Morning came, but the boy who walked into the kitchen was not the same one who had bled on the library floor the night before.
Ace's father was already at the table, drunk though the sun had barely risen. His mother hovered nearby, her eyes as sharp as knives, waiting for the smallest mistake to cut him down.
It had always been like this.
But today… it felt different.
Ace carried himself straighter. His shoulders, though bruised, no longer sagged beneath invisible chains. His eyes—dark as the void—were sharper, colder. When his father barked his name, Ace didn't flinch.
He looked up. And he stared back.
The silence that followed was thin, tense, like glass about to shatter.
"Do not bow anymore," Orpheus's voice murmured in his mind, low and firm. "Their cruelty is the weapon that forged you. You owe them nothing."
Ace's hand curled around the edge of the table. For the first time in his life, he didn't lower his gaze.
His father slammed his fist against the wood. "What's that look?"
Ace didn't answer. The stare alone was enough.
His mother's lips curved into a sharp smile. "You see it too, don't you? Something's… different." She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. "What changed in you, boy?"
Ace's pulse thundered in his ears, but his voice came out steady. "Nothing."
The lie tasted bitter. His parents weren't fools—they smelled rebellion the way wolves smell blood.
His father lunged across the table, grabbing Ace by the collar. In the past, Ace would have crumpled, too weak to resist. But tonight Orpheus's words echoed in his chest, burning like fire.
Do not bow anymore.
Something inside Ace snapped. His hand shot up, catching his father's wrist mid-swing. The older man's eyes widened—shock, then fury—as Ace held his grip steady, unshaken.
"You…" his father growled. "You dare—"
Ace shoved him back. Not hard enough to harm, but enough to break the illusion of control.
For a moment, the room was silent. His father's chair screeched across the floor as he staggered back. His mother's smile faltered.
And Ace realized he wasn't afraid anymore.
Not of them.
Not of their fists.
Not of their words.
They could beat him. They could starve him. They could try to break him again.
But something far older and stronger had already claimed him.
The dragon inside whispered again, almost pleased.
"Yes. Now you begin to see. Fear is the leash they held you with. Break it, and they will never own you again."
Ace's parents glared at him, suspicion burning in their eyes. They didn't know what had changed, but they could feel it—like a storm on the horizon, rolling closer, impossible to ignore.
And for the first time, Ace wanted them to be afraid.