In the heart of the continent stood a magnificent kingdom, its towering walls defying the sky itself. Within those walls resided a king feared by many nations—King Hasan, the Lion of the East, an undefeated warlord on the battlefield.
Yet behind the glory and the chants of his people lay a dark secret he considered a stain upon his throne: his own son.
That child was named Symon.
From the moment of his birth, he was marked by misfortune. His left eye was blind, and his left arm never existed. His frail body looked nothing like his father's proud and ferocious figure.
When King Hasan first laid eyes on him, he spoke coldly:
"A child like this is unworthy of my blood."
From that day onward, young Symon lived in the shadow of scorn. Every step within the palace was accompanied by whispers. Servants covered their mouths and hissed, "There he is… the crippled boy." Soldiers stifled laughter, as if his existence alone was a humiliation to the throne.
To everyone, Symon was no prince. He was nothing more than a little monster.
But amidst the darkness, there was one light—his mother, Queen Alina.
She was the only warmth he knew, the only embrace that made him believe he was still worth something.
"My Symon…" she whispered, brushing her hand through his hair. "You may be different, but to me… you are my light. You are the reason I still smile."
To young Symon, those words were paradise.
One day, he sat in his chamber, drawing with a stub of charcoal on worn paper. He drew three figures: himself, his mother, and his father, standing together, smiling—a family he knew was impossible, but still he dreamed of.
With trembling hope, he rushed to the throne room.
"Father…" his small voice quivered. "Look… I drew us. Our family…"
For a moment, silence filled the hall. All eyes turned to the fragile boy whose face shone with anticipation.
King Hasan glanced at the paper, then at Symon's face. In an instant, the boy's hope shattered.
"THIS?!" the king roared, his voice shaking the stone walls. "Is this the image of my heir? A cripple who is unfit to live, let alone inherit my throne?!"
Seizing a steaming cup of tea from the table, he hurled its scalding contents at Symon's face.
"AAAAHHHHHHH!!!"
The scream pierced the palace, echoing through its cold halls. Symon collapsed, his small body writhing, his skin blistering red.
Servants trembled; some wished to help, but the king's piercing glare froze them in place.
Queen Alina burst into the room, her cry breaking as she saw her son's burning face.
"SYMON!!!" she wailed, clutching him in her arms.
But King Hasan stood unmoved, his gaze like ice.
"This child is no son of mine. He is nothing but a cursed stain."
From that night, the scar on Symon's face remained—not only on his skin, but carved deep into his soul.
And yet, despite such cruelty, Symon never once hated his father. In his heart, he whispered: A son must honor his father… no matter how cruel he may be.
The years passed. At six years old, Symon was small, frail, his single eye still brimming with curiosity. But his face bore the scar of fire, a mark that would never fade.
Even his last happiness was soon stolen.
Queen Alina fell ill, stricken by a mysterious sickness that drained her life with each passing day. Neither remedies, prayers, nor the finest healers could save her.
Her chamber became a waiting room for death.
Symon never left her side. He clutched her weakening hand as her breaths grew heavy, her pale skin stretched thin, though her smile never faded.
"My Symon…" she whispered, her voice faint as a dying flame. "I… don't have much time left."
Tears streamed down Symon's scarred face.
"Don't say that, Mother… I can't live without you… please don't leave me…"
With the last of her strength, she lifted her hand, gently stroking his hair.
"You must… be strong, my child. This world is cruel… unbearably cruel. But I believe… within you is a light that no darkness can extinguish—not even your father's."
Symon wept and clung to her, his tiny body trembling.
"Mother… don't go… please…"
But no embrace could stop time.
That night, under the pale moonlight, Queen Alina drew her last breath, her body falling still in her son's arms.
Symon screamed into the night, his cries tearing the silence. Yet no one came. Servants bowed their heads in fear of the king's wrath. And King Hasan himself… never once came to see her.
At six years old, Symon lost the only light in his world.
From then on, the palace turned colder than ever. No gentle voice defended him. All that remained were the hateful glares of his father, sharper with each glance. To the king, Symon was no heir—only a cursed mistake. The queen's death became his excuse to erase the boy completely.
One day, a royal carriage halted at the edge of a dense forest infamous for its monsters. The midday wind howled, carrying the stench of earth and the cries of beasts lurking within.
King Hasan stood before the carriage, glaring at his son, no more than six years old.
"Get out," he thundered. "Filth. I never had a son like you!"
The words pierced deeper than any blade. Symon's eye filled with tears. He could not understand why the man meant to protect him was the one who cast him into the darkness.
With trembling legs, Symon stepped down from the carriage. He turned once, hoping his father would call him back. But the door slammed shut, and the horses thundered away, leaving only dust and silence.
There he stood—blind in one eye, missing one arm, just a child of six—alone in a forest crawling with monsters.
His small sobs mixed with the long howl of a wolf, as if the beasts welcomed their new prey.
And so began Symon's journey—a life of wounds, abandoned by his own blood, yet destined to fight against a world determined to break him.
Not long after, Symon wandered aimlessly through the forest. Suddenly, his body froze at the sound of a growl. From the bushes emerged a massive wolf, its fur black as night, eyes glowing crimson, fangs dripping with saliva. Its hot breath sent shivers through the boy's fragile chest.
"Grrrrhhhhh…"
Symon staggered back, and then—the beast lunged.
"AAAHHH!" he screamed, bolting with all his strength. Roots caught at his feet, his lungs burned, but fear carried him faster than ever before. Behind him, the thunder of paws shook the ground, each strike closing in.
By fortune, Symon spotted a hollow in the trunk of an ancient tree. Without thought, he dove inside, swallowed by darkness.
The wolf halted, snarling, raking its claws against the bark. Its roars shook the hollow, and Symon clamped his tiny hands over his mouth, silencing his sobs. His body shook violently, sweat dripping, tears falling.
Minutes dragged on before the beast finally left, leaving behind the stench of blood and torn earth.
Symon slumped in the hollow, his body weak, his stomach empty, his heart shattered. In the darkness, his small voice trembled through sobs:
"Why… why am I always hurt? Did I do something wrong…? I… I just want to be loved…"
His cries echoed in the still forest, answered only by silence.
Night fell. The air turned icy, hunger gnawed at his belly, and his frail body grew weaker. With no choice, he drifted into uneasy sleep, swallowed by nightmares as cruel as reality itself.
When dawn finally pierced the leaves, Symon opened his eyes to a new day—uncertain, merciless, and unforgiving.