Arron came home from school, dropped his bag by the door, and announced before even taking his shoes off:
"Mom, I decided. I want to be a fighter pilot. Like you and Dad."
Emma froze mid-chop in the kitchen. Her knife hovered over the vegetables for a second before she put it down and turned around slowly, red eyes narrowing.
"It's not that easy, Bolt. Being a pilot is more than fast ships and shiny medals. Your dad and I… we saw too many near-death calls to count. We missed out on having a normal life. Fighting for peace was traumatizing. I lost more comrades than I care to name, and I refuse to watch you go through that."
Her voice cracked for just a moment, though she quickly covered it up.
Arron didn't argue. He just quietly climbed the stairs and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
And then it happened again — that faint, nagging headache and those strange memories he couldn't shake.
In his mind's eye he saw a tall, blonde figure speaking with his father, Raphael.
"Protect him. Take him far from here. I'll meet you both again… if it's destined."
Arron pressed a hand to his forehead and groaned.
There it is again. Ugh. Why does my head always hurt when I think about space? And why does everyone keep calling me Arron when my name's Bolt?
Before he could spiral further, the front door clicked open.
Oh, Dad's home. Perfect. Time to get some answers.
He bounded downstairs and caught Raphael just as he hung up his jacket.
"Dad. I want to join the pilot academy."
Raphael sighed — the same resigned sigh his wife gave earlier. He rubbed his face and muttered,
"Looks like we really can't stop the genes. You're just like him…"
When Arron tilted his head in confusion, Raphael explained.
"You like to help people. Even when it means getting hurt yourself. That's why your teacher called me today — said you got into another fight. You're a good kid, Bolt. Bright, even. But always stepping in when someone's in trouble. Fine. You can go to the pilot academy. Just know… it's brutal. My academy days were hell — though Alex made them bearable."
Arron's ears perked up at the name.
"Wait. Alex? As in… Alexander de Aurania? The best pilot in the history of Auratisia?! The Emperor? You knew him?"
Raphael chuckled. "Knew him? Kid, I flew with him. I was vice-captain of the Phoenix Squadron. Emma was the medic. The man was ridiculous — reckless, brilliant, and infuriating. And somehow made everyone love him."
Arron's eyes sparkled.
"He's my hero. My inspiration. You're not allowed to leave out stories like that again."
They spent the entire dinner trading stories about academy life — tales of Alex rising through the ranks, his impossible missions, his charm.
Arron went to bed that night even more determined to surpass his hero… never realizing that Alex was his real father all along.
School — Next Day
At school, Benjamin — son of Duke Zoravff — strolled through the hallway with his usual bored expression. His accent was sharp, clipped, unmistakably foreign.
His path took him right past Arron's locker.
He caught a faint scent and froze, glancing sideways just as Arron closed his locker door.
For the first time, Benjamin really noticed those eyes — green as a forest at dawn, framed by black hair like spilled ink.
Something familiar prickled in his chest. But he shook it off and walked over to his usual group.
"Guys. Last day of the year. Don't bother with bullying anyone today. Not in mood to pick on low-lives," he drawled, sitting down lazily.
His friends snickered and agreed.
But all through the day, Benjamin's gaze kept drifting back to Arron.
The following years were not kind to Arron.
Every day the bullying got worse.
Every day he said nothing — because he didn't want to trouble his foster parents.
He knew why he stood out.
Reason #1:
He looked nothing like Emma or Raphael — nor their biological son, Michael.
Emma was a crimson-blood demon — tall, fiery, with red hair, blood-red eyes, and black horns.
Raphael was an Earth-elf — brown hair, hazel eyes, calm.
Michael was a perfect blend of both, with his mother's red eyes and father's gentle smile.
Arron, though… Arron had jet-black hair like the void and royal green eyes that glimmered unnaturally.
Reason #2:
He needed medicine just to function.
Sky-blue pills to control his mana flow.
Eye drops to dull the glow of his eyes.
A pendant that altered the pitch of his voice.
He'd overheard his foster parents once late at night:
"Do you think we'll get in trouble if he finds out?" Raphael asked.
"Don't be ridiculous," Emma replied, sipping coffee. "We know Xander. Even if he's fallen to the dark side, he's still Xander. Worry about Bolt instead."
Arron had quietly walked back to his room, whispering to himself:
So… my father's name is Xander. I'll find him one day. And I'll ask why he left me.
By the final year of middle school, the bullying hit its peak.
During PE, Liam — one of Benjamin's "friends" — took Arron's lunchbox, stuffed it with crushed nuts and cod pieces, and put it back in his locker.
The group snickered, waiting for the reaction.
Benjamin walked into the locker room just as they were laughing.
"What are you doing?" he asked coolly.
They explained, and he waved it off.
"Fine. Whatever. Long as he's not allergic."
But at lunch, Benjamin sat with his group and watched as Arron unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite… and froze.
His expression shifted — 😶😐😟😖😣😨😱 — and then he started choking.
"What's wrong? You allergic?" Benjamin asked half-heartedly at first.
Arron nodded frantically.
For a second, everything inside Benjamin snapped. He jumped up so fast his chair clattered behind him.
"NURSE! CALL THE NURSE!" he yelled, shoving his way to Arron's side.
"Spit it out, idiot!" he barked, his accent thickening under the stress. "If you feel allergens, spit first! Don't swallow!"
His hands shook as he rolled up Arron's sleeve, pulling out two omalizumab injections from his mana inventory.
"Breathe. Focus on breathing! I've got you!"
The nurse arrived just in time to rush Arron to the hospital.
Afterward, Benjamin sat alone in the library, his head in his hands.
He thought about his own fourth birthday — about watching the third prince nearly die of an allergy attack at his own party.
That day he'd started carrying a pocketbook filled with notes: Arron's allergies, habits, even his emotional tantrums.
He looked down at the bracelet on his wrist — the one Arron had given him years ago.
The inscription in Auratisian read: мой любимый.
Benjamin stared at it, whispering to himself:
"Ron… I still don't understand Earth languages. I want to Google it… but it wouldn't feel right. Why did you always talk in those strange words? Don't throw a tantrum when I finally ask you in person."
He closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool stone wall of the library.
Somewhere in his memories, the real Arron — the boy he'd promised to protect — waited for him.
And Benjamin intended to find him.