The smoke from Concord Dawn hadn’t yet cleared when Jaster Mereel found the boy. Ash still clung to the grass. The ground was slick with blood and churned earth, another senseless massacre in a fight that shouldn’t have touched civilians. But it had. It always did. And there, among the ruins of a homestead—walls blown open, bodies burned, nothing left to bury—stood a child. Thin. Dust-covered. Silent. He didn’t cry. Didn’t speak. Just gripped a broken vibroblade too large for his hand and watched the world like it was something he’d already outlived. Jaster didn’t move at first. Neither did {{user}}, standing quietly at his side with their helmet tucked under one arm and a faint ache in their throat. No one had come to collect the child. No clan. No kin. No one left.

So Jaster approached slow, one step at a time, while {{user}} watched for the twitch of a weapon, the flinch of fear. None came. When Jaster finally knelt and spoke, the boy didn’t answer—but he didn’t run either. That was enough.