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Chapter One: The Unwanted human
"In the shadow of love, the unloved are not forgotten… only buried alive beneath silence."
The city of Draemir shimmered beneath the pale, fading light of dusk. Its white spires, catching the last golden rays, glimmered faintly over the cobblestone streets, reflecting in the crystal waters of the fountains that lined the city squares. Draemir, the Crown of the South in the Kingdom of Vaelthar, was a city of wealth, whispers, and secrets. Its streets bustled with merchants, nobles, and travelers, yet Ashren Vaelren felt none of the life that pulsed around him. Cold shadows clung to him as he pressed along the walls of the Vaelren estate, a place that should have been home, yet for him, had always been a cage.
Tonight, the estate burned brighter than ever. Lanterns swung in the evening breeze, casting pools of golden light over polished marble steps. Velvet banners, black as a moonless night and embroidered with silver flames encircled in silver rings, hung from every balcony. The smell of roasted meats, spiced cakes, and sweet wines permeated the courtyard. Strings and flutes intertwined with laughter and polite chatter, a symphony of wealth and celebration designed to honor one person: Alenya Vaelren, his sister.
She floated among the crowd like a star, her pale violet silk gown embroidered with silver threads catching the lantern light with every delicate step. Her hair, black as midnight, cascaded down her back, shining in the soft glow. Her eyes, deep obsidian pools, reflected the golden lights as she smiled at every compliment, every bow, every whispered praise. She was perfection, radiance, love embodied, and Ashren—standing in the shadows, draped in plain black cloth, invisible—felt the cold weight of his own nothingness pressing upon his chest.
Kael Vaelren, their father, stood on a raised platform at the center of the courtyard. Broad-shouldered, black hair streaked faintly with silver tied neatly behind his head, and eyes sharp as a hawk, he carried the authority of his title—Baron of Draemir—with the ease of a man accustomed to power and cruelty. His crimson robes were embroidered with gold and silver threads, the black flame encircled in silver asserting dominance over the gathered nobles. Crystal goblets in hand, Kael's voice cut through the music effortlessly.
"Tonight," he declared, "we celebrate not only the turning of my daughter's years, but the awakening of her gift—a gift unmatched in our line for centuries!"
Applause erupted, goblets clinked, and the golden light of the lanterns seemed to bend toward Alenya. Ashren's hands clenched at his sides. Every cheer, every smile, every bow was a hammer striking at the hollow chamber of his chest.
Behind Kael, Serenya Vaelren glided, her black hair pinned with jeweled combs, her midnight-blue silk gown adorned with rubies and silver embroidery glimmering under the lanterns. Her eyes, cold and calculating, swept the crowd with precision. Every gesture, every step, was perfection, untouchable and inaccessible to the boy who had once been the center of her fleeting smiles. Ashren remembered the days before his Awakening, when her glance was sometimes warm, when the world hadn't yet measured him by the cruel metric of blood resonance.
But those days were gone.
The night air pressed cold against Ashren's skin as he lingered in the shadows, watching the swirling dances of lantern light and laughter. Alenya's laughter rang like silver bells through the courtyard, every note a reminder that he was nothing—no one. His fists tightened at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to speak, to cry, to call for attention, yet the invisible chains of his childhood held him silent.
He remembered the first days after his Awakening—or rather, the absence of it. Every noble child in Vaelthar carried the potential for Mortal Resonance, the spark of power that linked bloodlines to ancient forces. Some drew from beasts long dead, some from celestial echoes, others from bloodlines steeped in old magic. Ashren had hoped, foolishly, that he might awaken a spark.
Zero.
The number reverberated in his mind like a curse, a bell tolling in an empty church. No resonance, no gift, nothing to mark him as worthy. The knights who had once praised his form now sneered. The maids who had once smiled now gave him orders. And his parents—his mother's disdain sharpened like a blade, his father's eyes colder than winter—focused all their love, all their pride, all their attention on Alenya.
He could still see her smile, the curve of her lips as she accepted compliments, her black eyes bright with delight. She did not see him—not really. He was a shadow behind her radiance, a ghost left to rot in the corners of the Vaelren estate.
That night, as the music and laughter swirled around him, Ashren felt a flicker of resolve ignite. The golden glow of the celebration burned his skin, but also highlighted the paths beyond it. He slipped silently away, down the winding hallways of the estate, past tapestries depicting Vaelren victories and celestial motifs, past the kitchens where the aroma of spiced meat and roasted bread made his stomach churn with both hunger and bitterness.
The outer gates loomed ahead, and for a brief moment, hope blossomed. Perhaps he could vanish, disappear into the streets of Draemir, into the alleys where no one would notice a forgotten boy. Perhaps, somewhere beyond the city, the world would finally see him as something more than nothing.
His boots struck the cobblestones, echoing faintly in the quiet streets beyond the estate. Lanterns swung above the merchants' stalls, casting moving shadows that seemed alive, watching him. The city's corruption was evident everywhere: whispers of bribes, the subtle arrogance of guards, the furtive glances of noble merchants. Ashren's eyes caught a poster nailed crookedly to a wall: "Mortal Resonance Training for Youth—Inquire Within." He shivered. Even here, power was a commodity, and those without it were prey.
Three nights passed. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Cold pierced his bones. Every alley seemed longer than the last, every shadow a possible threat. Yet still, he ran. Still, he hoped.
It was on the third night that the shadow fell.
Rough hands seized him from behind, jerking him into an alleyway too narrow for escape. A cloth gag was thrust into his mouth, the fibers scraping painfully against his teeth. Ropes bound his limbs tightly, cutting circulation. A guttural voice hissed at him in Vashkari, a harsh, clipped language used by human traffickers to coordinate silently.
He struggled. His voice, muffled by the gag, carried only faint protests.
"Quiet, boy," one growled, pressing a hand over his face. "Your beauty will fetch a high price. Value is for others, not you."
Another struck him sharply across the back of the head. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Ashren swallowed bile, tasting copper, yet a spark of fury flared in him. How dare they reduce him to an object, a commodity? How dare this rotten kingdom allow such cruelty?
The traffickers moved swiftly, dragging him through hidden passages, speaking in Vashkari, punctuated with harsh slaps and threats. They mentioned the auction, the Mortal Resonance of others, and the corruption that allowed boys like him to be sold to nobles and criminals alike.
"You will be the final lot," one whispered. "Your face alone will raise more than all the others combined."
Ashren's chest tightened. He was thirteen. Strong, yes. Youthful, yes. But a prize? An object? The thought seared his mind with fear and humiliation.
Hours later, he arrived at the auction hall, a cavernous chamber filled with the scent of incense, sweat, burning candles, and the iron tang of blood. Cages lined the walls, filled with boys and girls, some crying silently, others staring with hollow eyes. Tables held powders, vials of blood, and instruments pulsing faintly with Mortal Resonance. Nobles and criminals alike whispered, exchanged nods, and appraised the items with calculating eyes.
A booming voice rang across the hall: "Welcome to the Auction of Vaelcrys. Here, we deal in Mortal Resonance, rare artifacts, and the finest flesh for those who can pay!"
Ashren was shoved into a cage at the back. One of the traffickers muttered in Vashkari: "Save him for last. He will bring more than the lot combined."
The auction began. Boys, girls, vials, powders, ritual implements. Bidding in Eryth escalated rapidly. Each item seemed grotesque, every price a reminder of how twisted the kingdom had become.
Finally, Ashren's turn. He was dragged forward, inspected. Every detail of his appearance—black hair, black eyes, strong physique—was noted.
"A rare item," a trafficker whispered.
The auctioneer announced: "Lot final: Ashren Vaelren. Thirteen years old. Beautiful, strong. Potential unknown. Highest bidder claims him."
Bidding escalated quickly. Noblewoman. Criminal organization. 50,000… 75,000… 90,000 Eryth. Ashren tried to speak, to plead, to ask what this Mortal Resonance meant—but a blow forced him to bow.
At last, it came down to two: the noblewoman and the criminal organization. With a final gavel, the criminals won. 100,000 Eryth.
Ashren was lifted, bound, gagged, and carried away. Fear, humiliation, and fury churned inside him. Yet beneath it all, a spark of determination ignited. One day, they would remember his name. One day, he would rise.
( The end of first chapter)
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