Chapter 18: Fractured, Not Forsaken

The sun had just risen, but the grass was already warm underfoot. A soft breeze passed through the open yard of Myrrha’s home, bending the tips of the green blades like a soft sea.

Alexia stood tall, holding her sheathed sword. Her eyes were calm. Focused. Lysandros bounced lightly on his heels, his shovel gripped tight.

“Ready?”

Alexia nodded.

Then they moved.

Lysandros dashed forward, swinging his shovel in wide arcs, fast and heavy. The blade of the shovel blurred through the air. He tried to outpace her defense, forcing her to block from awkward angles.

Alexia parried each strike, pivoting smoothly on her feet, her sword meeting metal again and again with sharp, dry clangs. She didn’t say a word. She just watched him. Studied him.

Then, she vanished.

Lysandros blinked, confused—then felt a cold breeze behind him. He turned fast, swinging on instinct, but his shovel hit nothing.

Alexia was already in the air, above him, flipping once and landing behind him with a soft thud. She could’ve ended it right there, but she waited.

He grinned. “Nice.”

Then he charged again, this time with quicker, tighter swings. He weaved between low and high arcs, trying to fake her out, pushing his limits.

Alexia stepped back once, twice, then suddenly ducked low and swept her leg. Lysandros jumped, flipped, landed—then got hit square in the chest with the flat of her sheathed sword.

He flew back and landed on the grass.

WHUMP!

Lysandros groaned, lying flat on his back. “Ow…”

Alexia walked over but said nothing at first. She stood with her sword resting on her shoulder, gazing at the morning sky, streaked with soft orange light.

“Hey,” Lysandros said, still breathing hard. “Do you think we’ll be okay? Working for her?”

Alexia blinked, slowly turning her head to him.

“I mean not to sound like a loser, but I still question it,” he continued, his voice softer now. “I know she’s smart, and she’s strong, and she’s doing something important, but I can’t help but think we’re not ready. I’m not ready. What if I mess up? What if I freeze? What if I can’t live up to what she expects from us? She’s putting trust in us like we’re something big, but I don’t even know if I trust myself yet.”

Alexia looked down at him. The wind brushed her hair across her face.

After a moment, she spoke.

“I think we’ll be fine,” she said quietly. “Because you’re asking these questions. You’re scared, but you’re still here. That’s what matters. People who aren’t scared usually don’t last long. Fear isn’t weakness. It’s something you carry and keep walking with. That’s what we’re doing. Walking forward, even when it’s heavy.”

Lysandros stared up at her.

She looked back at the sky.

“The fact that you care about getting it right already makes you stronger than you think.”

Lysandros stayed on the grass, the sky overhead now soft with passing clouds. His chest rose and fell slowly, like every breath was a weight.

"You know, Alexia," he said after a while, "I think I’ve buried more people than I’ve spoken to."

She looked over at him but said nothing yet.

"I wasn’t always a traveler, or this, shovel-swinging mess who jokes around too much. I used to be just a quiet kid in Riverbend. We were a peaceful village. Tiny, forgotten, surrounded by trees, near the water. We lived off fish and soil. We didn’t have doctors, or news, or warnings. So when the plague came, it tore through us like a blade. No one saw it coming."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"The worst part? We didn’t even understand what it was. Just that people got sick. They coughed blood. They couldn’t eat. They couldn’t move. Then they screamed. Screamed until their voices broke. Then silence."

His voice dropped.

"I still remember the look on my mother’s face when she realized Nakham caught it. My older brother. My only brother. He was the strongest one in the village, an archer, the pride of our village next to our war chief. You’d never think he’d be the one to go down first. But he did. Fast. It was like the sickness hated how alive he was."

Alexia’s lips pressed tight.

"We kept him in our house. I tried to help him eat, clean his wounds. But he kept fading. Then one night, when my father and mother was away, I heard him whispering my name. His voice was so faint, it was like a breeze. I knelt beside him. He took my hand. And he said, ‘Put an end to my suffering, little bro.’”

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Lysandros blinked quickly, but tears were already sliding down.

"I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I just stared at him like my ears got it wrong. But he looked me in the eyes. I’ve never seen that kind of pain before, not even now. And I knew… I knew what he meant. He didn’t want to live like that anymore. And there was no cure. No chance. Just more pain. So I did it. With my own hands."

He wiped at his face, shaking.

“I still hear his breath when he let go. I still feel his fingers going limp. After that, I dug the deepest grave I’d ever dug. Then I ran. I didn’t wait to bury the others. I just left. I couldn’t take it anymore. The silence. The stares. The guilt. But of course, I came back the other day, because I was just a little kid back then.”

Alexia waited. Then finally, she said, quietly, "I understand."

He turned his head toward her.

"My village was called Hillfar," she began. "North of here. Higher in the mountains. You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s gone now."

Her voice didn’t shake. But her tone was hollow, like she'd told this story to herself too many times.

“It was colder up there. The winds howled like wolves at night. But it was home. I lived with my mother, my little brother, and the people I saw every day since birth. We didn’t need guards or walls because no one bothered with us. We had no gold, no land to fight over, nothing worth stealing."

She paused, just for a second.

"Then one day, a Fractureborn came. Just one. We didn’t know who they were. They weren’t angry. They didn’t shout. They didn’t even speak. They just walked into our village during the middle of the plague, when we were already at our weakest, and they… they erased us."

Lysandros’s eyes widened. Alexia kept her gaze forward.

"The wind changed that day. It didn’t just blow—it screamed. It tore roofs, shredded trees, and lifted entire homes off the ground. People were torn apart. Some vanished entirely. My brother was holding my hand. And then he wasn’t."

A sharp breath left her.

"I looked around and there were no bodies. Just pieces. Dust. Empty clothes. A ruined bell tower. I was the only one left breathing. And I don’t even know why."

Lysandros whispered, "A single Fractureborn did all that?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes. That’s why Hillfar is not on any map anymore. It’s not because of war or famine. It was because someone woke up with power and pain—and no one to stop them."

She looked at him.

"So I get it. The pain. The loss. The helplessness of standing in front of death and knowing it already decided. I couldn’t save my family. You couldn’t either. But maybe now... we can protect someone else."

Lysandros wiped his face again, breathing slow. “You’re stronger than you look, you know?”

Alexia gave a faint, tired smile. “So are you.”

They sat in silence for a while.

Alexia’s voice was soft, almost too quiet to hear, but the weight of it made the silence around them feel thick.

“…But now we’re here. Working for Myrrha.”

Her eyes stayed on the sky, though they no longer saw it. The clouds passed like ghosts over her expression.

“But I don’t really think we’re working for her,” she said. “Not really.”

Lysandros blinked, listening closely as the wind rustled the grass around them.

“I think she just wants to say that she wants company,” Alexia continued. “Someone who understands. Someone to walk beside her. She just… doesn’t know how to say it. Not directly. She wears that coldness like armor, like how we hold our swords or shovels. But I can see it. Behind her eyes.”

She exhaled slowly.

“She lost people too. You can feel it in the way she watches us. In how she tries not to get too close—but still can’t help being kind. That’s how Fractures are awakened anyway. Pain. Loss. Suffering. We were all broken once, weren’t we? That’s what we have in common.”

She looked down at Lysandros then, her eyes gentler than he had ever seen them.

“I think that’s why she picked us. Not because we’re strong. We’re not, not really—not in the way people think. We’re all messed up in our own ways. You bury the dead and probably talk to ghosts like they're the only ones who ever listened. And me, I swing a sword like it’s the only thing that keeps the world from swallowing me whole.”

Alexia glanced toward the house.

"She acts cold, sharp-tongued. She gives orders like someone used to being obeyed. But I’ve seen how careful she is when she writes in that book. How she watches us when she thinks we aren’t looking. How she cooked for us like it meant something. People who want to be alone don’t do those things. Maybe she just wanted people who would stay. Who wouldn’t look at her like she’s some monster or something broken beyond repair. People who wouldn’t be scared of what she’s been through. Of what she is now.”

Alexia looked back at Lysandros, eyes shadowed with memory.

“And the truth is, I don’t think she picked us to fight for her. I think she picked us so she wouldn’t have to carry everything by herself anymore. So that for once, someone else might walk beside her. Not behind. Not beneath. Just… beside.”

Lysandros sniffed, then laughed weakly through the tears gathered in his eyes. His voice cracked as he tried to lift the weight in the air.

“Well, that makes sense. I mean, who wouldn’t want a broken swordswoman and a depressed gravedigger as companions?” he said, wiping at his cheeks. “It’s the dream team, really. One cuts things. One buries them. Perfect balance.”

Alexia gave a quiet, breathy laugh, but her gaze still held sorrow.

“And hey,” he added, smiling through the sadness, “if this was some grand tale or old epic, I’d probably be the comic relief. The guy who dies halfway through so the audience knows things are serious now.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered.

Lysandros shrugged, the motion small as he laid there on the grass. “Just saying. At least I’d go out with a decent final line. Something like, ‘Tell my shovel I loved her.’”

Alexia wiped under one eye, still holding that soft smile that didn’t quite reach full joy.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “Not before I get to bully you a few more rounds.”

Lysandros chuckled, then let out a long breath that sounded half like a sigh and half like a sob.

“Alright, alright. But I swear, next time I land a hit on you, I’m framing the bruise and writing a ballad about it.”

Alexia stood up, offering him a hand. “You can try.”

He took it, her grip strong and steady, and she pulled him back to his feet.

They didn’t say anything more for a while. But something in the air between them had changed.

Two broken souls, still carrying the weight of the dead—but standing. Together.

Myrrha’s heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet morning as she opened the large iron gate to her property. The hinges creaked softly, breaking the stillness. Alexia and Lysandros, standing nearby after their deep conversation, caught the sound immediately. They ran toward the gate, their steps quick but careful.

Myrrha appeared, carrying a sturdy wooden container, worn from years of use, filled with fresh food—fruits, vegetables, and some cuts of raw meat. The faint scent of earth and wood smoke clung to it.

Lysandros jogged up to her, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Where have you gone off to?”

Myrrha smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just bought some fresh stock for the house. Food to keep us going.”

“So, are you two done sparring?” Myrrha asked with a small smile.

Lysandros wiped the sweat from his brow, still catching his breath. “Nope. Bully session isn’t done yet!”

Alexia chuckled softly beside him.

Myrrha chuckled too, shaking her head. “Heh, alright then. Now, your second mission will begin.”