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The first chapter : The Unwanted human.
The courtyard of the Vaelren estate glowed under the lanterns' trembling light, spilling gold over polished marble, embroidered banners, and the black-and-silver sigil of the family. Music swelled through the night, flutes and strings dancing with the laughter of nobles. The air was rich with roasted meats, spiced cakes, and sweet wine, a heady perfume of celebration and pride.
Ashren stood at the edge of the courtyard, pressed into shadow, his black hair falling into his eyes. His frame was smaller than most of the children here, and his clothes—plain, serviceable—marked him as lesser, a boy who had no claim to glory. His gaze, dark and hungry, lingered on the center of the celebration, where Alenya moved like a living star among fading candles. Her gown shimmered in pale violet silk, silver embroidery catching the lantern light, hair as dark as midnight cascading down her back, eyes black pools reflecting the pride of a family that had long abandoned him.
The nobles' whispers carried to him.
"A talent unseen in generations."
"The pride of the Vaelrens."
Ashren's jaw clenched. Pride. Love. Warmth. All of it had once belonged to him—or at least, he had believed it might. He had tried. Oh, how he had tried. Hours in the training halls until his fingers bled, nights by candlelight studying the motions of sword and spell, yearning for the spark of Celestial Blood to ignite in his veins. But the Awakening had passed him by. Zero percent. Nothing.
His father, Kael, lifted his glass, eyes sharp and commanding, hair black streaked with silver, the lines of authority etched in every movement. "Tonight," he declared, voice carrying over the music, "we celebrate not only the years of my daughter, but the awakening of her gift—thirty percent Celestial Blood, unmatched in our line."
The applause swelled. Ashren's chest tightened. He swallowed bile and hunger, shame and longing, and remembered his mother, Serenya: black hair, black eyes, dressed in lace and jewels, a smile always reserved for Alenya, never for him.
His sister's laughter, bright and clear, reached him, a cruel melody. Even Alenya, unaware of his gaze, turned her eyes toward a guest, offering a smile that he could not have, a presence he could not claim.
He whispered under his breath, bitter and raw: "I envy her… not her talent. I envy her because she is loved."
Memories came unbidden. Knighthood training, the cruel laughter of those who had once praised him. The maids who had fed him, now shoving him into service. The night Kael had told him, "If you cannot rise, Ashren, you will drag our name into the dirt." The echo of his mother's cold voice, "Uphold our respect, if not our name."
He had learned the truth. Love in the Vaelren house was conditional, bought only with power, and the world beyond Draemir had already begun teaching him the same. Strength was survival. Strength was safety. Strength was everything.
From the edges of the courtyard, he saw hints of the wider world. Whispers among nobles spoke of other kingdoms: the Desert of the Immortal Flame, where mortals devoured fragments of the Dead Sun, risking annihilation or becoming part of the fragments themselves; the Drowned Kingdom, where citizens were half-living, half-dead, summoning spirits from the abyss; the Oathbound Empire, where vows to stars, fire, or even death itself could make a mortal unbreakable. All mortal powers came at a cost—sacrifice, soul, lifespan, memory.
Ashren's eyes, sharp and calculating, caught sight of a young mercenary across the courtyard. Dark tattoos snaked along his arm, faintly glowing—an expensive mark of Mortal Resonance obtained through body sacrifice. He glimpsed a gilded relic on a noble's belt, whispered to consume the soul of its wielder. Blood sacrifices hidden behind veils of perfumed air and laughter. Alchemists borrowing decades from themselves to wield flame. And whispers of Nothingness—the black hole of ultimate power—spoken in awe and fear.
He shivered. In this world, love, peace, and survival required power. Strength was not optional. It was life itself.
Ashren's gaze lingered on the wine glasses clutched in the hands of the nobles, the crimson liquid catching the lantern light and casting a ruby glow on polished marble. He could almost smell the rich aroma of the fermented grapes, mingled with the sharp scent of spiced cakes and roasted meats. The warmth of the liquid in his imagination contrasted with the cold gnawing in his chest, the desire for love and acceptance that had been denied to him.
Alenya laughed, a delicate, clear sound like silver bells, and turned toward a group of visiting nobles. Her gown swayed with her movement, the violet silk shimmering under the golden lantern light. Each thread of the embroidery—woven silver and moonlight—spoke of wealth, care, and attention. Every movement she made was precise and poised, yet natural, as if she had been sculpted to charm the world. Ashren could not help but notice how every smile she gave was returned with warmth, how every nod was met with admiration.
Kael Vaelren raised his glass again, eyes black as onyx, silver streaks catching the lamplight. His broad shoulders and commanding presence radiated authority, and his voice, firm and sonorous, carried over the courtyard. "To my daughter," he declared, "and to the glory she will bring to our house."
The applause rolled through the courtyard like a tide, and Ashren felt his stomach twist. He clenched his fists so hard that the knuckles ached, a physical echo of the internal storm. In that moment, he remembered the first time he had trained with the knights, the way their smiles had turned to laughter when he failed a simple sparring form. The sting of rejection was sharp even now, years later, a constant reminder that in this house, in this world, love was given only to the powerful.
Serenya, his mother, stood near the high table, her black hair cascading over jewels that glimmered like frozen stars. Her eyes, also dark as onyx, flicked across the crowd, always attentive to Alenya, never to him. Her delicate hands lifted a glass, the crimson wine swirling, and she toasted quietly to her daughter's success. Ashren noted the curve of her lips, the subtle gleam of pride reserved only for one child.
He remembered the nights spent in candlelit study, hands blistered, eyes straining to memorize the motions of spells he could never fully awaken. Every failure had been a lesson in solitude, every success unnoticed. He had trained his body until his muscles screamed, until his fingers split from the sword hilt, until exhaustion became a second skin. And still, the Awakening had not come. Zero percent.
The bitterness of it clung to him like a shadow. He tasted it now, sharper than the imagined wine, heavier than the aromas of roasted meats. The world had shown him early that love was conditional, peace was fragile, and only strength commanded attention.
From the edges of the crowd, he observed more than just faces. The banners swaying in the breeze carried the black flame encased in silver, a reminder of the Vaelren legacy. The lanterns, hanging low from carved stone pillars, flickered and danced, their golden light catching the edges of crystal goblets, the folds of noble gowns, and the polished shoes of visiting dignitaries. The courtyard itself seemed alive, the shadows stretching long and threatening toward him, marking the boundary between him and the warmth he craved.
He noticed the subtle display of Mortal Resonance among the nobles. A young mercenary's arm bore tattoos that glowed faintly in the lantern light, a mark of body sacrifices. A noblewoman's pendant, a relic of old power, shimmered unnaturally, whispering of the souls it consumed. Across the courtyard, a whispered conversation spoke of a blood ritual, a gift of unnatural strength at a terrible cost. Even the youngest children in the gathering seemed to carry hints of latent power, a reminder that the world rewarded the strong and punished the weak.
Ashren's thoughts drifted to Alenya again. She was the favored one, the daughter who awakened thirty percent Celestial Blood, carrying the mark of a specific god's domain. Power and love intertwined for her, a combination he had never known. And yet, beneath her smile, beneath the applause, he felt the stirrings of something he would one day claim for himself: not just survival, but recognition, influence, and the right to command respect.
He shifted slightly, feeling the rough fabric of his own tunic against his skin, a constant reminder of his position. Plain, serviceable, unnoticed. He longed to wear silk like Alenya, to have the threads of wealth brush his shoulders, but more than that, he longed for the warmth of genuine acknowledgment. Even a nod, a word, a glance of pride would have sufficed.
But the courtyard offered none. Only shadows, only the bitter taste of absence. He could almost hear the whispers of the world beyond Draemir—the Desert of the Immortal Flame in the Dominion, where mortals devoured fragments of the Dead Sun, risking death for strength; the Drowned Kingdom, where half-living citizens summoned spirits to command the dead; the Oathbound Empire, where vows to fire, lightning, or even death itself could make one unbreakable. All power came at a cost, and all power commanded respect and fear.
He clenched his fists again, imagining the sharp sting of tattooed flesh, the weight of relics that consumed the soul, the slow rot of blood sacrifices, the years drained by alchemists, and the terrifying possibilities of Nothingness—the black void that could rival even the gods if wielded by a genius. He swallowed the tight knot in his throat and whispered, "If I want love, if I want peace… I must be strong enough to protect it."
The realization settled deep in his bones like iron. Love was not freely given, attention not granted lightly, and safety never guaranteed. The world had shown him this truth in cruel, unyielding detail. And Ashren, though small and overlooked now, felt the first flicker of a determination that would not be broken by words or blows: he would endure, he would rise, and he would claim the power the world demanded he have.
Ashren shifted against the cool shadowed wall of the courtyard, watching the nobles' laughter drift through the air like smoke he could never touch. He remembered a night many years ago, when he had first felt the weight of being less than.
"Focus, boy!" one of the knights had barked, black leather armor creaking as he circled Ashren. The boy's small frame had barely managed the stance, his sword shaking in his hands.
"I—I am trying, sir!" Ashren had stammered, breath ragged, knuckles raw.
The knight's dark eyes narrowed. "Trying is worthless. Zero percent Celestial Blood. You are nothing. Do you want to bring shame to your house?"
Ashren swallowed, the taste of bile sharp in his mouth. "N-no, sir."
Kael's voice, still deep and authoritative, cut through the cold hall:
"You hear him, Ashren? The world has no room for those who falter. If you cannot rise, you will drag our name into the dirt. Do something… or cease to be my son."
He had looked up, desperate, hoping—anywhere—for a hint of softness. None came. Only the black hair of his father, the piercing onyx gaze that measured his failure.
Serenya had been no kinder. She had stood nearby, black hair gleaming, jewels glinting, arms folded like the walls of a fortress. "Baroness," she had instructed herself, as if correcting him silently. "If you cannot uphold our name, at least uphold respect."
Her eyes had flicked to Alenya then, and Ashren had seen the warmth, the pride, the approval poured into his sister like water into a vessel he could never fill. Even at six, he had understood: he was invisible to those who mattered.
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Years of such lessons had forged him into something both delicate and sharp. In private, he had trained tirelessly. His small body moved with precision beyond his years, memorizing forms, controlling breathing, feeling muscles scream and refusing to heed them. He had poured over texts by candlelight, learning histories, magical theory, and the mechanics of Mortal Resonance.
He had learned, in the courtyard, from overheard whispers, the way the world measured worth:
Tattoos, earned through body sacrifices, glowed with lethal beauty.
Relics devoured the soul of whoever wielded them.
Blood sacrifices rot the inside of one's body.
Alchemists lent power for life, draining years in moments.
And Nothingness—the void—waited for geniuses who could risk their memory for godlike power.
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Now, standing in the courtyard, he felt the same lesson replay: the world would only care for you if you were strong. Strong enough to protect yourself. Strong enough to make people fear, respect, or desire what you possessed. Love, he realized, was never free—it had a price that could only be paid with strength, survival, and mastery of one's own body and mind.
A laugh broke through his thoughts. Alenya had turned toward a noble in a velvet tunic, her black hair swaying, eyes sparkling. "Oh, Lord Marvens," she said, tilting her head, "you flatter me too much."
Ashren's chest tightened. He wanted to speak, to reach her, to say I exist, see me, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he clenched his fists, feeling the rough seam of his tunic dig into his skin.
From the shadows, a servant offered a goblet of wine. The deep crimson swirled hypnotically, catching the light. Ashren imagined its taste—rich, sweet, with a bite of tannin—but he did not drink. His lips were dry from years of unspoken words, from hunger that went beyond the body, reaching into the soul.
A guest whispered in Vashkari, the language of Draemir, smooth and sharp:
"The boy is quiet, but they say his mind is sharper than the heir's."
The words pricked at him. Sharper, perhaps, yes—but invisible, untouchable, overlooked. Strength was not in cleverness alone. Strength was in what others recognized.
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Later, when the music swelled and Alenya's father raised his glass again, Ashren allowed himself a small, silent vow:
I will be seen. I will be feared. I will be loved—not because they pity me, but because I am strong enough to deserve it.
The music of the courtyard still hummed faintly in his ears as Ashren slipped through a narrow side gate, pressed to the shadows. The warm glow of lanterns faded behind him, replaced by the jagged shapes of rooftops and alleys steeped in darkness. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum of fear and defiance. The city that had raised him, that had ignored him, that had mocked him with the laughter of nobles and the warmth of a family that did not love him—he was leaving it all behind.
"Stop… stop running, boy!" a distant shout echoed from a watchman's tower, but the words were swallowed by the night. Ashren's feet moved quickly over cobblestones slick with the evening dew, muscles burning from exertion. Every shadow seemed to reach for him, every alley a potential trap. Yet he ran. He ran not just from the estate, but from years of neglect, humiliation, and emptiness.
He remembered the nights when Kael's voice had been like iron:
"You are nothing without your awakening, Ashren. Do you wish to shame our name?"
And his mother's coldly polished words:
"Baroness, uphold our respect if not our name."
Even now, years later, their echoes rang louder than the distant laughter and music. They had given him no choice but to endure, to learn that survival required cunning, speed, and a heart armored against love and disappointment.
---
The alleys twisted and narrowed. Ashren ducked beneath overhanging balconies, slipping past the shadows of merchants packing their stalls for the night. He could smell bread cooling on windowsills, wine fermenting in barrels, and the faint, acrid scent of smoke from a nearby hearth. Each smell was a reminder of a life that existed outside the walls of the Vaelren estate—a life that might hold warmth if he could survive to reach it.
A figure emerged ahead, stepping into his path. Rough hands, a ragged hood, and eyes that gleamed with malicious intent.
"You shouldn't be out here, boy," the man said in Vashkari, the city's language that cut like a whip in Ashren's ears. "Are you lost? Or running from someone?"
Ashren's stomach knotted, but he kept moving, voice low, trembling with both fear and fury:
"I'm… I'm just passing through."
The man stepped closer, a grin exposing teeth yellowed with rot. "Passing through? In Draemir at night? There's coin in you, boy. The kind of coin that sells high."
Ashren's mind raced. Human traffickers. They smelled him already—his youth, his looks, the value in his untouched body. He darted to the side, knocking over a crate with a crash that echoed off the stone walls. The man cursed, shouting, "Stop him!"
The chase twisted through the narrow streets. Ashren's breath burned in his chest; his legs ached. He thought of his parents' indifference, of Alenya's laughter, of every moment he had been invisible. Rage and desperation fused into a single, driving force. He could not fail—not now, not when survival was the only proof of worth he had ever known.
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Hours passed. He leapt across rooftops, slid down fire escapes, and finally reached the outskirts of Draemir. The city lights were a dim smear against the horizon, the noise fading to nothing but the whispering wind and the pounding of his heart. He stumbled into the hills, darkness pressing close. Hunger clawed at his stomach, exhaustion weighed on his muscles, yet he did not stop.
Three nights he ran. Three nights he avoided the roads, the villages, the patrolling guards. He survived on stolen fruit, water from trickling streams, the faint scraps of humanity left in the wilderness. But the world was cruel and patient. And the humans hunting him were relentless.
On the third night, as he descended a narrow mountain pass, rough hands seized him. He struggled, but the ropes bit into his wrists, and a coarse sack was thrown over his head.
"Quiet," a guttural voice hissed in Vashkari, teeth bared in a grin. "You'll fetch a good price."
Ashren's mind raced even as darkness swallowed him. They knew his value—not for skill, not for power, not for love, but for the way his youth, appearance, and potential could be sold. His black hair and striking onyx eyes would draw the attention of nobles, collectors, and criminal organizations. And they would profit while he became nothing more than a commodity.
The cold, rough fabric of the sack rubbed against his face, his heart hammering. He could hear the murmurs of others in the distance—human voices, chains, metal doors. This was only the beginning. The auction awaited.
And yet, even in this darkness, a spark remained. A small, fierce thought: I will survive. I will be stronger than they expect. I will be seen.
The wagon rattled along the rough mountain road, every jolt pressing Ashren further into the coarse rope bindings. The sack over his head kept the night and the moonlight away, but it did nothing to drown the chatter of his captors.
"He's young," one man said in Vashkari, voice low, almost reverent, though edged with greed. "Eyes black as obsidian, hair like midnight silk. The kind of boy nobles pay for—twice as much if he's pure."
The other spat on the ground, teeth yellow in the dim lantern glow. "Pure or not, he's a mortal. His Awakening is… irrelevant. You see that kind of face, that body? We sell him as toy, as fighter, or—" He laughed, sharp, cruel. "As sacrifice. Whatever the buyer wants."
Ashren's stomach twisted. Toy. Fighter. Sacrifice. He had imagined being seen, being valued, but never like this. Not as a commodity for someone else's whims. The realization gnawed at his chest, each heartbeat a drum of panic.
"Do you think he'll survive the trip?" the first man asked, and the second shook his head.
"He will. A boy this young is pliable, easier to keep quiet. If he resists… a few hits, that's all it takes. Don't look at his face too long though—too handsome, and he fetches a higher price."
Ashren swallowed the bitter taste of fear. Hands bound, body bruised, he realized the truth: his looks, his youth, his very existence had become currency in a kingdom rotten from the inside. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but the words caught in his throat.
---
The wagon finally rattled to a stop. Ashren was dragged out, knees scraping against stone, and thrown roughly into a dark hall. The smell hit him first—sour wine, sweat, burnt oils, and the faint coppery tang of blood. The room was enormous, lined with cages and elevated platforms. Objects of power—relics, faintly glowing tattoos on bound fighters, cages of children, and other mortals—cluttered every corner. Candles flickered on high beams, casting shadows that moved like dark fingers across the walls.
A man at a raised platform, dressed in black and gold, clapped his hands together. His voice echoed, polished yet cruel:
"Welcome to the auction. Tonight, you will see rare commodities, items of power, and living treasures. Place your bids wisely."
Traffickers guided Ashren forward, exposing him slowly to the crowd. Whispers ran through the hall. Many bidders wore the garb of nobles, some the rough leathers of criminal organizations. Their eyes measured, appraised, and whispered.
One bidder, a well-dressed woman, leaned toward her companion. "The boy is exquisite. Look at his hair, his eyes… the body of a young fighter. Only thirteen, yet he carries himself like one who knows his place."
A grizzled man in a cloak, representing a criminal syndicate, scoffed. "Place? He's property. Beautiful property, yes, but property nonetheless. In this kingdom, all that glitters has a price—and this one is worth every coin."
Ashren could hear the murmurs, every word slicing him with the knowledge that the world cared for him only as a commodity, nothing more.
---
One of the traffickers leaned close and spoke in Vashkari, translating to Ashren's mind:
"You see the way they talk? They aren't fools. They know this kingdom is rotten. Nobles who smile in daylight sell children in the shadows. Lords who boast of honor eat power from the weak. Every corner of Vaelthar has its price, and you, boy, are very valuable."
Ashren wanted to speak, to demand answers. "Why… why would anyone want me?" His voice cracked, barely a whisper.
The man chuckled, sharp and cruel. "Why? You are the perfect item. Youth, beauty, potential. You could be a fighter, a toy, a sacrifice in blood rituals. Maybe you awaken some Celestial power later—then your price skyrockets. Even in a rotten kingdom, value is noticed."
---
The auction began with smaller items: relics that glimmered faintly, children marked with faint tattoos, bound fighters showing glimpses of Mortal Resonance. Each item was displayed, discussed in detail, and bid upon. Whispers explained the costs—tattoos requiring body sacrifices, relics devouring the soul, blood sacrifices that rot the inside, alchemists draining their years, and rumors of Nothingness. Ashren's heart pounded with horror.
Finally, the traffickers brought him forward. Silence fell like a heavy cloth over the room. All eyes were on him.
The auctioneer's voice cut sharply:
"And now, the final item. Young Ashren Vaelren—black hair, black eyes, thirteen years, body unmarked, untouched by mortal power. Potential unknown. Perfect for any purpose the buyer desires: fighter, companion, or ritual sacrifice."
Gasps ran through the crowd. Bidders whispered among themselves. One noblewoman adjusted her gloves, murmuring, "The boy is remarkable. Surely his family will offer to buy him back… but the opportunity to possess him now…"
The criminal syndicate leaned forward, counting coins, murmuring among themselves:
"He could be a fighter in the gladiator rings… or a sacrifice for gaining Mortal Resonance through blood. He's worth far more than any of these relics."
The bidding started slowly, hesitant. Ashren's mind raced. Each increment of coins represented not just currency, but his life and potential suffering. He shivered as one man remarked, loud enough for him to hear:
"Vaelren blood… you know the family. Worth ten thousand Eryth just for the name. Add beauty and youth, and he could fetch nearly a hundred thousand. If he awakens later, imagine the value."
Ashren's chest tightened. He was seeing his own worth in coins, a terrifying mirror of the world's cruelty.
Ashren's feet trembled as the auctioneer's gavel struck the platform. The room fell silent, all eyes locked on him. His heart pounded in his chest, loud enough that he feared it might betray him. The candlelight flickered across the polished floor and gilded balconies, illuminating eager, calculating faces.
The noblewoman's voice was soft, cultured, but carried sharp ambition:
"I bid fifty thousand Eryth."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the hall. Ashren's stomach churned. Fifty thousand Eryth—enough to buy a small estate or a powerful relic. And they were bidding on him. Not his skills, not his choices, but his body, his youth, his life itself.
The leader of the criminal syndicate, a broad man with a scar running down the left side of his face, smiled cruelly.
"Fifty-five thousand." His words were measured, each syllable deliberate. "For a boy untouched, pure, and valuable in ways even the nobles cannot imagine."
Ashren's chest tightened. Pure? Untouched? They spoke as if he were a canvas, a tool, a toy. Rage flared, but it was smothered by fear. Any resistance now could be deadly.
The noblewoman leaned toward a fellow bidder, speaking quietly, yet her words reached him:
"Vaelren blood… the potential of Celestial resonance… if he awakens beyond even thirty percent, he could rival some lords of relics."
The criminal syndicate leader chuckled, dark and low. "And if he awakens, we'll profit twice as much. You nobles chase status and power politely; we do it efficiently. We'll raise him, extract value, and he'll serve us—or break. Either way, gain."
Ashren's stomach knotted. He understood them. Even in this room, filled with wealth and false civility, the rules of the world were clear: value was determined by strength, utility, and obedience. Love, care, family—none of it mattered here. Only price, only power, only survival.
---
Another bid: sixty thousand Eryth. Then seventy. Each number slammed into Ashren like a hammer, reminding him that he was nothing more than property. His mind raced through the world's cruel hierarchy:
Tattoos burning flesh for power.
Relics consuming souls.
Blood sacrifices rotting the inside of ambitious mortals.
Alchemists lending life for strength.
Nothingness erasing memory for limitless potential.
He imagined the fate each bidder envisioned for him. The noblewoman likely dreamed of a boy companion, molded carefully, kept pristine. The syndicate sought profit, survival, blood, and dominance. Both saw him as a tool—but only one would claim him.
---
Ashren swallowed hard as another voice joined the bidding. The noblewoman, sharper now:
"Eighty thousand Eryth! He is a Vaelren! Untouched by mortal powers! The perfect child for influence or—"
The syndicate leader cut her off with a grin. "Eighty-five thousand, and you still underestimate him. Handsome, strong, young… he's a treasure for those who understand value."
A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd. They discussed among themselves, debating his worth: the potential of Celestial Blood, the purity of his body, his age, his beauty. Ashren's head spun with numbers, words, and the weight of their expectations.
"Eighty-eight thousand!" the noblewoman insisted. "I will not be outdone!"
"Ninety thousand," the syndicate leader countered, calm and deliberate. "And I intend to win."
Ashren's chest ached. Ninety thousand Eryth—the thought of it made his stomach churn. They were bidding for his life, discussing potential power and how much profit they could squeeze from him. He realized, bitterly, that the world saw his existence as a commodity.
---
The final moments drew near. The noblewoman whispered something to her companion, sharp and calculating. "Do we risk more? This boy is… dangerous. His value could exceed what we can predict."
The syndicate leader leaned forward, voice low, dangerous:
"You underestimate him, Lady Marvens. He is not just a boy—he is potential, beauty, and obedience, all rolled into one. We will take him."
Ashren's stomach dropped. He wanted to speak, to shout, to plead—but the ropes bit into his wrists, his mouth gagged with rough cloth. His life had been measured in Eryth, and tonight, it would be sold to the highest bidder.
"Going once," the auctioneer intoned, voice echoing across the hall. "Going twice—"
"Sold," the syndicate leader said, and coins clinked, exchanged in hurried hands. "He is ours."
The room erupted into murmurs, whispers, and subtle applause from some corners, while others cursed quietly. Ashren's heart sank. The noblewoman's eyes, cold and calculating, lingered on him for a moment—a reminder of a world that had offered him no mercy, no protection, no love.
The traffickers untied his feet roughly, the ropes biting into his wrists as he was dragged toward the waiting wagon. He stumbled, darkness pressing against his vision, the bitter realization settling in: he had survived Draemir, he had escaped neglect, yet now he was in the hands of strangers who saw him only as power and profit.
And still, a small flame burned inside him:
I will survive. I will be stronger than they expect. I will not be invisible again.
( The end of the first chapter)
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