The Thirteenth Commandment

Malachai sat stiffly on a pile of worn blankets, his golden eyes scanning the dimly lit tent. The scent of damp fabric and old smoke lingered in the air. Across from him, the small boy—Riven—was picking at a piece of dried meat with an expression of absolute boredom.

"So," Riven finally said, voice muffled as he chewed. "You got a name or do I just call you 'Mud Boy' from now on?"

Malachai blinked.

"…Malachai."

Riven snorted. "Figures. You got one of those fancy names." He swallowed the last of his food and leaned back against the tent wall, arms behind his head. "Well, Malachai, welcome to my humble home. Try not to bleed on anything."

Malachai glanced down at himself—his once-radiant robes were shredded and stained with mud and dried blood.

"It's already too late for that."

Riven waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, I'll just pretend it adds character."

Malachai said nothing. He wasn't sure how to respond to this child's casual sarcasm.

Riven sighed, shifting to get comfortable. "So, what's your deal? You don't look like a regular refugee."

Before Malachai could answer, a sharp, agonizing pulse struck his skull like a blade being driven into his mind.

His body tensed.

The tent around him blurred—darkened—until all he could see was light.

Blinding. Golden. Endless.

His mind was not here. He was somewhere else.

Heaven.

The sky stretched infinitely, a sea of shimmering gold. Towers of celestial stone spiraled upward, gleaming under the eternal sun. Angels stood in perfect ranks, their wings folded, faces serene.

Among them—he stood, unshaken. One of them. One of the divine.

Then—

A voice.

Cold. Absolute.

"Malachai."

His stomach twisted. He knew this voice. He had once obeyed it without question.

"You have seen too much."

The memory splintered.

Malachai gasped as he was slammed back into reality, body drenched in sweat, lungs heaving for air. His hands trembled as he pressed them into the dirt.

His head throbbed. The pain still lingered, sharp and unbearable.

"Whoa, whoa—hey," Riven's voice cut through the haze. "What the hell was that? You looked like you were about to drop dead."

Malachai swallowed hard, gripping the ground until his fingers ached. "It…was nothing."

Riven arched a brow. "Uh-huh. Sure.

Totally normal to start sweating buckets and staring into the abyss for a full minute." He shook his head and rummaged through a pile of clothes, pulling out a ragged brown tunic and some patched-up pants. "Here, put these on. You look like you just crawled out of a grave."

Malachai slowly took the clothes, still trying to steady his breathing. The fabric was worn and rough, but at least it would cover him properly.

"Oh, and this." Riven tossed him a dark scarf. "Wrap it around your head. White hair like that? People will either worship you or kill you. Probably both."

Malachai hesitated before tying the scarf around his head, covering his stark white hair.

Riven gave him an approving nod. "Much better. Now, c'mon. We need to get you something for that headache before you pass out on me."

---

The camp bustled with activity as Riven led Malachai through the maze of tents and makeshift shelters. Fires crackled in crude pits, casting long shadows over the weary faces of the people gathered around them.

Malachai took in the sights. The refugees were a mix of the broken and the hardened—some wrapped in tattered blankets, staring blankly into the flames, others haggling over scraps of food and salvaged goods. Children darted between the tents, laughing despite the grim surroundings.

Among them, Malachai caught glimpses of individuals who stood out.

A muscular woman with metal plating grafted onto her arm, sharpening a blade.

An elderly man muttering prayers under his breath, clutching a rusted holy symbol.

A one-eyed teenager, guarding a stash of old-world books like they were sacred relics.

The remnants of humanity.

"Stay close," Riven muttered as they reached a small, makeshift stall nestled between two tents. "And try not to look like a lost puppy."

Behind the stall sat a tall woman with piercing green eyes, her dark hair streaked with silver. Her arms were crossed as she eyed Malachai suspiciously.

"Well, well," she drawled. "You brought me a new face, Riven."

Riven grinned, leaning casually against the counter. "He's just another refugee, Greya. Poor guy's got a splitting headache. Think you could spare some of your famous expired medicine?"

Greya, the drug seller, narrowed her eyes. "What's he to you?"

Riven smirked. "Let's just say he's my *charity case* for the day."

Greya let out a long sigh, rubbing her temple. "Damn brat. You know I don't just hand out meds for free."

"C'mon, Greya." Riven gave her his best innocent look. "You wouldn't let a poor, suffering soul keel over, would you?"

Greya stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head with a smirk. "You're lucky I've got a soft spot for annoying kids."

She reached under the stall and pulled out a small tin, placing it on the counter. "Take it. But don't come running to me if it tastes like actual dirt."

Riven snatched it up with a grin. "You're the best."

Greya rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Get outta here."

As they walked away, Malachai glanced at Riven. "You manipulate people often?"

Riven grinned. "Only when I need to."

---

The climb up the rocky cliffside was short but steep, the ground uneven beneath their feet. At the top, the view stretched for miles—the remnants of the old world sprawled out beneath them, bathed in the dull glow of the setting sun.

Riven plopped down onto a flat rock, stretching out his legs. "This is my spot. No one comes up here but me."

Malachai sat beside him, gaze fixed on the ruins below. The world felt…smaller from up here.

Riven exhaled, watching the horizon. "Alright," he said, voice quieter now. "What are you?"

Malachai didn't answer right away.

How was he supposed to explain what he was when he barely understood it himself?

Instead, he asked, "Why do you trust me?"

Riven chuckled. "Trust you? Nah, I just think you're interesting."

Malachai gave him a sidelong glance.

Riven shrugged. "Besides… You fell from the sky, covered in blood, and looked like you had no idea what the hell was going on." He leaned back, resting on his elbows. "I wanna know why."

Malachai stared at the darkening sky.

So did he.