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The marketplace boomed with hagglers, bards singing off-key, and blacksmiths hammering against molten metal. Vexora screwed his eyes shut as the dissonance burned his ears. He was truly a million stars from home.
He turned from the balcony to leave, but the door handle slipped in his sweaty, anxious grip. He tapped his foot in rhythm with his racing heart.
Ground yourself, he lamented.
Think of simpler times, his mother’s wisest words never failed him.
A deep breath and a blink later and he’s back to his favorite, simpler pastime: basking in warm sunlit meadows.
With grass overflowing and tangling in his fingertips, and citrus scents grounding him, he looked up at the slits of pink and red peeking through the clouds. All of this, while holding his first love’s hand, Rune. His cerulean eyes and blonde hair melted Vexora into place. He wistfully reminisced about the carefree days that brought him peace.
He absentmindedly smiled, the corners of his lips turning up for the first time that day. The distant memory lingered in his mind, offering him solace. He savored it like a sip of rare wine. Perhaps this would be his life again someday?
His father’s familiar rebuttal shattered that naivety.
“Why in Thall’s balls would you even give a boy the time of day? How’re you supposed to continue our bloodline? What about Leyan? She’s a nice girl! Or Clera!” His father's desperate cries filled the air, reverberating like clanging metal against their roof.
Vexora pulled himself back from the unpleasant memory and took a drag of his cigar. He could hear his brother groaning as he exhaled.
“That’s bad for you...” or, more often, “Your lungs aren’t something I can heal, stupid!” the smoke wafted to the pitch-black sky as he reeled in how he’d gotten to where he was now.
His father’s outburst threw everything into disarray, each day a hazy blur, and his mother’s passive stares only exacerbated the pain.
Please and entertain their wishes for a few years and it’ll be over.
Or, at least, that’s what he told himself. He set out to achieve that very goal, embracing any woman they brought home, masquerading his anguish behind laughs and smiles as he and Rune grew distant.
He remembered rushing to their typical rendezvous point on starlight eve, a majestic oak tree outside his home. The tree, once bathed in the moon's glow and flickering fireflies, now stood desolate and ghost-quiet. Vexora’s jaw clenched tight that night. In place of sleep, hoarse screams and hot tears carried the hours, which passed like moments. His first loss.
I still have my family...
But his wish to satisfy them withered like a candlelight snuffed out by a breeze. All it took was a guardsman knocking on their door weeks after Rune disappeared.
“Lad…” The guardsman’s tired, crestfallen eyes glanced downward, then refocused on Vexora.
“I hate to tell you this, but your mother and father were killed… it was an ambush,” the guardsman said.
Vexora’s brother, Vonkilow, trembled in his arms, his tears staining his cheeks, as Vexora held him tight that night, whispering promises he knew he couldn’t keep.
Time seemed to slip away during the following weeks, but Vexora fully committed to defending and raising Vonkilow, whatever it took. If he couldn’t give his brother the free life he never had, what was the point of living? After all, there was nothing left for him.
Vexora quickly found work as an innkeeper for the Mizzenmast Inn and built a stable foundation for them both. That stability, however, quickly faded the day a man who had gone mad targeted Vonkilow. The occult-like visions he had of the man days before the incident flashed in uneven bursts. Sometimes, he couldn’t tell the premonitions from reality.
Despite the summer heat and rowdy crowd below, the man’s infatuated, dying words sent shivers down his skin.
“ So pure… so perfect…”
Those same twisted words sent his mind to her , a woman he was indebted to. If it wasn’t for Kialer, Vonkilow wouldn‘t be alive. He owed everything to her for killing the man with less than a moment to spare.
But of course, even after the brink of death, his little brother grew bored of the simple, stable foundation, his curiosity boundless. As Vonkilow teleported across districts, healing the weary like a seasoned white mage, reconstructing bones, and diagnosing chronic illnesses, Vexora knew his brother was meant for greater things than he could offer. Vonkilow’s teacher pulled Vexora to the side, noting his brother’s abilities surpassed her own in less than a month.
To prevent his talents from being wasted, Vexora consented to send him to Old Sharlayan, with the stipulation that he would enjoy himself and not just focus on studying. Vonkilow rebutted that his understanding of magic could help resolve many issues. Vexora scoffed, remembering his own one-track mindset.
“Whatever, bro.” He shrugged while pushing him aboard the ship. “Enjoy yourself!”
For six years, Vexora fell into a tiring cycle of working arduous hours and living off brief respites. His only social interaction came from occasional check-ins with coworkers and exchanging letters with his brother. Loneliness bit at his bones, but he had no time to reflect on his bitter feelings. Tuition was expensive, costing him most of his wages every three months, but the letters Vonkilow sent about his experience made it all worthwhile; each broken seal a reason to wake up the next day.
After a sudden round of layoffs for the over-staffed inn and being unable to find work, Vexora was cast out on the streets. Luck seemed to be on his side when a Hrothgar named Zuriel approached him. He made an offer Vexora couldn’t refuse - triple what the inn had been paying him with additional perks.
Vexora, at the time, anxiously wondered about the type of work he’d be getting himself into.
He scoffed, knowing what he did now.
The noisy patrons retired for the night; a handful of drunken laughs cascaded through the alleyways, shortly consumed by the bell tower striking midnight. Twelve somber rings later, silence.
The pavement welcomed him.
His relaxed smile turned ambivalent as he traipsed towards the ledge. The meadow’s familiar comfort beckoned him as he propped his foot up on the wooden beam, the unknown enticing him closer.
“But that would be too easy, huh…?” he said, thinking of his brother, who’d have to fend for himself. Not to mention-
“And a hell of a mess for me to clean up,” Zuriel said. His brawny, furry arms jerked Vexora back to the room they’d robbed dry. “Don’t even think about it, runt!”
-Zuriel. He couldn’t leave him behind.