You Already Won

Tap. Tap.

A sudden, firm rap of Gieventi's cane against Ashantiana's knee broke the conversation's weight.

Ashantiana flinched. "Ow. Giev, really?"

Gieventi didn't even look at her. "Come with me."

"I'm not a recruit, you know."

"No, but you're still useful. And I'm old enough to make demands." She started walking. "I need help with something."

Ashantiana sighed but followed.

She turned to glance back at Selcentra, still laughing mid-story with the kids. "I'll be back in a bit," she started to say—

Gieventi reached out and stopped her with a finger to her arm.

"Don't interrupt her. You'll ruin the rhythm. And the ending."

Ashantiana raised a brow, then shrugged, letting the words hang.

They walked down a narrow stone path that wound behind the orphanage, past worn benches and a broken statue of a sun goddess missing half her face. The moons hung low now, casting the yard in soft silver, the grass swaying with hushes of wind.

Near the back fence, a boy sat alone on the ground.

His white and gold hair was short, matted, and streaked with soot. His clothes were threadbare, knees drawn up to his chest. He didn't move when they approached—only blinked slowly, too tired for fear, too small to be angry.

Ashantiana's heart clenched at the sight.

Gieventi didn't speak. She only motioned for Ashantiana to kneel.

The warrior did, slowly, folding beside the boy.

"Hey," Ashantiana said softly. "It's a little cold out here. You doing alright?"

The boy didn't answer.

She tried again. "My sister's reading a story inside. One of the loud ones with monsters and clever little kids who win."

Still, nothing.

Then, barely a whisper:

"Why was I born… just to die?"

Ashantiana froze.

The boy finally looked at her. His eyes weren't wet. Just empty.

"What did I do?" he asked. "For the gods to hate me?"

Her breath caught.

He looked down at his scraped hands. "What can I do? I don't want to die. But everyone says we will. All of us."

Ashantiana opened her mouth—but nothing came out. The words wouldn't form.

She had faced monsters, crushed outlanders, held the line as her kingdom fell. But this?

This quiet, hopeless child asking the question she had buried in her own heart?

She had no answer.

But Gieventi stepped in.

Her voice was low, measured.

"You were not born to die," she said, crouching beside them both. "You were born to live, for however long the stars allow. That's enough. And that's sacred in itself."

The boy looked at her. She reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

"Do you know what we're having tonight?" she whispered.

He shook his head.

"Late night snacks. Crackers, sweetmilk, fried tubers with pepper oil."

His eyes widened. "But… those are feast foods. That's not allowed at night."

"It is tonight," Gieventi smiled. "Because tonight, we're making a new rule."

The boy blinked. "Just for us?"

"Just for you."

A pause. Then, without another word, he stood and slowly shuffled back toward the orphanage, one shoulder swaying under the weight of weariness—but his steps lighter than before.

Ashantiana watched him disappear through the back door, swallowed by the warmth and laughter inside.

She let out a shaky breath. "You always know what to say."

Gieventi straightened with a grunt. "No. I just know when silence is heavier than truth."

They stood together in the breeze, the moons above them, the city behind them.

And inside, the sound of children waiting for a story to end, and a feast to begin.

"Was that what you needed help with?" Ashantiana asked as they walked. Her arms crossed, voice a touch irritated but mostly tired. "Because if it was, I was completely useless in that endeavor."

Gieventi didn't slow.

"No," she said. "That wasn't it."

Ashantiana frowned but didn't press. They walked side by side, boots crunching through dry leaves scattered across the winding path behind the orphanage. The moonlight glinted off the rooftops as if blessing their slow steps.

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Gieventi spoke again, this time softer. "You've grown."

Ashantiana blinked.

"From a rebellious little brute," Gieventi continued, "who thought screaming at a temple door would get the gods' attention, into a woman who held a kingdom's will together longer than any commander ever had the right to."

Ashantiana snorted. "You used to say it was just pure stubbornness."

Gieventi smiled. "Same thing. You wore it better than most."

Ashantiana glanced sideways. "You also used to say I was going to knock over a shrine or lose my temper and dishonor the legion."

"You still might."

They both chuckled.

Gieventi kept walking. "Your mother was fire. Your father—iron. You were… both. Too much of both, some days."

Ashantiana's expression softened, warmed by the memory.

"I remember when you slapped a hot spoon out of my hand because I called you 'Oiup.'"(Granny)

"You tried to steal from the kitchen while I was praying."

"I was ten dual lunar cycles."

"And you were trying to pocket dumplings for later even after being caught."

Ashantiana laughed. "Selcentra ratted me out five seconds later."

They turned a corner, and the trail opened into a small, moonlit clearing. The lake shimmered, still and silver, surrounded by crumbling willow like trees and the whispers of frogs. The surface mirrored the night sky in perfect clarity.

Ashantiana's eyes lit up.

"Oh—here? You brought me here?"

Gieventi gave a sideways smirk.

Ashantiana chuckled. "This is where you nearly let me drown."

"You were learning."

"I was sinking."

"And then you swam."

Ashantiana stepped to the water's edge, looking down at her reflection. "Swam like a thrashing stabbed Vieel."(creature similar to a eel)

"You made it close enough for me to pull you in. That was proof of your conviction." Gieventi tapped her cane once. "I knew you could do it."

Ashantiana let the memory wrap around her like a warm towel. The fear, the struggle, the burning in her arms—and then the moment her feet finally found the lakebed again.

For once, she didn't argue.

She just looked at Gieventi and asked, "What do you need here?"

Gieventi sat down at the edge of the lake, cane resting across her lap. The willow leaves rustled gently above, their long strands swaying like old hands brushing against memory.

She looked up at the sky, where the moons cast their glow upon the world. Tonight, they moved in just the right alignment, their orbit overlapping for a single shared breath.

"Sit," she said softly, motioning beside her.

Ashantiana did, her armor creaking slightly as she lowered herself to the grass. The lake mirrored the sky perfectly—still, silver, sacred.

"There," Gieventi said, pointing upward.

At first Ashantiana didn't see it.

Then she did.

A line.

Thin, pale, nearly invisible—stretching from horizon to horizon like a crack in heaven. It shimmered with subtle pulses, as if reality itself had been torn and hadn't quite healed.

"What… is that?"

"In this realm," Gieventi said, "on this night, the moons bend the light just so. And you can see it."

"See what?"

"The trail of destruction," she whispered. "The white scar left by the Supreme Family Head, WarSavage. From a campaign thousands of realms away."

Ashantiana's throat tightened.

"Will he come here?!" she choked out, panic twisting in her gut.

Gieventi shook her head. "No, no. That line… that's from eras ago. He's so far away that we're only now seeing the light of his path. Like watching a star die long after it's burned out."

Ashantiana stared in silence.

Then, suddenly—she snapped.

Her voice rose in a bitter, cracked snarl.

"I hate them!" she spat. "I hate the Supreme Families! I hate this entire contest! I hate that our gods abandoned us, that our king is dead, that our allies abandoned us—that we are nothing now! I hate that we keep smiling and pretending and helping children when it doesn't mean anything!"

She stood, pacing now.

"I feel like that boy. Hopeless. Powerless. Like I was born just to watch everything I fought for get crushed under someone else's whim!"

Her breath was ragged. Her hands trembled. She kept talking until she was practically blue in the face, until her knees shook and her throat burned.

Gieventi said nothing.

Not until the silence returned like an old, tired friend.

Then, quietly:

"You should feel that."

Ashantiana turned toward her, chest still heaving.

"That anger," Gieventi continued, "That despair. It's not weakness. It's the echo of a soul that tried to shape something—and is grieving its failure."

Ashantiana dropped to her knees again, hands clenched in the grass.

Gieventi pointed once more to the sky.

"You asked why I brought you here?"

Ashantiana didn't answer.

"That line up there—that isn't a wound made by a man. Or a weapon. It wasn't born from hate or ambition."

She paused.

"It's the byproduct of a being so steeped in purpose, so intertwined with cause and consequence, that he leaves behind a scar on reality simply by existing."

Ashantiana looked up, eyes still wet, but wide now. Quiet.

"We're not fighting people," Gieventi whispered. "Not anymore. Not in this tournament. Not in this age. We are brushing shoulders with concepts. With ancient forces that were never mortal. And what happens to us? What happened to your father, our kingdom, your legacy?"

She turned and looked at her squarely.

"None of it was an attack. It was weather."

Ashantiana stared. Her mouth opened… then closed.

"But weather doesn't ask permission," Gieventi said. "And neither do they."

Before Ashantiana could say a word—before she could argue, protest, breathe—Gieventi kept speaking.

Her voice was softer now. Heavy.

"You want to know how we fight back against things like that?" she gestured again to the sky, to the pale white line etched like a scar in the heavens. "We can't swing swords at concepts. We can't punch fate in the throat. But we can make choices. Small ones. Real ones."

She placed her hand on the top of her cane.

"Even stalling—even living one more day in defiance of what they planned for us… that's a win."

Ashantiana's breath caught.

Gieventi popped the top of her cane. It clicked open with a smooth metallic sound. From within the hollow shaft, she drew a small black vial.

She held it in her hands for a moment. Her fingers trembled.

Then she drank it.

The liquid vanished down her throat in a single motion, and she exhaled deeply, her eyes blinking hard as tears began to fall.

Ashantiana lurched forward. "Giev—what the hell was that?"

But the old woman kept going.

Her voice wavered, but she spoke louder now. Clearer than ever.

"I am Gieventi Xoclug, Keeper of the Hearth Flame, Last Flamecaller of the Dorferan Tallow Order. Once a student of summoning, a friend of warriors, a mother to no one—and yet a mother to so many."

Ashantiana's eyes widened. Her mouth opened in disbelief.

"I stitched this city together after the third quake. I fed it through forty winters. I held screaming babies when their parents didn't come home. I buried more than I saved."

Her voice cracked.

"And I decided tonight would be the end."

Ashantiana took a shaky step forward. "What are you talking about?"

Gieventi turned to her, tears trailing freely now.

"Selcentra… was never supposed to bring you here."

"What?" Ashantiana whispered.

"She was only supposed to say goodbye. To let you have that story. That warmth. That memory. But your sister…" Gieventi smiled through the pain. "She has such a kind heart."

Ashantiana's knees buckled. Her voice cracked. "No."

Gieventi's body trembled slightly as the poison crept deeper, but her eyes remained locked on Ashantiana's.

"We're taking the coward's way out. I know that. But it will be quiet. It will be soft. The children won't scream. They won't burn. They won't be turned into gold—they won't become pieces on a board for gods to gamble with."

Ashantiana's mind reeled. Her hands shook as she grabbed the older woman's shoulders. "No—NO— you can't—Gieventi, what are you saying?! You can't do this!"

She was shaking her now, desperate, voice rising, breaking.

"You don't get to decide this alone! You don't—please—!"

But Gieventi only reached up, weakly brushing a trembling hand along Ashantiana's cheek.

The light was already fading from her eyes.

"I'm proud of you, Ashantiana Zarget."

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"You fought for this land… and were a treasure to meet. I'm sorry… for being selfish. I'm sorry… for not being stronger."

Her breath shuddered.

"But this… was the only way I could defy them."

Her hand fell from Ashantiana's face.

And with one final exhale—

Gieventi Xoclug stilled.

The white line above shimmered faintly in the sky.

And Ashantiana screamed into the night.