When I got home, the weight of the night seemed to drain the strength from my bones, leaving me hollowed out, empty in ways I didn't understand. There was a sickness in me, a bitterness, but also an odd emptiness, like something had been taken and left a void. The woman who had always been the one to shelter me, to give me what I needed, now felt more like a stranger. My own mother—the orchestrator of my misery. My mind burned with questions, each one a dagger, but the one that stood out above all was why? Why had she done this to me?
Rage seethed within me, raw and untamed, sharper than the pain of the cuts on my body. It was more than the violence I had inflicted on Warren and his gang—it was the betrayal that cut deeper, the twisted revelation that my mother had set it all in motion. My fists clenched so tight that my nails bit into my palms, the blood rising to the surface. I couldn't stop it. The anger just poured out of me. "You paid them," I hissed, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. "Why?"
She didn't flinch. Her gaze remained steady, unreadable, as if she had expected this, had prepared for it. And that only made my rage burn hotter.
"You came back in one piece. I knew you would," she said, a glimmer of pride in her eye. The coldness in her voice matched the stone-cold look on her face, but there was something else—a recognition, maybe even satisfaction. It made me want to rip her words from the air, make her take them back.
"Why?" I shouted, my voice breaking, the words exploding out of me like a dam breaking. "Why?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she watched me, her eyes calculating, almost tender, like she was looking at something she had created—something she was proud of, even if it hurt. "Remember this rage," she said finally, her voice calm and unshaken. "Use it to fuel your training."
Training? That cold, clinical word. How many times had I heard it from her before? How many nights had I spent enduring such torment? "Why!" I demanded again.
She studied me for a long time, her eyes softer than I'd ever seen them, but still sharp, like a blade in the dark. Her lips curled slightly as she answered, "A mother knows her son."
Her words hit harder than any physical blow. She'd been waiting for this. Waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to finally come to terms with what she had been trying to teach me all along. "How long would it have been before you came to me, ready to change?" she continued, her voice almost wistful, like she was explaining a simple truth. "Your father and I kept you safe and coddled, and that was fine when we had the luxury of safety. But here?" She shook her head, as if the thought itself was laughable. "Here, we don't have the luxury of safety. Here, you learn or you die."
Her words settled over me like a shroud, hollowing me out, as if I were being carved into something else, something hard and unyielding. There was no softness in her—no compassion, no apology. Just cold, calculated logic. But there was also something darker there, something I couldn't quite define. Had she orchestrated all of this? Was our fall her plan from the start? The thought rose in my chest, treacherous, like a snake coiling inside me. I tried to shove it away. No. No, I couldn't believe it.
But the question remained, gnawing at my insides. Had she set it all in motion? Had she sacrificed everything—our wealth, our peace—just to drive me to this point? A part of me wanted to rage against it, to reject it outright, but deep down, I couldn't. Because in the end, she was right. I'd been weak. I'd been coddled, sheltered from the world. I needed to change. And this? This was the only way I knew how.
I could hate her, resent her, but I saw the logic now. I saw the necessity of it all. Her ruthlessness was mine now, branded as deep as any bruise, burned into me through months of silence, of brutality, of training. It wasn't love she had given me—it was a weapon. And I had become that weapon, piece by piece, blow by blow.
"Why didn't you just train me?" I demanded, my voice cracking with something more desperate than I cared to admit. I couldn't understand it. I couldn't.
Her expression softened, but there was nothing tender in her eyes. "Do you think you would have endured the training if you didn't have your rage as fuel? Would you have pushed yourself to the limit if this wasn't your choice? This was the only way for you to understand what you needed to become."
It hit me all at once, a sharp realization. She had known all along. She had made me angry, made me feel betrayed, because it was the only thing that would motivate me to change. To realize that the only way to survive in this world was to become something else. Something cold, something unfeeling.
The weight of her words settled over me like a cold shroud, but at the same time, something darker stirred inside. It wasn't just need anymore—it was hunger. A hunger to become something beyond what I'd lost. To take back control of my life, to become something greater than the sum of my broken parts. And in that moment, I understood. I wanted to learn everything she had to teach me, even if it meant walking this dark path.
"Alright then," I said, my voice steady now, no trace of the boy who had begged for forgiveness left. "I want to learn everything you have to teach."
Her smile didn't soften—it sharpened. There was a glint of pride in her eyes, the same glint I had seen when I first proved myself to her. For the first time in years, I felt as though I truly understood her. A matching smile tugged at my lips, one that I had never allowed myself to wear before. A smile that matched her cold, calculating approval.
The next five years were a relentless cycle of training. It wasn't just about physical strength; she made sure I was sharp in every other way too—money management, business, dealing with people. It was all part of the same cruel education. In time, we climbed out of the muck, rebuilding our lives. We ran a small but profitable business, and we left the moldy old studio behind for a modest home.
Things were going well, or at least they seemed to be. The small venture we'd started had finally gained some footing, and we'd managed to gather a few resources—valuable items that would aid me when I unlocked my class on my fifteenth birthday. Runes, tomes of experience, potions—all stored in a small chest tucked away in the corner of our modest new home.
But as always, life had a way of reminding me that good things don't last.
Without warning, the sky tore open. A rift, like a wound in the very fabric of reality, split the air wide, and from it poured legions of soldiers clad in black, their eyes cold and merciless.