The night was quiet.
Above them, the full moon hung high—silver and solemn—spilling its soft light across an indigo sky.
Seventeen-year-old Alpha sat still beneath it, gaze fixed upward. Her bright green eyes glimmered faintly, like spring trapped in a distant memory—quiet, warm, and quietly aching. The breeze tugged gently at the ends of her long blonde hair, and her pale pink dress fluttered like cherry blossom petals drifting in slow motion.
A few feet away, Chris lay on the grass, his silver hair catching bits of moonlight. His eyes wandered through the stars, and a soft, content smile played at his lips. It was the kind of smile that carried the weight of both peace and old wounds.
Beside him, Keith sat with his legs crossed, eyes glued to the faraway horizon. He hadn't spoken in a while. His gaze didn't flicker. But inside him, something else stirred.
Alpha's voice broke the stillness—gentle, as if afraid to disturb the fragile quiet around them.
— "Doesn't this weather remind you of something?"
Keith turned his head toward her, while Chris sat up slowly, his voice light:
— "Same moon. Same sky. Same silence… It's been nine years to the day since we met Master Milan."
Keith didn't answer right away. His eyes stayed on the horizon. Then, in a low voice, he said:
— "Yeah... but not the same feeling."
---
Nine Years Ago…
They were just kids. Unnamed. Unwanted. Forgotten by the world.
Chris had been cast out of his home not long after his parents died—another orphan with no one to claim him. His landlord had no patience for charity, and every relative he turned to slammed a door in his face.
That night, the snow fell quietly, blanketing the village in a cold hush. People stayed indoors, fires burning in their hearths.
But not Chris.
He sat alone, curled up near a stone wall, his skin pale as the snow itself. His silver hair hung limp over hollow eyes. He was barely moving. Barely there. Just another shape the snow passed over.
And then… footsteps.
He looked up, expecting to be yelled at. Chased away.
But instead, he saw a boy—maybe a little older—standing with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The boy's voice was calm:
— "You okay?"
Chris tried to stand, embarrassed:
— "Sorry… if I'm bothering your family, I'll leave."
The boy shook his head, smile softening.
— "No family here. I'm a street kid too. Name's Keith."
A beat.
— "Chris," he replied quietly. "Nice to meet you."
Keith extended his hand.
— "I found a back alley. Nothing fancy, but it's warmer than out here. You coming?"
Chris followed him. The alley was damp, narrow—but it blocked the wind. Keith reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumbling piece of bread.
— "Here. It's not much, but it's food."
Chris took it without a word. And ate.
That was how it started.
---
Over the following months, they became inseparable. Chris was quick, light on his feet, always thinking ahead. Keith was sharper—he could read people, predict their next move like flipping through a familiar book. They lived by their own code: no stealing money, no hurting anyone, and never, ever robbing anyone poorer than they were.
But the village was merciless.
The people colder than the weather.
If you tripped, they stepped over you. If you cried, they turned away.
One afternoon, returning from a "mission"—arms full of stolen bread and a wrapped wedge of cheese—they heard crying from a nearby alley.
Screams. Small. Fragile.
They moved in closer.
A man in his fifties was gripping a little girl's arm so tightly it had turned purple. His voice was raw with rage:
— "I told you not to run! You're coming home, you useless brat!"
The girl sobbed:
— "Please! They made me serve him and his wife! Please help me!"
People walked by. No one looked. No one slowed down.
Keith passed the bundle of food to Chris.
— "Hold this. Stay here."
Chris hesitated.
— "Keith—"
One glance from him silenced the protest.
He darted forward, hitting the man's hand away. The girl stumbled free.
— "Chris! Take her and run. Now."
The man roared and threw Keith hard into the wall. Chris froze for a second—but then grabbed the girl and ran.
Keith rose to his feet. His elbow was bleeding. His breath unsteady.
But he launched himself at the man again, punching his nose until blood spilled.
Then the man pulled out a knife.
Keith didn't back down.
The blade sliced into his arm—white-hot pain. But something changed in his eyes. Something feral.
His gaze landed on a plank of wood near the trash—a long board with rusted nails sticking out. He grabbed it.
And he hit him.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Until the man's face was unrecognizable. Until the blood turned the snow beneath them black.
Keith took the knife from the man's limp hand.
And slit his throat.
No words. No cries.
He sat there, staring at the blood like it was ink… or a mirror.
Later, he washed his hands in the stream nearby.
When he returned, Chris was hugging the little girl tightly, trembling.
As soon as they saw him, they ran to him and wrapped their arms around him. Chris didn't speak. Just stared at his friend like he wasn't sure what he was anymore.
But Keith…
He was calm. Still.
He handed the girl a piece of bread.
— "Welcome to the family. I'm Keith. That's Chris."
Her voice trembled.
— "Alpha… my name's Alpha."
Keith smiled.
— "Pretty name. Fits you."
He looked at her gently.
— "What happened?"
Her voice was barely a whisper.
— "I used to live in a big house… I don't remember everything. One day, a guard named Anderson took me, brought me here, and gave me to the Lagin family. They made me their servant. They beat me… starved me. I ran away for a few days. But they found me."
Keith didn't blink.
— "They won't touch you again."
They sat together.
And ate.
For the first time in their lives, the cold didn't feel so sharp.
Something soft had settled between them—fragile, but real. A warmth they didn't have words for.
That night, under a broken roof and a stolen blanket, they slept like children who had finally been seen.
---
A familiar voice called out, pulling them from the past.
It was Master Milan—thirty-four, calm as always—calling them in for dinner, his voice like the last thread tying them to something human