsider, the drifter, the one no one claimed.
That was enough.
"He's one of them."
"He opened the door."
"I always knew something was off about him."
The girl tried to speak — to defend him.
"He saved me!" she cried. "He—he protected me!"
No one listened.
A guard slammed her aside.
Cain turned to shield her—
Too slow.
A gauntlet crushed his jaw.
His knees gave out.
Boots, fists, stone — beat him down until the ash tasted like iron.
He didn't scream.
"You don't get to scream when you're already forgotten."
They dragged him through the streets, chained like an animal, his face unrecognizable, blood dripping down the cobblestones like a warning.
People gathered.
Laughed.
Spat.
No one asked who he was.
Only what they wanted him to be.
"Rebel dog."
"Darkblood trash."
"Let him burn. Let him fucking burn."
The Verdict
Cain didn't remember how long he was unconscious.
Only that when he opened his eyes again, he was in a cell made of cold stone and colder silence.
A royal clerk stood in front of him, reading a scroll like it was the weather.
"Cain — no last name, no origin, no affiliations recognized.
Found at the scene of rebel assault. Multiple witnesses claim allegiance.
Convicted of treason and conspiracy.
Sentence: Public execution at dawn."
Cain didn't move.
Didn't beg.
Didn't cry.
Didn't ask "why."
Instead, he laughed — just once, broken and dry.
Then whispered to himself:
"So this is it."
"The ending they always saw for me."
"Guess they were right."
"All I ever was... was something they could blame."
A slow smile cracked across his bruised lips — not joy, not defiance.
Just the acceptance of a man who finally believed the worst about himself