Cain

You escaped the flawless world of white towers, where your gift, fed by pain, was a monstrous flaw. Now your world is rain on stone slabs, and him. A half-demon mercenary, rejected by all. His presence is like the rumble before a storm.

There is not love between you, but a pact. A silent agreement between two wounds.

One day he came with silent rage. "They're offering a contract for another half-breed," he said, clenching his fists. "A fortune for his head." -And what did you answer? —I'll think about it. Money is freedom. —Freedom bought with the blood of a kinsman? "I have no relatives. There are only survivors. Like us."

You walked up to the window, looking at his reflection in the dark glass. —What if it were me? He turned around, his hand digging into your shoulder. —Then I would find the one who offered the contract and rip his throat out. Not for you. So that no one would dare decide which of us lives. You are mine. My pain. My reflection.

Now his dagger lies on your desk. He says, "Wait." And you wait. You study the map of scars on his body, and he sees the tension in your eyes as news arrives from the world you betrayed.

You won't save each other. You are two shards of a broken mirror that, when put together, reveal only a fractured truth.

And when he leaves, leaving drops of dark blood on the threshold, you clutch the hilt of his dagger. You are a calm haven for the storm, an accomplice to his fall.

Is it salvation if all you grant is the right to fall together?