The Ethereal Web

I - The Web calls forth a new hero.

The late afternoon sun covered the orphanage courtyard in warm light, stretching across the stone paths spreading a soft glow on the faces of children running through corridors and gardens. Laughter with hurried footsteps filled the air as they made their way between the halls and corridors, their voices mixing with the distant ringing of church bells.

A gentle spring breeze carried the scent of fresh jasmine flowers, rustling the leaves of an old sycamore tree that stood near the iron gates. Pigeons fluttered along the rooftop, cooing softly as they watched the children below. One pigeon suddenly took flight, its wings flapping as it flew up higher, giving a view of the orphanage from above. The building, old and weathered, sat quietly in the city of Paris with its name carved into the old arch above the entrance —Saint-Croix Orphelinat—these words reminded everyone that this place was more of a limbo than a home.

Below, beyond the courtyard walls, the sounds of the city carried on, snippets of conversations in French, laughter, the loud ding of a bicycle bell, and the low rumble of a passing bus. A man greeted someone with a casual “Bonsoir,” while another voice, quick and impatient, muttered something about being late. A child called for their mother, their words disappearing into the noise of the streets.

But inside these walls, the world felt smaller. A place of waiting. Of uncertainty.

Children came and went, some lucky enough to leave with families who wanted them. Others, like Thomas, simply stayed. Year after year. He had been here for as long as he could remember, moved from a temporal home in a southern city near the Mediterranean Sea, never staying anywhere long enough to belong.

Thomas sat on the edge of the courtyard fountain, his fingers running along the rough, cool stone. The water behind him trickled softly, a steady rhythm that usually calmed him, but not today.

Across from him, an older boy stood with his arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His sharp eyes watched Thomas like a cat playing with its prey. The teasing started like it always did. A low voice, just loud enough for him to hear over the laughter and shouts of the other kids playing nearby “No real last name, no real family. Not even your friends stick long enough around you, do they?” He stiffened, his fingers curling against the stone. And just stared at the ground, willing himself to ignore it, but the words settled in his chest with a heavy weight.

It is not the first time he heard these words, and they always hurt. The boy took a step closer, tilting his head, waiting for a reaction. When Thomas didn’t give him one, the smirk widened.

Then came the shove.

Thomas didn’t think. His body moved on its own. His fist connected hard with the other boy’s face, a sharp crack echoing through the courtyard. The older boy staggered, eyes wide with shock, before lunging at him.

Shouting erupted around them as they crashed to the ground, rolling over the rough stone. Adrenaline surged through Thomas, drowning out everything but the fight. Arms swung, legs kicked, fists clenched tight. He felt the sting of a scrape burning across his cheek, the sharp, metallic taste of blood on his lip. The fight ended as quickly as it began.