Hours after his stranger left, Callum was orphaned.

Loss was proving to call out the color in the room as sunlight made itself present. Everything was too vivid for Callum, though, too glaring. He didn't understand how it could be so sunlit out. It should have been overcast. Raining and storming. The heavens ought to have been grieving alongside him at a time like this, but they weren't. Outside, the Coalition's children were basking in the warmth, playing games and yelling happily. Some parents watched them with clasped hands and soft smiles. Life continued to endure, which was maybe the hardest thing for Callum to face.

Callum narrowed his eyes against the brightness and shifted his focus back to who was slipping away before him. Although Harrow was engrossed with Amaya and Gren for the time being. They were all conferring on what would become of the Coalition now. It didn't concern Callum as much as it should have, so he turned his attention to the previous night. To the stranger he'd met in the dark.

There was a rush of regret and longing when he discerned that he'd never learned her name. She never learned his either, though. Perhaps she would feel the same way when she realized this.

Callum had met people like her throughout his life. Fierce and fearful and daring. Doing the wrong things for the right reasons was a prevalent theme in the Coalition. But there was something more about her that called out to him.

Maybe it was the formidable markings on her face. It could have been the color of pearls that made up her hair or the shadows of purple that glinted in her eyes. Her accent had been something Callum had never heard before. Her garbs and adornments didn't appear mundane.

Nothing about her rang familiar, but he felt a sense of . . . soundness when he had been with her. Like they could talk for hours without having to fret over sharing too much. Something told him that, given another chance, they could talk from dusk until dawn without stopping. He wanted to know everything about her.

Distantly though, Callum wondered if he was just lonely. Looking for someone to confide in, perhaps. Maybe she would have listened more if she'd had the time. Maybe he could've listened to her, too.

He shook his mind from that route, and ciphered that her markings were tattoos, though he didn't know how that was. They weren't permitted within the lower districts. Had she originally hailed from one of the top districts? No matter the story of her upbringing, she was now in a district that was lower than his, judging by the fact that she wasn't able to salvage the medicine she needed for her uncle.

Because of this, Callum knew that he would never see her again. She wasn't from his district, which was bad enough, but she wasn't like him at all. She was marked with illegal ink and had a name that Callum never caught. There was no doubt that she'd been concealing weapons beneath her attire and that he had most likely been the only one who'd seen or talked to her. Nobody would believe him if he'd said anything about her. It was fun to dream, though. Distracting.

Until Harrow beckoned Callum from the corner of the room. Gren, someone who held the title of lieutenant and peacekeeper, departed, saying something along the lines of learning how to take care of the Coalition as well as its leaders already do. Amaya followed him and closed the door behind herself, remaining in the hallway. Callum could hear her planting her feet firmly on the ground and the sound of her armor clattering as she folded her arms.

For a long while Harrow didn't say anything. His distracted gaze rested in front of him before finding Callum. A smile took form but pain was evident in the meager motion.

"Callum" he rumbled. He patted the side of the bed, as if urging his stepson to sit, but Callum only stepped closer. The wool blankets against his legs acted as an anchor of sorts.

Memories of Harrow telling Callum to sit down before he learned about his mother's death marched through his mind. If he sat down now, history would be sure to repeat itself.

"We're lucky that we have time. There are things I need to tell you."

Even though Callum knew that this was why everyone else in the room cleared out, hearing the words made his heart sink. He didn't want to listen to anything Harrow had to say. He didn't want to say goodbye after the last words were spoken.

Callum nodded in response.

"We didn't have the chance before."

Harrow spoke slowly and his eyes fell from Callum's. An aching memory took hold of both of their emotions.

"The last time I saw your mother she said 'I will see you on the other side'. It wasn't meant to be the farewell that it turned out to be."

A shaky breath.

"I don't know what lies on the other side, but I do know that I will be watching over you and your brother forevermore. Your mother has already long since been keeping us safe. My place will now be beside her, keeping our children and our Coalition safe, as it always was."

Callum shifted closer to his stepfather, grief blossoming inside him faster now.

Harrow's mien went serious and tender.

"Callum, I know I'm not your birth father, but in my eyes and in my heart, you are my son. I see myself in you, I'm proud of you, and I love you unconditionally."

Callum's mouth went dry. He began to shake his head, squinting as tears threatened to fall. He wanted to utter Harrow's name but he couldn't find his voice. Harrow lifted a hand and Callum took it without hesitating.

"Dad . . ."

"I need you to be strong, Callum. Be strong for Ezran and everyone else who looks up to you. You have it in you. You're capable of more than you know."

Callum merely nodded, focusing on his breathing, counting the seconds of every inhale and exhale.

"I have found true strength, my son. I wish to pass it down to you and Ezran. Callum, do you know what true strength is?"

"What you and Amaya do," Callum replied quietly. "Protecting people who need it. It gives them the strength they need to do the same."

An illustrious visage yielded from Harrow as he nodded, mumbling his agreement. "History is a narrative of strength, as people say. But what they see isn't strength - it is power. True strength is found in vulnerability, forgiveness, and love, Callum."

Harrow squeezed Callum's hand with fleeting strength.

"The purest strength appears as weakness to those who don't know better. For a long time, I didn't know better." He forced a chuckle, though Callum could see that he was using it as a distraction to catch his breath. "You must reject history as a narrative of false strength, and instead have faith that it can be a narrative of love. A narrative of the purest strength. Free yourself and your brother. Create a brighter future. I want you and Ezran to break free from the chains of history and its ideal strength. Can you do that, Callum?"

To say that Callum's mind was whirling would be an understatement. If time could slow only for a moment, he could write down Harrow's words. He could draw what they meant. He could take ink to paper and tell the Coalition their leader's final wish.

But life was not this granting.

Harrow's breathing was growing labored. Outside of the room, Amaya was twisting the doorknob.

"I can, dad." Callum fought to square his shoulders. "I will, for you. For Ezran and our Coalition. I promise."

Harrow died with Amaya at his right hand and Callum at his left. Ezran was not permitted to be present in the room when his father's time finally arrived. Callum willed himself to believe that his younger brother didn't yet know what was happening.

"I do not know how well Ezran remembers Sarai," Harrow had admitted to Callum quietly. "For the betterment or the detriment, he will remember me more than he will remember her. I cannot let him believe that everyone he loves will die. He cannot see me like this. You are each other's strengths now, Callum. He will draw upon you for strength rather than me, because you will be there for him. You will teach him true strength, like I have taught you."

As Harrow's last breath left him, the softest smile crossed his face. Eyes alight, directed upwards, his body untensed. Perhaps Callum was already grief-stricken, but he thought he saw Harrow's lips begin to move. To form a name that began with 's'.

But he would never be sure.

Amaya was the one to announce Harrow's demise to the Coalition, but Callum had taken Ezran aside beforehand. His late leader's words continued to ring in his mind, and Callum knew that he was drawing upon the strength that Harrow had given him as he spoke to Ezran. Once the news had been passed, Callum dwelled on Harrow's definition of strength. The strength that was blinding him. The vulnerability that both brothers would face now, the forgiveness that Ezran would need to find for Harrow, and the love that would somehow continue to prevail.

At the sight of Ezran's lower lip beginning to tremble and his hands following in suit, though, Callum fell to his knees and embraced the boy with no means to let him go. Colors before him blurred and the outlines of shapes melded together.

Ezran didn't seem to have the pith to hang on to Callum. There were tears flooding his eyes but desisting to fall. He wasn't continuously talking, but his voice was quiet and unsure.

"Mom . . ." he said with enough realization to make Callum start to shake.

The eldest brother shook his head in spite of himself, but Ezran went on.

"He's gone. Just like mom."

"No," Callum whispered. While trying to ignore the sobs that racked his body, Callum lost his breath. He couldn't lose himself, he told himself. Like his stranger's uncle, he couldn't let his mind fade away when someone was still depending on him.

"We still have Amaya." Callum parted far enough from Ezran for their eyes to meet. "We still have each other."

Ezran couldn't respond. He shut his eyes and wound his arms around Callum, finding the strength to hold onto him tightly this time.

Lost in their dolor, neither brother was aware of Amaya behind them until she united in their embrace. Callum felt anguish in every one of Amaya's heavy movements. She hugged them tightly, showing no means of letting go. When Callum opened his eyes, he saw grief drawn over his aunt's face.

The type of grief he hadn't seen since his mother's death.

Despite the Coalition's loss of their one of two leaders, Amaya stayed with Callum and Ezran permanently after their father's funeral. She appointed Gren as standing overseer until she returned to her position. Nobody asked when that would be.

Deciding that it wasn't sound for the brothers to be left utterly alone, Amaya moved her belongings into her late sister's dwelling the night of Harrow's death.

In time, Ezran came to believe that their home was void of all that had once made it home, though. Beyond the windows the sun would shine every day, casting its rays to warm the shack and light the colors inside it. Hunters and traders of the Coalition gifted Amaya with enough venison to last months in honor of their fallen leaders' sons. People spoke fondly of Harrow when walking along the gravel roads, not knowing that Callum and Ezran could hear them inside their home. Yet none of this seemed to buffer the family's pain.

The blissful memories that Callum tried to recall only saddened him further. He and Ezran would reminisce when they found that they couldn't sleep. Ezran liked to hear about the day he was born. How he had smiled the moment he saw Sarai's face. How his mother, father, aunt, and brother always argued over who got to hold him. How he had instantly become one of the Coalition's greatest symbols of hope and zeal. Again, it didn't help as much as it should have, but it was something. Distracting. It directed their attention away from their ruling lives.

Ezran and Callum never left each other's sides. Grieving seemed rushed due to the time of year, so they put it on hold. Without having to say it aloud, they could both sense the next threat. It depleted their spirits and shadowed their every thought.

Callum knew he had to draw upon his strength to get Ezran through it.

Because Ezran had already begun sobbing throughout the nights, gasping for breath and digging his nails into his skin to forms of fists. Every twilight Callum would shake him from his sleep and uncurl his fingers to reveal bloody, half-moon imprints in his brother's palms. He would take Ezran in his arms and comb his fingers through his hair as their mother had done so many years ago.

"You're eleven, Ezran," Callum would whisper. "The odds of your names being drawn are slim to none, you know that. There are hundreds of kids in our district and your name has only been applied twice."

But Ezran would only cry harder, the vibrations in the air stirring Amaya from sleep until she walked into their room with an expression Callum could not read. She would sit at the foot of their bed and watch Ezran intently, pity and something else flashing in her eyes. More times than not, she would silence both of the boys by wrapping them up in a hug. They would all fall into a fitful sleep and wake up the next morning with no talk of what had happened throughout the night, for they knew it would happen again after dusk.

"Then why do I only dream of being chosen?" Ezran would cry on other nights. "It's the future Callum, I know it is."

Deep down, Callum knew that this wasn't the case, but the tone in Ezran's voice never failed to make his hair stand on end. Ezran believed that his dreams would really happen - it became more clear every night. And soon it wasn't hard for Callum to believe the same.

"It could be worse," Callum would try to soothe. "They wait until we're at least ten years old before entering us in the reapings. Better than making kids fight to the death at eight or nine like they used to allow."

Ezran never had any response to this.

The boys' aunt would habitually cut in at that point of the one-sided conversation.

We have already had our share of bad luck, Amaya would sign. It is unlikely that your name will be drawn and even more unlikely that our bad luck will continue. You will be safe, Ezran, and so will Callum. I promise you both.