Still in bed with his raging thoughts, Skander faced the ceiling.
"The government promised they'd fix this," Skander mumbled bitterly, clutching the frame tighter. He knew they were liars and this faction was of the rebels but they were still a part of the dominion.
"They said the beasts wouldn't come near us anymore. They said they'd make life better. Liars."
Anger surged through him, hot and fierce, but it didn't last. It never did.
What good was anger when nothing ever changed?
The leaders had promised protection, but they only cared about themselves, living in their grand fortresses while the rest of them suffered.
His mother had been taken for their "greater good," and now he was stuck here, abandoned to this broken life because he and his father had rebelled wrongly at the loss of his mother.
His gaze flicked toward the dark window. Somewhere out there, the beasts were prowling, perhaps killing, terrorizing.
And yet, a small, vengeful thought crept into his mind.
If only I could talk to them. If I could control them, I'd tear that whole government apart. Let them see what it feels like to be helpless, to have everything ripped away and be labelled rebels.
'I would destroy them'
The thought startled him even though it wasn't foreign. He shook his head and sighed, rolling onto his back.
It wasn't like he could do anything. He was just a teenager in a rotting house, in a rotting world.
Clutching the photograph to his chest, Skander closed his eyes, exhaustion finally pulling him under.
But sleep didn't bring peace.
The growls of the beast echoed in his dreams, chasing him through endless woods.
He ran, falling and rising again, his mother's voice calling faintly in the distance but always out of reach.
The music from downstairs thumped through the floorboards, blending with his nightmares until they became one haunting melody of fear and loss.
Skander whimpered in his sleep, gripping the frame tighter as if it were the only anchor keeping him from sinking entirely into the dark.
Morning arrived with a faint golden light seeping through the grimy curtains of Skander's small room.
He woke with a start, the remnants of last night's nightmare still clinging to him.
For a moment, he lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, the muffled sound of his father's escapades bleeding through the walls.
Skander clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. His stomach churned with a familiar mix of disgust and anger, but he shoved it aside.
He had no choice but to deal with it.
Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he rose and trudged to the bathroom.
The cold tile sent a jolt up his spine, but it did little to clear the heavy fog of frustration clouding his mind.
He peeled off his clothes from the night before, grimacing at the dirt and sweat still clinging to his skin.
The shower sputtered to life, the water icy at first, but Skander didn't flinch.
He scrubbed himself thoroughly, determined to erase the grime and fear of last night's encounter in the woods.
The beasts always seem to give up on him whenever they chased him and he wondered why. The memory of the beast's glowing eyes lingered in his mind, but he forced himself to focus on the present.
Once clean, he dressed in his academy uniform—a plain shirt and dark trousers, both slightly worn but still passable.
As he buttoned up his shirt, he could still hear the noises from his father's room.
Skander's fingers curled into fists, but he took a deep breath, pushing the anger down. He couldn't afford to lose control.
He stepped out of his room and made his way to the kitchen. The house reeked of stale alcohol and smoke, the aftermath of his father's nightly indulgences.
Skander wrinkled his nose as he opened the pantry, pulling out whatever he could find to make breakfast.
He worked quickly, frying eggs and toasting bread. He didn't want to linger. Preparing breakfast for his father was an unwritten rule—a necessary precaution.
If he didn't, the man could lash out, and Skander didn't need that kind of chaos today.
Plating the food, he sat at the small, rickety table with his own portion, eating mechanically.
The bread was dry, and the eggs were slightly burnt, but he barely tasted them. His mind was elsewhere, dreading the day ahead.
He didn't want to go to the academy. He hated the whispers, the stares, the constant feeling of being out of place.
But if he wanted to become someone better—if he wanted to rise above the filth of this life—he had no choice.
In Welidings, education was a rare privilege for the poor, and Skander knew he couldn't squander it.
I have to be strong, he told himself, chewing slowly. I have to be wise. One day, I'll make a difference. I'll fix what's broken in this dominion. But for now…
He glanced toward the hallway where his father's door was ajar, laughter spilling out along with the smell of drugs.
His fists clenched again, but he forced himself to stand and grab his bag.
For now, he had to survive.