He Who Remains

Our story begins on a desolate mountain peak. A thin, pale boy sat on a rock at the edge of the mountain top, his eyes gazing across the vast valley. In the distance, a city was visible, its huge walls rising high above the horizon, still visible despite the great distance. This was Black Pearl City, a place of wealth and prosperity, always bustling with thousands of people moving in and out of its gates like ants in constant motion. Closer to the base of the mountain lay a tiny village, consisting of just four scattered, humble houses. The boy lived in this village alone. He traveled to the city every day, working as an errand boy, making the long, wearying trek back and forth. This had been his life for as long as he could remember, and now, at sixteen years old, the routine felt like an endless loop with no escape.

The boy’s name was Sol. He had no surname, no family to claim, and his life had been nothing short of miserable. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father, once a kind and loving man, had crumbled under the weight of that loss. From that fateful day onwards, his father had never been the same. Sol had heard stories about how gentle and caring his father had once been. But Sol never saw that side of him.

His father, like him, worked as an errand boy, serving a restaurant owned by the Helvig family, one of the seven great houses that had helped found Black Pearl City. Sol’s ancestors had been servants to the Helvigs for generations, laboring at the restaurant alongside two other families. But for Sol, this legacy felt more like a curse than a heritage.

His father had abandoned him at birth. In a drunken stupor, he had left Sol at the foot of a temple, vanishing into the night and leaving the boy to be raised by indifferent strangers. Occasionally, his father would come back to the temple, reeking of alcohol and filled with rage. Each time he came, it was the same: he would scream at Sol, cursing him for every misfortune, for the death of his mother, for everything wrong in his broken life. Sol had tried, in the early days, to reach out to him, to understand him. But his attempts were met with violence. His father would throw stones, knives, or anything within reach at him. Over time, Sol learned that there was nothing he could do to fix what was broken.

For six long years, Sol lived at the temple, unwanted, barely noticed. The priests were cold, and the older children took every opportunity to torment him. Food was scarce, and most nights Sol went to bed with an empty stomach, his thin, ghostly frame growing weaker by the day. Many nights he cried himself to sleep, but soon even tears became a luxury he could no longer afford. By the age of six, he had lost the ability to cry. His once-innocent face now wore the constant imprint of sorrow and gloom.

On his sixth birthday, as always, his father appeared at the temple drunk, angry, and violent. He hurled curses and stones at Sol, his face contorted with bitter hatred. It was the same every year: a flood of venomous words and broken glass. But on this day, something different happened. Sol watched from a temple window as a black carriage approached, its wheels splashing through the muddy streets. The emblem of the Helvig family glinted in the rain-soaked evening. For a moment, nothing happened. But then two men stepped out, dressed in the fine black uniforms of Helvig’s guards. They moved swiftly, grabbing his father without a word and forcing him into the carriage. The door slammed shut, and within moments, the carriage was gone, swallowed by the city’s narrow streets.

For a long time, Sol sat at the window, staring into the empty road. The scene played over and over in his mind, the black carriage, the men in uniforms, the look on his father’s face as they took him away. He was left with a haunting sense of uncertainty, as if something important had just slipped away from him, lost forever. One thing, however, was certain: the carriage had borne the emblem of the Helvig family.

The other children in the temple had witnessed the commotion and, as usual, seized the opportunity to mock Sol. “Look! It’s the mother-killer!” they jeered, laughing at his pain. But Sol’s face remained expressionless, his mind too consumed by the questions that now circled around him.

Later that afternoon, the rain showed no sign of stopping. Sol was still finishing his cleaning duties when suddenly, the city bells tolled. A deep, haunting sound echoed across the valley. Six strikes of the bell. Six tolls meant an execution was about to take place. The atmosphere in the temple shifted instantly. The children, excited at the prospect of witnessing an execution, rushed toward the city center. Black Pearl City was a peaceful place, and executions were rare. For them, it was a once-in-a-lifetime spectacle.

But Sol had no desire to see a man die. He had seen enough suffering in his short life. Death held no fascination for him.

Before he could slip away, one of the caretakers, a man who had always been slightly kinder to Sol grabbed his arm. “You’re coming with me,” he said firmly. “This is something you shouldn’t miss.”

Sol, though unwilling, had no choice but to follow. By the time they reached the city center, rain poured down in heavy sheets. The massive crowd had already gathered, despite the downpour. The wealthy citizens watched from the comfort of their balconies, while the common folk jostled for a better view of the grand execution platform that stood in the heart of the city square. From his spot in the crowd, Sol could just make out the guillotine, its sharp blade gleaming in the storm, but the face of the condemned remained hidden from view.

It didn’t matter to Sol he barely knew anyone in the city. The caretaker dragged him closer to the front, eager for a better view. “Come on, boy,” he said, excitement in his voice. “You don’t want to miss the good part.”

As they reached the front of the crowd, Sol’s breath caught in his throat.

A boy, no older than sixteen, sat upon a high seat of honor, draped in golden robes trimmed with red embroidery. Four men in similar but less ornate attire stood by his side, while the city lord himself Black Pearl’s most powerful figure knelt before the boy, trembling. Sol watched in silence, his face blank as always, but his mind raced with one thought: “So this is power.”

After a brief exchange, the boy flicked his hand dismissively, and the city lord rose sluggishly, his face pale as he addressed the crowd. “The traitor who dared to steal from the young master has been caught and will be executed. Let this be a lesson to all who would dare such treachery!” His voice thundered over the crowd. “Bring out the traitor!”

Two guards emerged, dragging a man whose head was covered by a black sack. They marched him to the guillotine, ripping the sack from his head to reveal his face.

Sol’s heart stopped.

It was his father.

The man blinked in the rain, disoriented and confused. He struggled to stand but was quickly forced down by the guards. Panic filled his eyes as he realized where he was. “No! No, this is a mistake! I didn’t steal anything!” he shouted, his voice trembling with desperation. His words were swallowed by the relentless roar of the crowd.

The city lord paid no heed to his pleas. “Execute him!” he barked, his voice cold and commanding.

The guards, unmoved by the man’s cries, shoved Sol’s father toward the guillotine. His resistance was futile as they forced him into place, the heavy wood creaking beneath his weight. His frantic gaze searched the sea of faces, desperate for someone to intervene, someone to show mercy. But no help came. Then, through the rain and the blur of faces, his eyes found Sol’s.

For the briefest of moments, father and son were connected. Sol’s body stood frozen, his mind in shock. His father’s eyes, once filled with bitter hatred, softened, revealing a flicker of something Sol had never seen before. Was it regret? Fear? Perhaps even the faintest hint of love, lost beneath years of pain and resentment. But the moment passed too quickly, and whatever it was in his father’s gaze, it was gone.

The crowd fell silent as the blade hovered, poised to fall. Sol’s chest tightened, every fiber of his being screaming for him to move, to do something, anything. But his body remained still, numb to the chaos around him.

The guillotine’s blade came down with a sickening thud.

The sound cut through the air, final and brutal. Sol’s father was no more.

The silence that followed was quickly shattered by the eruption of cheers from the crowd. The roar of approval was deafening, their blood lust satisfied. The caretaker beside Sol let out a dark chuckle, shaking his head with grim satisfaction. “Serves the old drunk right,” he muttered, spitting into the dirt.

But Sol remained still. He did not flinch, did not cry. His face was a mask of emptiness, as always. Yet deep within him, something had broken. His father his last, fragile connection to the idea of family was gone. The man who had tormented him, who had abandoned him, but who was still the only link to something Sol had once longed for, had been severed.

In that moment, something in Sol snapped. Not outwardly, but deep within the core of his being. The last vestiges of hope, of love, of humanity everything that had kept him tethered to the world crumbled to dust. The shattered pieces of his heart lay heavy in his chest, and with them, any sense of belonging, of being wanted, vanished entirely.

Sol turned away from the platform, his eyes dead, his heart hollow. The world around him continued to celebrate, but for Sol, nothing remained but the cold emptiness of the rain and the weight of a life forever changed.