𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 Whispers of Destiny | ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ. 𐙚 ̊⋆

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        "Ha ha! I beat you!" Dante shouted triumphantly, raising his wooden sword high in the air like a knight claiming victory. Grace groaned playfully as she pushed herself off the damp grass, brushing stray strands of chestnut hair from her face. Her tunic clung to her back slightly from the dew, but she didn't care. The two siblings stood in the wide-open meadows just beyond the village of Boboros, where the sky stretched out endlessly and the golden sun peeked through scattered clouds.
        This meadow was their secret escape — a place where laughter replaced burdens and imagination turned them into warriors. With nothing but wooden swords and wild dreams, Grace and Dante spent hours out there nearly every day, pretending to battle monsters, villains, and sometimes even each other. It wasn't about winning. It was about being together.
        Boboros, nestled at the edge of the Tu'lanian forests, was the village they called home. It was small, quiet, and far removed from the chaos of the outer provinces. Grace, at fourteen, was the middle child of three. Her younger brother Dante, just twelve, was full of energy and mischief. And then there was Gene — eighteen, the eldest, and the one Grace avoided whenever she could.
        Everyone else in the village saw Gene as the perfect son, the strong head guard who always wore a confident smile. But Grace knew better. She had seen the way he manipulated people, the choices he made when he thought no one was watching. Grace knew that he didn't deserve that position. Gene had done a lot of bad things to get the position of the head guard and both Dante and Grace knew that. Dante still looked up to him, oblivious to the cracks in Gene's carefully built facade. Grace didn't blame him. He was still young. Still hopeful.
        But Dante? Dante was different. Grace adored him. He was the brother she had always dreamed of — loyal, brave, and sometimes a little strange, but in the best way. The two would often play together, tell each other stories and have make believe fights with wooden swords. Grace would do anything for her younger brother, she would sacrifice her life to protect him if she had to.
        The two of them dreamed of being guards when they got older. They wanted to be able to protect the innocent and fight off the bad.
        Grace always thought Dante was an odd kid, but she loved him, either way. She don't know what she'd do without him. They shared stories under the stars, played until the sun dipped below the trees, and made promises to protect each other, no matter what. Grace would lay down her life for him if she had to. Without him, the world would feel unbearably empty.
        Grace smiled as she picked up her wooden sword, its handle worn smooth from hours of use. "You won't beat me this time!" she declared with mock seriousness, lifting the blade and stepping into a defensive stance. Her hazel eyes twinkled as Dante mirrored her movements, his face set with exaggerated determination.
        They lunged toward each other, wooden swords clacking with practiced rhythm. The meadow echoed with the sound of playful battle cries and bursts of laughter. For a moment, they weren't just village kids — they were future guards, sworn to protect the innocent and defeat evil.
        "I'm gonna win!" Dante yelled, charging at Grace with a wild swing.
        Grace sidestepped and blocked, her movements smooth and practiced. "That's what you think!" she teased, parrying each of his swings with ease.
        The fight lasted several minutes, both of them moving with growing speed and effort, until finally, with a swift twist of her wrist, Grace knocked Dante's sword from his hands. He stumbled backward and landed on the ground with a dramatic thud.
        Grace grinned and pointed her sword at his chest. "You were saying?" she giggled, the tip of her sword bobbing slightly as she tried to hold in her laughter.
        Dante huffed, rolling his eyes as he sat up. "You only won because you're two years older and taller than me."
        Grace smirked, brushing dirt off her pants. "I'm only three inches taller, and it's not that much."
        "It still counts!" Dante shot back, his face scrunching up in protest. Grace laughed, the kind of laugh that came from deep in her chest, the kind that made everything feel right again.
        "Dante! Grace! Dinner's ready!" their mother's voice rang out across the field, carried on the breeze from the little house in the distance.
        Grace turned toward the sound, then extended a hand to her brother. "Come on," she said warmly.
        Dante grabbed her hand and let her pull him to his feet. "Race ya!" he shouted the second he was upright, already sprinting across the field.
        "Hey! I wasn't even ready!" Grace shouted, laughing as she chased after him.
        Their swords were forgotten on the grass, glinting in the sunlight — two symbols of childhood dreams, love, and a bond that nothing could break.

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        The comforting clink of silverware on plates echoed through the dim kitchen as Grace and Dante sat at the table, eating their dinner quietly. The room smelled of roasted vegetables and seasoned meat, though the cracked walls and flickering lantern on the windowsill gave the space a weary, worn feeling — like the house itself had seen too much. Still, it was home.
        Dante happily shoveled mashed potatoes into his mouth, swinging his legs beneath the wooden bench seat. Grace sat beside him, chewing slowly, her thoughts already drifting back to the meadow. She was about to ask Dante what they should train for next — bandits or zombies — when the front door slammed open with a jarring thud.
        An angry groan followed, low and sharp.
        Grace flinched. Dante paused mid-bite.
        "Gene? Is that you?" their mother Maria called from the kitchen doorway, her voice tight with concern.
        "Yeah," came the strained reply.
        Gene strode into the room, boots heavy against the wooden floor. His armor was streaked with dirt and blood, and his gloves dripped with it. Grace's eyes locked onto the fresh gash running across the top of his right cheek. The skin was torn, blood seeping into the collar of his armor and crusting along his jaw. He looked like he'd come straight from a battlefield.
        "Oh my Irene, Gene!" Maria gasped, rushing to his side. She grabbed a clean cloth from the counter and tried to press it to his face. "What happened?! You're bleeding all over!"
        "I'm fine, Mom," Gene muttered, gently placing his bloodied hands on her shoulders to stop her fussing. "Trust me."
        Maria shook her head, lips pressed into a thin line. "Gene Brosna, you are not fine! Your cheek is pouring blood! If it weren't for your father, you wouldn't even be head guard!" she snapped, voice rising with worry and frustration.
        She pushed him firmly into the empty chair across from Grace and Dante. Gene winced slightly as he sat, the leather of his armor creaking.
        "Mom—" Gene began, but Maria cut him off sharply.
        "No. You'll sit there and let me clean this up before it gets infected. Don't you dare argue with me."
        Gene gave in with a tired sigh, nodding silently. Maria turned to rummage through the cupboards, her light blue hair flying wildly as she searched for bandages, her motions frantic and distracted.
        Grace's eyes narrowed as she looked across the table at her older brother. Her fork hovered in midair. Gene might've fooled the village with his bravado and charm, but he didn't fool her. That wound didn't make him noble. It didn't make him a hero. It just made him reckless.
        "What are you looking at?" Gene snapped, catching her stare and shooting a glare her way.
        Grace smirked coldly. "Oh, just admiring that nice new slit on your cheek. Such a shame it wasn't a few inches lower. Maybe over your heart."
        "Grace Brosna!" Maria's voice rang out sharply as she turned back to the table, several bandages in hand. She looked furious. "You will apologize to your brother right now."
        Gene leaned back in his chair, wiping the edge of his mouth with a gloved hand, smirking as he stared Grace down. "I'm still waiting," he said smugly, like he knew she wouldn't do it.
        Grace met his gaze, then turned to her mother, who stood firm with one eyebrow raised. She was silently demanding obedience.
        But Grace just smirked to herself, slowly stood, and slid her half-full plate into the center of the table. "No."
        She turned away calmly, stepping past Gene and swatting the back of his head with her hand as she went.
        "Ow—hey!" Gene hissed, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him.
        "Grace Anne Brosna! Get back here this instant!" Maria shouted as Grace started up the stairs.
        Grace paused at the top of the steps and glanced back. Dante sat still, his mouth full, quietly watching the scene unfold. Gene glared up at her, still rubbing his head, the smirk wiped clean from his face.
        Grace shot him one more mischievous grin, then disappeared down the hall.
        Her room was small and worn, the purple walls chipped and faded in places, but it was hers. A single bed lay tucked in the corner, blanketed in a rich violet quilt she'd stitched herself. A table sat under the window, cluttered with old notebooks, pencils, and a few pressed flowers. A dyed-purple bearskin rug lay at the center of the floor, soft under her feet. Everything about the room screamed her favorite color — a quiet rebellion in a world full of gray.
        Grace grabbed her purple leather satchel and slipped her wooden sword into it. She tossed in a lantern, a piece of bread, and her folded map of the forest. Then she crossed the room and pulled a coiled rope from beneath her bed, securing it to the window frame before tossing it out into the cool evening air.
        She was halfway to climbing out when there was a knock at her bedroom door. Grace froze, heart lurching in her chest. If her mother caught her sneaking out, she'd be grounded for weeks.
        The door creaked open.
        A head of dark blue hair peeked in. "Can I come in?" Dante whispered.
        Grace let out a breath of relief and nodded. He slipped inside, quietly closing the door behind him.
        "What happened back there?" he asked, but then his eyes flicked to the open window, the rope, and the bag in her hands. "Wait... are you sneaking out?"
        Grace didn't answer the first question. Instead, she slung the bag over her shoulder. "I'm heading down to our hideout. You coming?"
        Dante's face lit up, and he nodded eagerly. "Of course!"
        He disappeared into his room, then returned moments later with his blue leather bag, stuffing a few snacks and his own wooden sword inside. Without a word, the two siblings slipped out the window and climbed down the rope together, their feet hitting the ground with barely a sound.
        They ran through the village streets, laughing quietly, their boots tapping on the cobblestones. The wind tugged at their clothes and hair as they disappeared into the trees, toward their secret place.
        Hidden deep within the woods was their hideout — a small, moss-covered clearing surrounded by thick trees and low branches. In the center was a hollow log they used as storage, and a few large rocks formed a crude circle where they'd sit and talk. They had made it theirs — a space untouched by their family, by the village, by Gene.
        Here, they could breathe.
        They spent hours there, talking about guards and monsters, dreams and fears. The stars began to shimmer in the darkening sky, and the trees whispered around them.
        When the shadows grew long and the air turned cold, they headed home, retracing their steps through the forest. Reaching the house, they climbed the rope back into Grace's room, slipping inside undetected.
        Grace dropped her bag by the window and crawled into bed, her limbs sore, her heart still racing. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the glass.
        And as her eyes slowly drifted shut, she thought not of Gene or his smug grin — but of her little brother, her best friend, and the secret place where the world still felt safe.

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