Blind Faith - Elvyvarine the Divine.

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Arc 1 - Blind Faith
Blind Faith - Elvyvarine the Divine.
Written by - Ellien S. Vorein


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The world was silent — far too silent — painted in black and white.
Moonlight slipped through the window. It was cold — far too cold — and it fell unevenly as it cast its light across her face.

The small girl’s eyes opened within a heartbeat — just snap.
She was shaking; her breath broke into shivers, her body drenched. It was like her sweat was trying to drown her — as if even her own body wanted her to wake up from the nightmare.

And in that dream... she saw him again.
She didn’t know how long it had been since these dreams began.

A man with long silver hair — tall and worn, his frame carved by war and time. His armour clung to him through the chaos; his cloak was in tatters, yet he wore it anyway, his blade dragging through the dust.

Each step seemed to carry the weight of thousands of elephants, despite coming from one man. His triceps looked as though they would burst through the edges of his armour from sheer size. His body, heavily scarred and solid, looked human — yet resembled what people would describe as gods of war.

And that sword —
A dull claymore, its metal rusted and stripped of its shine. Yet just staring into it, you could tell it was sharper than any weapon. The air bent around it out of fear. The ground trembled — not from sound or vibration, but from what it represented.

Every blink she took in that moment brought the man closer — so slow, yet so fast.

“Stop…”

Her voice trembled as if she had seen hell through the dark.

He raised his head. Silver hair glimmered faintly in the black, despite there being no light. And although his eyes carried calmness — like he was in complete zen — the sheer stillness behind them felt final. Just like everything else had after his arrival on that day.

She gasped awake, barely able to breathe.

The bed she slept on was clammy and soaked, yet it clung to her warmth as if it refused to let go. The air around her carried strange scents — metallic and acidic at the same time, so pungent she couldn’t grasp what they were or where they came from. But in her heart, she knew it was fear.

The world seemed to lack colour. The moonlight kissed her skin; her white hair tangled down across her face.
She sat there in silence, frozen — as if encased in ice. Every breath she took was sharp and shallow.

She didn’t even know the name of the man — or who he was. Yet the presence he gave seemed far too real, far too familiar, to ever forget.

Her door opened slowly...



                                                               - - -

The house was dead silent — that kind of silence that made you hear your own organs move around.

Kairo stood by the window.
The red scarlet tie hung loose around his neck — a bright wound against the black suit.

Outside, the wind dragged the last remnants of rain across the fields. The world looked clean again, but it wasn’t.

He could still hear their voices from earlier.

“Abynt.”

The word crawled under his skin — echoing, sticking.

He’d heard it his whole life.
When he was a child. When he was in school. Even in front of his father.

No matter what he did.
No matter how hard he tried to be kind, or tried to be better.

He could wear the same black suit, the same red tie, the same empty expression — and they’d still call him that.

“Abynt…”

He whispered it now, almost testing how it sounded on his own tongue.
It burned — not just with hatred, but something deeper.
It made him sick. Physically, violently ill.

He pulled at the tie. The silk slid free, whispering against his shirt as it came undone.

He looked at it in his hand — smooth, perfect, clean.
Everything he wasn’t to them.

“I talk like them. I dress like them. I breathe like them.”

He clenched the fabric until his knuckles whitened.

“And still... I’m never one of them.”

He dropped the tie onto the table.
The red flared under the dim light, then dulled — just another thing that had lost its meaning.

He looked at his reflection in the glass: silver hair, eyes once blue like the sky yet drained of all their brightness, a faint tremor in his jaw.

“You’ll always call me that anyway.”

His voice cracked softly.

“I’ll stop trying to be what people want me to be. I’m tired.”

He turned away, leaving the tie behind.

The wooden oak hut breathed in the silence he left behind. Dust drifted through the air, catching the faint light like ghosts that refused to settle.
It clung to the walls, to the shelves, to a bed that couldn’t remember the last time it was used — the one his father once slept in.

The air was heavy, filled with the weight of years and the faint ache of memory.
The hut didn’t mourn. It simply waited.

And sometimes, when the wind slipped through the cracks, it almost sounded like laughter —
the kind the hut would never hear again.

*************************************************************

Every breath carried the faint dust of soil and shards of rust.
It clung to his tongue like stardust — dry, metallic — and with each inhale, it felt as though the air itself was seeping into his bloodstream, threading iron through his veins.

The pull-up bar was rough with corrosion, the wooden posts uneven from years of weather. The first touch burned cold; then his palms warmed it — sweat and heat trapped between metal and skin.

Around him, the field was still, frozen like a statue. The last autumn leaves clung to the branches as if they’d forgotten how to fall. When the wind pushed through, a few finally did — tumbling past him, soaking into the mud where grass used to grow.

He pulled once. The frame and bar rattled.
The mud beneath his boots shifted, slick and soft. His back tensed, the fabric of his polished black suit dragging against his shoulders.

Abynt… stay away from him.

The words weren’t new — they’d been spoken a hundred times by a hundred different mouths — but tonight they felt louder.

He recalled his mother’s face — how youthful she looked all those years ago. Back then, he could proudly call her his mother. But now, whenever he thought of her, his stomach turned.

The image that came to mind wasn’t the woman who used to hold him; it was the one who left him and his father behind. The real her. The façade stripped away — cold, selfish… a woman he could only think of with disgust. An absolute fox.

He pulled again. The bar creaked through the air.

That boy’s cursed. Don’t let him near your children. They’ll become ill.

His grip tightened until his forearms burned. The rust ground into his calluses; flakes broke away and stuck to his skin.

My daughter went missing after she spoke to one.
Abynt.
Abynt.

The word ripped through his chest — sharp as nails, slow as guilt, and forever hollow.

The voices overlapped each other, competing to be louder, until they became rhythm — one, two, three — the sound of accusation between each breath.

And then his father’s face flickered through his mind — so vivid it almost hurt. Just the day before, that same hand had been holding Kairo’s. Now it was lifeless, pale, folded across a chest that would never rise again.

The coffin had stolen the warmth that used to fill their small home. It didn’t even feel real. How could it? One moment they were talking; the next, he was gone.

That thought hit harder than the pull-ups ever could.

Somewhere nearby, a small black crow screamed once — sharp, distant — as if trying to call his name but lacking the ability to speak. Then the silence returned, heavier than before.

His father was as strong as a horse.
Now look where he ended up… just like the rest.

His muscles shook. His lungs felt like they were going to collapse. His shirt clung to him, heavy and drenched. The air around him vibrated with the effort; the rack itself trembled as if it couldn’t bear either his emotional or physical weight.

Seven. Eight. Maybe.
He didn’t count. Not like it mattered anymore.

His fingers slipped; he dropped, knees catching the shock. The bar kept swaying behind him, creaking with every gust of wind.

The fallen leaves beneath him stuck to his shoes — red, brown, half-rotten — like old memories that refused to let go.

He turned and channelled all his quiet rage — struck the tree once. The sound was dull; it did no damage to the bark, yet the impact crawled up his arm.

Pain bloomed slowly and deep. He didn’t hit again.

He looked at his hand. Blood welled between his knuckles, mixing with the brown of rust and rain.

His hands reeked of metal and dirty water — the same scent as blood. It stuck to his skin, thick and sour, as if the world wanted him to keep wearing it.

He breathed.
Once. Twice. Maybe three times — he couldn’t recall the moment.

The rain slowed. The last leaves finally let go.

And he couldn’t remember how long it had been, but for a moment, he almost felt like he could breathe.

*******************************************************

Kairo stood before the house and hesitated.
He’d promised himself he’d never come back — not to this place, not to these walls that still smelled like him.

The wooden hut breathed the same as before, that quiet, hollow rhythm — like it had been waiting for someone who would never arrive. Dust danced through the cracks in the door, shimmering faintly when the wind moved past.

He didn’t know how long he stood there — only that the longer he did, the harder it became to separate himself from the air, the silence, the weight of everything he swore to forget.

So he turned away.

He wandered through the empty streets — the kind that only existed after everyone had given up. Near the village square of Lagos, a glass case leaned crooked against the wall, half-covered in dirt.

Inside it sat a katana — the one they used to brag about.

A relic from an old war hero, they said.

“All lies or real,” he muttered. “Doesn’t matter.”

The glass was already cracked, the sign beneath it half-faded — something about honour, sacrifice, and victory. None of it interested him.

He reached through the gap, the glass scraping his sleeve, and lifted the blade.

The handle was wrapped in fabric that peeled away, as if someone had been picking at it in their spare time. The guard was slightly dented, and the edge of the blade — despite being called legendary — was dull, uneven, and painfully ordinary.

The metal had long lost its shine; if you asked it when it last glowed, it wouldn’t know. It looked grey and exhausted, like the village of Lagos itself.

It didn’t even reflect his face — only a faint, blurred outline, sharing the same colour as his hair, as if the sword refused to say yes to him.

He looked at it once — not admiration, not curiosity — just necessity.
It didn’t matter where it came from.
It only mattered that it was his now.

The clouds hung low and heavy, carrying the scent of rust and rain.
The world behind him held its breath — the kind that almost sounded like laughter.

He didn’t look back.