The heavy doors of the Nameless Church groaned open slowly, a sound like the deep rumble of a world trembling. The procession of black-robed priests halted at the threshold, cradling a small boy in tattered cloth in their arms.
Inside the church, there was no light.
No hymns.
Only a thin mist that flowed along the cracked stone floor, and the ever-present scent of old, clotted blood woven into every stone.
An elder stood waiting before them — tall and thin, his skin pale to near translucence, with a partially bald head and faded eyes that held a strange calmness.
He smiled softly, like the breath of a cold dawn.
"Lay him down," he said, voice gentle as an ancient prayer forgotten by the world.
The priests bowed deeply and placed the boy on a worn-out rug at the elder's feet.
The boy, only seven years old, raised his head slowly.
His eyes — brilliant blue, clear as an untouched sky — shimmered like gems embedded in his face.
His skin was pure alabaster, kissed by snow and moonlight, his short hair a crown of platinum blonde, glinting faintly under the ghostly mist.
He looked like a child blessed by heavens themselves.
But within those beautiful eyes, there was no light.
No hope.
Only an empty, deathly calm that should never belong to one so young.
"They killed my father... my brother... my sister...Why?Why are they helping me now?"
"Where... am I?"
Yet, he said nothing.
He simply sat there — silent, unreadable, observing with an instinct sharpened by loss.
He knew better than to lash out.
A cornered beast waits for its moment; so would he.
The elder knelt down until his gaze met the boy's level and offered a hand, weathered and thin, marked with faint scars.
"My name is Caeron," he said softly.
"And this... will be your new home, little one."
Froy stared at the offered hand for a long while, unmoving.
Then, slowly, he lifted his small fingers to touch it.
Not out of trust.
Not out of hope.
Simply because he had nothing left to lose.
From the swirling mist around them, a whisper only the boy could hear brushed against his mind:
"Walk forward, little one.
Your sorrows have only just begun."
From behind, soft footsteps approached.
"Grand Pope Caeron! May I meet him now!?"
A voice bright and out of place in the hollow world broke through the silence.
A young girl burst forth from a side corridor, her silver-blue hair bouncing with every step.
Her wide eyes gleamed with a life far too vivid for a place like this.
She skidded to a stop in front of Froy, practically glowing with excitement.
"Wow! A new kid!" she exclaimed, her smile so wide it seemed to defy the surrounding gloom.
"My name's Sinclaire! What's yours?"
Froy blinked at her slowly, as if trying to understand a language not meant for him.
Before he could answer, Caeron chuckled softly.
"His name is Froy, little one," he said warmly.
"He just arrived. He is under our care now."
Sinclaire's smile widened even further, and without hesitation, she seized Froy's hand.
"Come on! I'll show you the secret spot I found!
There's a huge old tree behind the church, you know!"
Froy allowed himself to be dragged along — a tiny figure swallowed in mist, wrapped in a laughter he'd never known he could hear again.
Behind them, Pope Caeron stood watching, a faint, sorrowful smile curving his lips — too deep, too knowing.
The mist whispered once more, in a voice only the boy could hear:
"Go on, little one... before everything you cherish is taken from you once again."
Yet, the little boy could not comprehend what the voiceless whisper truly meant.
It was like a ripple across a still lake, a meaning hidden just beyond his grasp — a truth too far for his young mind to see.
Oblivious to the shadow that already stretched toward him, Froy let Sinclaire pull him away, laughter echoing faintly as they disappeared deeper into the mist.