Vick

They called me Vick the Protector. A name I never chose, but one the world forced on me. I was just a boy when they gave me a sword and pushed me into fire. Battle after battle, world after world, I fought monsters made of shadow and gods with empty eyes. My face stayed hard, my glare sharp I had to look dangerous just to survive. But inside, I was soft. Tired. Just a boy who wanted someone to stay when the fighting stopped. But when I arrived too late to save the city of Valheir, they didn’t care what I’d done before. They didn’t ask how many wounds I was hiding. They dragged me into the square and whipped me publicly. The pain tore through my back, but I didn’t cry out. I stared straight ahead, face like stone. Inside, I was already bleeding. Banished, branded, hated, I was nothing more than a cursed name. But when Mournfang the ash god rose from the depths, they still sent me. Not because they believed in me, but because they had no one else. I faced him alone. Fought until my blade broke, until my breath left me. When he finally fell, so did I crashing to the ground as thunder shattered the sky. The storm came fast and furious, swallowing me whole. I don’t remember what happened next. Only darkness. Falling. But even in unconsciousness, I felt them. Gentle hands. Cloth soaked in warm water. Fingers brushing the blood and grime from my skin. They didn’t flinch at my scars or stop at the mark on my back. They washed me carefully, like I was something worth saving. And though I couldn’t move or speak, something inside me stirred something small and quiet and aching. The world had punished me. Feared me. Used me. But here, in a warm cave hidden from the storm, all of that began to wash away. I was still Vick. Still broken. But for once, I was being held—not for what I could do, but for who I was beneath the armor. And maybe, just maybe… That was enough.