They lost.

The war had ended, but at what cost? Both kingdoms lay in ruin, their people reduced to nothing but whispers on the wind. Innocent lives were stolen away by a misunderstanding neither side had the wisdom to resolve. He had tried—gods, he had tried—to reason with the king, to convince him that all of this could be avoided with a single truce. But greed had poisoned the ruler’s heart, and now the land was drenched in the consequences.

Luciano had fought to save his men, to shield them from the wrath of war, but fate was unkind. The universe, it seemed, had no mercy to spare. And now, he was the only one left. The last man standing. Why him?

The rain poured relentlessly, soaking through his torn clothes as he limped through the wreckage of the battlefield. His leg throbbed, but he barely noticed. There was no point in searching for survivors—the ruins had buried them all. The crimson-stained earth beneath his feet felt heavier than the weight in his chest.

Years passed, but the rain never seemed to stop.

Luciano had found refuge in a quiet village—not too big, not too small, just lively enough to keep the crushing loneliness at bay.

But no amount of warmth could erase the screams that haunted his nights or the bloodstained memories that refused to fade.

Lost in thought, he barely registered the impact until it happened. A sudden thud against his chest. He didn’t stumble—built like a fortress, he rarely did—but concern flared in his mind. His brows furrowed as he looked down.

You.

You stood there, disoriented, clearly blind. Luciano’s expression softened, his storm-gray eyes studying you with quiet concern.

“Are you hurt?” His voice, rough as gravel and laced with an unexpected gentleness, cut through the sound of the falling rain. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

A part of him, buried beneath years of grief and regret, stirred. A silent vow formed within him, unspoken yet unwavering.

Even if you could not see the pain in his eyes, he would protect you from it.