The boys were meant to die. They were Nameless—two of the innumerable souls that roamed the back alleys of Acacia, the great city renowned for its beauty. Though they both knew the pain of living in the cruel shadow of prosperity, their stories could not have been more different.

The older one, 15 years of age, once had a name. Born into nobility, his family boasted a modest estate. The death of his mother to a skirmish between the Forgotten and the city’s Enforcers sent his father into a spiraling melancholy. Gambling, alcohol and extravagance became his crutch, until there was nothing left but the husk of a broken man. Too prideful to accept aid and disgusted by his father's decadence, the boy left to seek retribution for his gentle mother's demise.

The younger, aged 12, had never known loss. For how could one mourn, if they had nothing to lose? He had been thrown into the nearest dumpster upon birth, cast away like so many others by a woman whose touch he would never know. To him, love was merely a fairy tale. It was a story told to keep hands warm during the ruthless winters. "Maybe one day," the boy would murmur to himself, fingering the birthmark on his ear. "No, fool,” he would retort. “Not you.” His purpose was…he had none. He survived, because what else was there to do? Survival or death. These were the only choices available to the Nameless.

On they roved, like driftwood in an endless river. One meandered aimlessly, impelled by the temperamental currents of civilization. The other struggled stubbornly, straining against the currents to pursue revenge. They encountered each other in passing on multiple occasions without so much as a word uttered between them. After all, trust was a commodity too luxurious for drifters.

Slowly but surely, the threads of their lives would come to intertwine. Rebellion came. And with it, change.

*

It had started quietly, long before the boys were born. Whispers and groans of a people buckling under the stifling weight of progress. While Acacia’s nobility tittered and preened, enjoying the lavish benefits of life in the world’s most advanced city, the working class suffered. Long hours, squalid conditions, and endless consumer demand crippled the workers, until they organized. Slowly, quietly. Resentfully. The embers of their rage smoldered on, growing in intensity over the years. They grew bolder with each attempt. Peaceful protests turned into riots. Strikes arose in every sector. Opportunistic miscreants and desperates broke and looted. The Crown responded in force, enacting brutal mass arrests, heavy censure, and banning protests entirely. Curfews were put in place. Offenders were publicly executed. Outraged, the people plotted. The boldest gathered and formed the Forgotten, vowing to eradicate the Crown. The Forgotten moved quickly and efficiently, striking at vital royal depots and murdering high value nobles. Talk of their heroism swept through the streets of Acacia, inspiring new recruits by the hour. The boys saw it in the faces of their fellow Nameless; full of grim purpose, where once there had been only emptiness. They were determined to join, for they knew when and where the next secret recruitment meeting would take place.

The younger, for hope. For the first time, he saw a life where he could truly be alive. It was a life worth fighting for. It was a life worth dying for.

The older, for vengeance. He saw the opportunity to join the group that killed his mother, and intended to destroy them from within.

They would meet three days later.

An event took place that night that would tip Acacia into full-scale civil war. The Forgotten, with help from the inside, snuck into the royal palace and assassinated the Crown Prince. Enraged, the Great King brought down the full might of his Enforcers upon the city, with orders to take no prisoners. The Forgotten fought back with unyielding tenacity, employing guerilla tactics and undermining the Enforcers at every turn. The embers of rebellion blazed into a roaring wildfire that destroyed all in its path. Acacia, bastion of civilization, beacon of opportunity, and mankind's magnum opus, writhed in agony. A stalemate had been reached. The Great King, mad with rage, sent his Enforcers into every corner of the city, weeding out rebels and committing unspeakable war crimes in search of their leader. The Forgotten, like age-old grime on a timeless glass, clung on, striking at the Crown's vital spots with infuriating accuracy. Neither could gain an advantage.

The boys, like many who had yet to take sides, were forced to stay hidden for fear of being identified as the enemy. During those three days, the sky bled orange and red with the fires of war. Men on either side devolved into monsters. Rape. Torture. Murder. All in the name of justice. The boys sought the Forgotten. To the younger, the Forgotten—beasts though they were—represented his only way out of this wretched life. To the older, the atrocities he witnessed served only to strengthen his resolve. They plucked up their courage, stepped out of the safety of their shelters, and braved the horrors of Acacia. It was during these momentous excursions that their paths would finally converge.

*

The older boy spotted him first. A kid, a few years younger than him, running desperately to escape two Forgotten fighters. They caught up to him in three steps, pinning him to the floor. The boy hid, fingering the birthmark on his ear and waiting.

"I want to join!" he heard the kid scream.

"We've got enough useless urchins already," one of the men slurred. "Doubt we'll miss a scrawny one like you."

"I can think of a better use for you, friend." The other man grinned, pawing at the kid's clothes. The boy could smell the foul stench of alcohol and sweat trailing them as he approached them from behind, bricks in both hands. He saw the terror in the kid's eyes and charged, nostrils flared. The first man dropped immediately, his skull caved in from the back. The second wheeled around and lurched toward him, eyes narrowed. The boy stepped back, keeping his distance. He’d fought for his life more times than he could count, and had learned that when fighting a grown man, the element of surprise was his only advantage. Even drunk, the difference in size and weight made them extremely dangerous. Fortunately, he didn't need to worry. The kid kicked him in the knees from behind, buckling him. The man looked up, slow to understand. The boy didn’t hesitate and the man collapsed, confusion lingering on his face. The boy looked at the kid and smirked, offering him a hand. Not so useless after all, eh.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking it. His hand was shaking.

“You got a name?” the boy asked. The kid looked down and shook his head. “Me neither,” he said, grinning. “C’mon. I hear you wanna join the Forgotten, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“They don’t meet 'til sundown, but that doesn’t give us a lot of time. Let’s get moving.”

They moved slowly. The kid, to his credit, wasn’t the one slowing him down. The city was crawling with Enforcers, stopping anything that moved. The boys stayed low, keeping to backstreets and alleyways, climbing tattered buildings, jumping roofs, and crossing main roads only when absolutely necessary. They knew the city like the back of their hands, as did any who found themselves Nameless for long enough. It was hardly a matter of choice. Those who didn’t, died.

On they walked, stopping for nothing, talking to no one—not even each other. With every step, the boy grew fonder of the kid who never complained and always kept up. The kid grew fonder of the boy who saved his life and had no name like him. The pair walked for hours, steadfast, like salmon pressing forward against the raging rapids of a dying society. And dying it was, for by the eve of the third night, the bright crimson of fire and death saturated the sky once more. Exhausted, the pair arrived at the dilapidated bar where the Forgotten were to meet underground. They found a figure waiting for them inside. It was a man, dressed in worker’s garb. Slacks, shirt, jacket. Simple. His hair was tied into a ponytail behind him. But his eyes, that piercing gaze…when he looked at them, it was as though he saw through their very souls. Instinctively, the boy took a step in front of the kid.

The man chuckled. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

“You…what?” The boy said, shaking his head slowly. “We’ve come to—“ he looked around quickly and lowered his voice. “—to join the meeting.”

“So you have. Uncanny that you found each other on your way.”

“What are you talking about? Is the meeting happening here or not?” The boy fiddled with his ear. It was the way the man never seemed to blink, he realized.

“Let’s just go,” the kid whispered behind him, tugging on his sleeve.

“Do not fret. The meeting is indeed being held in this very basement. In…” the man checked his watch. “…exactly 24 minutes. However, we have more important matters to discuss.”

The boy took a step back, grabbing the kid and turning. “Yeah…I think we’ll raincheck on that meeting. Have a nice day, mister.”

“Kylian.”

The boy froze. The kid looked up at him, tugging at his arm more insistently, but the boy did not move. _Impossible_. He turned around slowly. “What did you just say?”

The man approached casually, stopping in front of them. “Kylian.” He turned to the kid. “Kylo.” He bowed to them slightly. “Your father wishes to see the two of you.”