He had one of the darkest childhoods among the cursed children of the Dalma family. While others—Oliver, Elisa, even the quiet ones—had family names to shield them, mothers to hold them, he had no one. His mother died giving birth to him. No one ever cared about him.
The mansion halls were colder than the mountain wind, and he learned early not to cry. Tears meant nothing there. No one came when he wept. No one asked when he bled. He was the invisible child, born cursed like the others, but unwanted even by the curse.
He was four—maybe five—when it happened. The kitchen was empty, just flickers of light from the hearth. His belly burned with hunger, his arms shaking as he reached up toward the breadbasket.
"Almost…" he whispered, stretching his thin fingers.
Then he heard a voice. Light, amused.
"So… you are hungry. Those bastard servants must've neglected you again."
He flinched, bread slipping from his fingers.
