He had no name, at least not one his mind could grasp. The faces of the parents who might have given him one were mere shadows, elusive and undefined in his memory. He was just a child, barely weaned, forced to scavenge through heaps of refuse in a desolate dump that had probably once thrived with life. Between the remnants of discarded food and broken possessions, he rummaged for anything that might sustain him. At night, the nameless child found a semblance of solace sleeping within the hollowed carcass of a parent whose name had slipped into the abyss of his mind, often pretending there was warmth to be found there, for at least he was not alone.

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What memories he had were fragments, disjointed flashes of vibrant crimson and echoes of piercing screams that haunted the recesses of his mind. Whatever catastrophic event had marred his existence remained a mystery, shrouded in confusion and fear. He couldn’t recall the love of a mother’s embrace or the safety of a father’s presence. Instead, he vividly remembered the suffocating silence that followed a storm of chaos, the way he instinctively curled himself into a tight ball beneath the debris of fallen structures, waiting, heart racing with terror.

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He remembers how days stretched on in that cramped cocoon, the peeling paint and rusting metal above him offering no comfort. Time lost its meaning as he remained frozen, afraid to move, a small figure hidden away in the shadows until the weight of solitude and hunger grew unbearable. Yet, when the nameless child mustered the courage to creep out from his hiding spot, he found he was utterly alone, the half-eaten carcass of a former parent all that stood to greet him.

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That is, until She appeared.

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Mother Moon.

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She declared her name with a voice that shimmered like silver in the night. Unlike the cold and decaying remnants of his forgotten parent, she radiated warmth—a soft, inviting glow that enveloped him. She was alive. Her embrace did not smell of carrion and iron, but rather something soft and earthy, the scent of cedar and smoke. As she spoke to him, her voice flowed like a lilting lullaby, coaxing the nameless child from the shadows where he had huddled within the cavity of stark bones and decay of his only companion. In her nurturing hold, he felt himself drift away, carried off to a place that felt like safety, somewhere warm—a home.

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She referred to him as her light, her dawn, and then bestowed upon him a name—Daybreak. It was his to hold, filled with the promise of possibilities and fresh beginnings—a brilliant light that stood in stark contrast to the shadows of his dark beginnings.

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Yet, Daybreak did not shine independently at first; instead, he sought refuge within the protective embrace of Mother Moon and Father Sun, falling into the role of their little shadow. It was in this serene twilight that he first discovered a sense of comfort, cradled by their almost divine presence. They appeared content with his reliance, nurturing him as one would a fragile bloom tentatively pushing through the soil, delicate petals unfurling toward the heavens.

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And even as the vibrant glow of Father Sun's initial enthusiasm for Daybreak began to dim, it became increasingly clear that not all within the hallowed halls of the Order of the Rising Sun rejoiced in the arrival of the new child. Where Daybreak revelled in the radiance of seemingly effortless affection, his fellow siblings found themselves eclipsed, drowning in a sea of obscurity. They grappled with an unspoken competition, yearning for a place in the spotlight where affection was cherished like a rare gemstone, and many turned on Daybreak for how easily it came to him.

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In those despairing moments, Mother Moon emerged as Daybreak's steadfast sanctuary. Her radiant presence enveloped him, cradling him in her arms like a soft, silvery cloud. She would bend close, her soothing whispers cascading into his ear like a lullaby, offering him comfort as he wept over the harshness of the world around him. 

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And yet, she did not intervene.

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Perhaps, a child broken, more susceptible to influence, would be far easier to shape into the perfect heir—one Mother Moon could deftly manipulate to serve her own ambitions and desires.

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It was only when Star and Light entered his life that Daybreak truly began to grasp the essence of genuine love—an unconditional warmth that embraced him for who he was, rather than as a mere exchange of favours or obligations. With them, he discovered a radiant connection, a sibling-like bond where giving and receiving danced in perfect harmony. This love sparkled like sunlight on a tranquil sea, contrasting sharply with the burdensome weight in his chest that Mother Moon's affections had always left him grappling with—an ache that felt more like a heavy shroud than a nurturing embrace.

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Though the clashes and jeers from the other children in the Order scraped against his skin like claws, Daybreak no longer faced it alone, navigating the challenges of life hand in hand with the warmth of his family—his Brother Light and Sister Star—by his side.

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Yet, amidst the fantasy of joy, the world continued its slow, relentless decay. The cloudy rivers nearby turned bitter and stagnant, their safety replaced by a murky film that stank of disease and rot. The little remaining prey fled the vanishing sanctuary in search of better havens, leaving behind a meager existence. The cats of the Order of the Rising Sun found themselves in a desperate struggle, competing for what remnants of rotting scraps and insects they could find. Many left in search of Ganymede, desperate to survive, and they were declared heretics in the eyes of their Lord.

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Father Sun promised those remaining salvation. He vowed to raise them from the clutches of inevitable doom, his voice a beacon of hope that resonated with unwavering authority. The felines, loyal and devoted, accepted his words as sacred truth, too afraid or righteous to challenge the wisdom of their God. 

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However, Daybreak, driven by a mix of curiosity and a nagging suspicion, resolved to uncover the true meaning behind Father Sun's eerie proclamations. What he could never have anticipated was the dark revelation lurking beneath the surface: that Sister Star was to be the inaugural tribute to the dark rite of ascension. In a twisted turn of fate, Father Sun intended to wield her as a pawn in a sinister gambit, a living vessel, shrouded in an aura of deceptive sanctity, bringing forth a miasma of death masquerading as salvation—a martyr to a false God.

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Before Sister Star could go forth, she was confronted by Daybreak who begged who to see the insanity behind Father Sun's dream of deliverance. He implored her, knowing full well that should Father Sun hear of his betrayal he'd be branded a heretic. Yet, driven by desperation and deep-seated fear, Daybreak pleaded for a daring escape with Brother Light, Mother Moon, and any others brave enough to join them under the cover of darkness. Together, they could flee into the night, seeking refuge in the fabled city of Ganymede—a supposed sanctuary whispered of only in hushed tones—a place where they might finally escape the death that loomed heavy in the air.

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Daybreak watched as Sister Star's face hardened in contemplation. She held in her paws the key to deliverance—the promise of Father Sun's adoration—knowing it flickered like a candle in the wind, precariously close to being extinguished. 

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And then, in a moment of painful clarity, she released it from her grasp.

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And they ran.

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They dashed through the halls of the Church, hearts pounding, in search of Brother Light. When they found him, confessed what Father Sun was planning, his face contorted with horror, and he swiftly led them to the embrace of Mother Moon. However, unlike the siblings' frantic demeanour, she stood serene and unyielding. Her gaze was steady, for she had always known the depths of Father Sun's intentions—she would willingly embrace her fate and sacrifice everything for Him.

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They were fools for trying to avoid it.

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Yet, deep within her shadowy heart, there flickered a faint ember of mercy—or perhaps it was the mournful plea of Daybreak that tugged at her conscience, as she had always harboured a tenderness for her Little Dawn. Thus, Mother Moon granted them a chance to escape into the velvety embrace of the night, but only on the condition that they journeyed alone. No one else from the Church would be allowed to follow, only the three siblings would be permitted to slip away.

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Daybreak was consumed by horror at the thought of leaving others behind, a tempest of emotions swirling within him. But the devastation etched on Brother Light's face was more than he could bear. He fell before her and begged, voice choked with despair as he implored Mother Moon to set the other children free. Yet she remained an unyielding figure, exuding icy resolve, her mind firmly made. The rest were doomed to die in the name of being saved.

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Daybreak doesn't remember how he and Sister Star managed to coax Brother Light into the escape without defying their mother’s decree. All he could remember was the adrenaline coursing through his veins as they fled into the encroaching darkness, the sacred walls of the Church receding behind them, swallowed whole by the night’s shadows.

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The only home the siblings' had known was gone. Even if they had decided to return one day, that dream was now a hollow one—a ghost town where memories lingered but nothing tangible remained. Together yet profoundly alone, the trio pressed onward. Daybreak, with his optimistic spirit, searched for silver linings amidst the clouds of despair. Brother Light, haunted by the weight of their choices, trembled under the crushing guilt of those they had abandoned to their fate. But Sister Star... Sister Star bore a different burden. She was consumed by remorse but was not as eager to forget. Instead, her heart ached with the regret of betraying Father Sun, of casting aside the destiny that had once defined her.

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She felt like a stranger in her own skin—a shadow of her former self. In his innocence, Daybreak offered her a simple solution: "Be someone else."

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And so, they reinvented themselves as Finnegan, Noctavispa, and Lightless. Though their identities had changed, the scars of their shared past remained, etched deep into their souls, rotting like unhealed wounds. Sister Noctavispa's discontent festered like a storm cloud as they continued their journey, her regret echoing the turmoil inside her heart.

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As time wore on, her frustrations grew more volatile, and one fateful day, Brother Lightless could no longer contain his anguish; he lashed out in a fit of desperation. The emblem of the Order of the Rising Sun, once a cherished token of their home, slipped from Sister Vispa's grasp, shattered beneath Brother Lightless’ fury.

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A mournful wail piercing the air, is what drew Finnegan’s attention, as he had hurried ahead of the bickering siblings to scout the way. He froze as he turned to witness the clash of claws and teeth, the desperation in his voice resonating like a frantic echo as he rushed forward, pleading for them to stop. In the chaos, Vispa’s overwhelming strength led to Finnegan being stuck as he tried to break them apart, her blow sending Finnegan tumbling across the ground until he lay still, a quiet figure in a violent storm.

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In that moment of silence, the siblings' held its breath. It wasn’t until Finnegan’s small frame began to tremble with sobs, his eyes fluttering open to seek their faces, that the lingering tension finally released into the air.

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Vispa was consumed with horror, her face pale with guilt as she frantically rambled for forgiveness. Finn, despite his own pain, rushed to comfort her, urging her it was okay, begging her to stay; even offering his own precious pendant as a symbol of reconciliation, a feeble attempt to mend the fractures of their bond.

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But they were far too broken—three damaged souls adrift in a vast wasteland, clinging to the fragile hope that was each other, yet it wasn’t enough to heal their wounds.

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With silent resolve, Finnegan stood trembling as Sister Noctavispa began to drift away, swallowed by the desolate landscape.

It wasn't until Brother Lightless gently touched him, grounding him to the present, that the reality of Vispa's departure hit him like a cold wave. She was truly gone, leaving behind an aching void. Finnegan remembers the deep, broken sobs that erupted from within him, cradled in Lightless’ embrace, but they could not linger there forever. If they stayed trapped in the desolation, waiting for Vispa’s return, they too would be lost to the wasteland.

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So they forged ahead, two souls in a decaying world, bound for Ganymede, and holding onto the fragile flicker of hope that Sister Noctavispa would one day find her way back to them.