At eighteen, Lorien Vale had grown used to the weight of silence, but that didn't make it any lighter. It clung to him like a second skin, smothering his voice until it barely mattered whether he spoke or not. It wasn't a silence he chose—no, it was the silence forced upon him by the people who were supposed to care, by the ones who should have heard him when he cried out.
He walked through the school gates that morning with his head lowered, already bracing himself. The laughter started before he even reached the courtyard. Ten boys, the ones who had once been his friends, lounged together as if they owned the place. Once, he had been welcome among them. Once, he had thought he belonged. But somewhere along the line, the circle had closed, and he had been pushed outside.
"Look who finally showed up," one of them called, his voice sharp with mockery.
Another smirked. "Took you long enough, Vale. What, afraid your shadow might run away if you came too early?"
The others laughed, a chorus that felt rehearsed, perfected over time.
Lorien forced a weak smile and kept walking. He didn't bother replying. He had learned long ago that words only made things worse. They weren't interested in listening—they only wanted to remind him, again and again, that he didn't belong.
At lunch, it was the same. He carried his tray to their table, hoping that maybe today would be different, that maybe there would be a sliver of space left for him. But as he approached, one of the boys slid his chair deliberately into the gap.
"Sorry, Vale," he said without looking at him. "No room."
The others snickered, eyes gleaming with amusement.
Lorien's stomach twisted, but he nodded like he understood, like it was reasonable, like it didn't matter. He found an empty corner and ate in silence, pretending he couldn't feel their eyes on him, pretending he couldn't hear the muffled laughter.
They didn't hit him. They didn't shove him into lockers or throw punches in dark corners. But sometimes words and laughter were worse. Bruises faded, but silence, rejection, invisibility—those stayed. Those cut deeper.
By the end of the day, Lorien's chest ached from the effort of pretending he didn't care. Every step toward home felt heavy, but home was no sanctuary.
The moment he stepped inside, the sound of his parents' laughter reached him. He paused in the hallway, listening. His younger brother sat in the living room, his parents gathered around him like attendants at court. His father's voice rang out, full of pride.
"Did you see his report? Top of the class, again! That boy is going places."
His mother smiled, brushing a hand through his brother's hair. "Our little prince," she said warmly. "Always shining."
Lorien lingered in the doorway, unseen. It was always the same. His brother was the star, the one who could do no wrong, the one whose every step was celebrated. His achievements were paraded like banners, his presence wrapped in constant affection.
And Lorien? He was the shadow in the corner.
At dinner, the contrast cut sharper than ever. His brother's plate overflowed with the best portions, carefully served by their mother. His father leaned in to ask about his day, to laugh at his jokes, to listen as if every word was gold.
When Lorien's plate was filled, it was last, almost as an afterthought. The scraps left behind. When he spoke, trying to share a little about his own day, his words slipped unnoticed beneath the current of conversation. No one responded. No one even turned to him.
He chewed in silence, his throat tight. He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself he was used to it. But deep down, it mattered more than he wanted to admit. He wanted his father's eyes to light up when he entered the room. He wanted his mother to smile at him the way she smiled at his brother. He wanted someone, anyone, to see him.
That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, Lorien lay awake in his small, dimly lit room. The walls felt close, the silence heavier than ever. He stared at the ceiling, his chest aching in a way he couldn't put into words.
He thought about the ten boys at school, their laughter still echoing in his ears. He thought about his parents' smiles, their voices filled with warmth that never seemed to reach him. He thought about his brother, glowing like a crown jewel while he remained hidden in the dark.
The thought came unbidden, sharp as a knife: Maybe they'd be happier if I wasn't here at all.
He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into his pillow. He hated that thought. He hated how easy it was to believe. But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, it lingered, clinging like a shadow that refused to leave.
All he wanted—was it really so much?—was to be needed. To be loved. To find a place where he wasn't invisible, where he wasn't the shadow trailing behind someone brighter.
His voice broke into the silence, a whisper he barely recognized as his own.
"I just want to belong," he said, his words trembling like a prayer. "I just want someone to see me… just once."
Tears burned his eyes, but he didn't let them fall. He had learned to keep even his sorrow silent, tucked away where no one could mock it.
Yet somewhere beyond the walls of his room, beyond the narrow streets of his small world, something shifted. Something old. Something vast.
Lorien didn't know it then. He couldn't. But his longing, his whispered wish, had not vanished into the empty night. It had been heard.
And though he couldn't see it, the first threads of destiny were already weaving around him, carrying him toward a place where shadows could burn, where loneliness could be transformed, where seven dragons waited to answer the boy who only wanted to be loved.