The Death of a Familia
A long, long time ago, the gods descended to the lower world. The world of their children, seeking excitement, they decided they would live there with their children forever.
They would seal away their divine powers and enjoy life with all the hardships and inconveniences that it shares. They could only offer one thing: their blessing, which gave them the power to fight monsters. Children given this power would become their servants, their familia.
In Orario, two familias reigned above all others: Zeus and Hera.
Their adventurers were unmatched—legends in flesh. For a time, none dared challenge them.
Until three calamities rose from the Dungeon's depths: the Behemoth, the Leviathan, and the One-Eyed Black Dragon.
Together, Zeus and Hera led their champions against the monsters that threatened all of Orario. The first two were defeated after long and terrible battles. But the third…
The dragon was different.
It shattered their armies.
The once-great warriors fell, burned and broken.
If any survived, they were scattered like ashes on the wind.
When Zeus and Hera returned—bloodied, beaten, and grieving—the Guild exiled them. The gods blamed their hubris. The mortals blamed their failure.
The mighty fell, and the world moved on.
Only a few remnants remained: children born of glory now left in silence.
Blake is one such child.
"The weight was all wrong." Blake thought as he lay on his bed staring at the dust-layered sword in the corner of his cramped room.
"The balance is too forward; the hilt is crooked".
His glazed eyes inspected the cheap, but familiar scabbard. His gaze piercing to the sloppy cast steel below. Never chipped or cracked, but delicate like a porcelain club. Fragile and simplistic.
Blake sighed as his eyes shifted back to the ceiling above. He stared at the same wooden knot that had greeted him millions of times before, sharing his thoughts.
The rough-hewn wooden plank for its part listened.
"I remember dad said using a shoddy sword was like a visit to the Pleasure-Quarters. It'll cost you a lot more than the valis you spent."
Blake didn't smile when he remembered that line. He never did.
The sword was untouched—cheap, brittle, unscarred. A lie.
The armor was different.
Half-melted and blackened, dented at the chest like a giant had pressed a finger straight into it.
But it had held.
The steel remained, even after his father's flesh had turned to ash.
Or so he assumed. So, he'd been told.
He remembered how high the sun had risen, how brightly it shined. It almost felt like a betrayal when its golden hue turned amber, dying as the shadows stretched long across the cobbled streets.
He was alone, he remembered that.
But he wasn't afraid.
He'd been thrilled at the thought of playing with the other kids just outside his father's quaint little home on Daedalus Street.
His father had left him alone before.
But he always came back.
And his stories were always worth the wait.
Except it wasn't his father's firm hand that gripped his shoulder to let him know it was time to come in for dinner.
It was a different hand.
Softer. Slower.
A tender, gentler touch—one he hadn't felt since his mother passed.
It was a woman. He didn't know the woman.
She said her name was Astrea and she was beautiful.
He was usually bad with names—but that one stuck with him.
She had kind eyes. The sort that should've made him feel safe.
But her smile…
It shook.
And even as a kid, Blake knew—no one who's happy smiles with quivering lips.
He didn't like to remember the rest.
Astrea had given Blake his father's sword and armor. She wanted him to have what remained, she said he deserved to have it.
She said it was found on the battlefield. Said he was lucky, if you could believe it.
One of the few pieces they could still identify—markings inside the armor, just clear enough to read. One of the few not melted to scrap.
She said the scabbard was found beside his body. She never told Blake his charred skeleton was reaching for it. How could she?
She had brought him to the orphanage after that. He had no other family to take him in. Although, he wasn't the only one to arrive that day.
There were others.
Quiet. Numb. Staring down at scuffed shoes or clinging to broken keepsakes.
Some cried.
Blake didn't.
He remembered the way they looked at him.
Like maybe he was supposed to cry. Like maybe not crying made him different.
It never felt real. How were you supposed to believe what you heard from someone else? I guess some part of him still scoffed at the idea.
He remembers how strong his father was, he remembered watching him train at the Cloud Mansion, home of the Zeus Familia, when no one else could watch him.
He used to sit just beyond the courtyard wall, legs dangling, pretending not to stare while his father practiced.
He like the attention from the female adventures too, they'd always dote on him to his father's agitation.
But he remembered how his father swung his sword, confident, deliberately. Every strike cleaved the air like it was born to be separated.
All of that is gone now. He couldn't replicate it with the shoddy sword he was left behind. He practiced with sticks instead. Even if the women who ran the orphanage scolded him. His technique is the only thing left unmarred. Unchanged.
A quiet knock sounded at his door, breaking him from his haze.
"Blake? Are you in there?" a soft, but stern voice drifted through the cracks of the worn wooden door.
"Yeah, I was taking a nap, sorry. Is it time for dinner?" He quickly stood up, straightening the creases left on his threadbare comforter.
"It was. You didn't come," the voice said from behind the door.
The girl, Mira, walked through the door, gently pushing it open with her shoulder carrying a wooden tray.
Her eyes were a pale, stormy gray—soft in color, but always searching, like they were watching for changes in the wind. Her hair, a shade of ash-blonde or soft brown, was usually tied in a loose braid that rested over one shoulder, wisps always escaping to frame her face no matter how neatly she tried to keep them.
She wasn't particularly tall or fragile—just quietly balanced, like someone used to steady things that felt like they were about to fall apart.
She wore simple clothes: earth-toned dresses or aprons from helping in the kitchens, often dusted with flour or faint streaks of salve. Her hands were worn but clean. She never raised her voice, but she didn't need to. Her words always seemed to land where they were meant to.
To Blake, she was the only thing in that orphanage that didn't feel temporary.
She was older than him, but not by much. Although you wouldn't have guessed it from how mature she acted. She was kind, reliable.
She was one of the children taken in after the Zeus and Hera familias were wiped out, but she had made the orphanage a better home than the one he remembered. Or tried.
He tore his gaze away from the cheap excuse for a sword in the corner to meet her eyes. Warm, but cloudy. With concern, or something else. He could almost feel her sigh when she asked.
"Still thinking about it?" Her question landed flatly, knowing it wouldn't get a response.
She continued regardless.
"You should put it away. At least then you won't see it every day. Anyways, I brought you dinner." She quietly placed the tray on the simple wooden desk next to his bed.
"You should eat it while it's hot."
She turned to leave but lingered. Like she was considering her words and how they might pierce the measured veil around Blake.
"I know you've been planning something…. Just be careful. Please?"
Blake rarely cared to conjure a smile, but one attempted to surface convincingly as he said.
"Don't worry, Mira. I'll be fine. I always am." Her crossed arms and ever so raised smirk challenged his words, but she knew the words weren't hollow. She gave him a final, albeit tired smile, leaving him to his dinner.
He sat down; it was a thin broth with potatoes, seemingly the only thing the orphanage had in abundance, with a dry slice of rye bread. But his eyes drifted to the cloth napkin wrapped on the side of the tray.
He unwrapped it gingerly as he would a sacred relic, finding a weathered but sharp kitchen knife. Mira had always come through.