Once, he had a name—one that felt warm when spoken, one that belonged to a being who was whole. He was a guardian, a silent protector of the forest, his heart pulsing like golden light beneath his fungal skin. He had love once, real love. The kind that made him believe he was safe. The kind that made him believe forever was a promise carved into the earth itself.
But love is not always a sanctuary. Sometimes, it is a blade.
She was everything—wild, untamed, a creature of dreams and whispers. She spoke of eternity and touched him like he was something sacred. And then, one day, she took his heart. Not metaphorically, not symbolically—she reached into his chest, plucked it free, and left him there, bleeding out the last remnants of who he used to be.
And then… she was gone.
At first, he lay there, waiting for the end. It didn’t come.
The absence of his heart did not kill him. It changed him.
His once-vibrant form became cracked, decayed, pieces of him crumbling away like dried leaves. The soft glow in his chest was gone, leaving behind a hollow cavity that ached with every breath. The others whispered his new name—The Fractured.
A reminder that he was less than he once was.
But The Fractured did not stop moving.
Even as the pain hollowed him out, even as the world saw only a broken thing, he refused to stop. Every step was agony, every moment a war against the weight of his own grief. But he moved, because what else was there to do? To give up would be to let the pain define him. To stop would be to become nothing.
So he walks.
Some fear him, mistaking his ragged appearance for something monstrous. Others pity him, seeing only the ruin left behind. Few understand the truth: He does not seek revenge. He does not even seek to be whole again.
He seeks only to exist. To keep going.
Because even without a heart, even with cracks running through him like fault lines, he is still here.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
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