By the time Justin was eight, his name had spread far beyond Elise Nightwalker's empire. Among vampires, witches, wolves, and fae, people spoke of the prince of greed with awe or with trembling lips. He was no longer simply Elise's son — he was prophecy. A child others tried to stop, control, or bend toward their own ends.
No school would take him. The assassins made that impossible. His childhood unfolded instead within the heavily warded walls of Elise's estate. Tutors, hand-picked from the sharpest minds, educated him. Guards armed with silver, iron, and spells patrolled every hallway. And yet Elise knew her boy could not grow up in isolation forever.
So she let him make friends. Carefully chosen, carefully monitored — but real nonetheless.
—
The first was Xavier Thorpe.
His father, Amanatius Thorpe, was a psychic celebrity, whose visions made him both rich and insufferable. Amanatius had partnered with NightCorp in several ventures, which brought Xavier to Elise's estate one summer. While the adults drank wine and discussed contracts, the children were left to wander.
Elise found them hours later in the garden, crouched in the grass, faces smeared with paint. Xavier had his sketchbook. Justin had his power.
She stopped short as a crude charcoal sketch of a hawk lifted from the page, paper wings flapping as it wheeled through the air.
"You're not supposed to be doing that," Elise said, one brow arched.
Xavier's grin was sheepish but bright. "I told him he could try. He's good at it."
Justin's abyssal eyes flickered with faint fire behind his glasses. "It's easier when he draws it. Feels like… less fighting."
Elise sighed, but didn't stop them. For the first time in months, Justin looked like a boy, not a prince with the world's fear crushing him.
Later that evening, she overheard Xavier whisper as the two lay in the grass staring at the stars.
"You're not scary, you know. You just… look scary sometimes."
Justin blinked behind the round frames of his glasses. "Everyone else thinks I am."
"Then they're idiots." Xavier's grin widened. "You saved me from my dad's boring meeting. You're my best friend now."
For the first time, Justin smiled without effort.
—
The second was Hope Mikaelson.
She arrived a year later, a storm in human shape. Witch, vampire, wolf — a tribrid who wore her legacy like armor. Her family's ties to NightCorp gave her access to Elise's circles, and she wasted no time claiming space in Justin's.
"Are you really the son of a demon lord?" she asked the first time they met, hands on her hips, chin tilted in challenge.
Justin frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Do you always open with questions like that?"
"That wasn't an insult. Everyone says you're dangerous."
"Everyone's boring," Xavier muttered from the grass. "Come on, Hope. Don't ruin it."
But Hope knelt, meeting Justin's abyssal gaze without flinching at the ring of fire inside. "If you're really that strong, prove it. Arm wrestle me."
Xavier groaned. "You're going to regret that."
She didn't. She lost, quickly and decisively. Justin set her hand back on the table with surprising gentleness.
"You're strong," he said matter-of-factly. "But I don't need to prove myself to you."
Hope pursed her lips, but there was no malice — only intrigue. "Fine. Then I'll beat you next time. Until then… I guess we're friends."
From that day on, she hovered. Challenging. Testing. Watching.
—
But Mammon hovered too.
Justin heard him at night, when Elise thought her son was asleep. The whispers coiled through his dreams, gold chains winding tighter around his mind.
That boy will never be your equal. He will always envy you. What is mine will always be mine.
That girl does not want your friendship. She wants your crown. What is mine will always be mine.
The promises came with every whisper — strength beyond imagining, glory that would silence the word monster forever. All Justin had to do was listen. All he had to do was claim what was already his.
But when the whispers grew too loud, Elise was always there. She would sit on the edge of his bed, brush the pale hair from his forehead, and whisper against the fire in his eyes:
"You are mine, Justin. Not his. Mine before him. Mine always. And I will burn the world before I let him take you."
—
By ten, Justin had what no assassin, no prophecy, no whisper could steal from him: a circle.
Xavier, the boy who treated him like a person, not a crown.
Hope, the girl who challenged him like an equal, even when she lost.
And Elise, the mother who built an empire just to keep him safe.
And always, in the shadows, Mammon. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.
Justin's childhood was no ordinary thing. It was laughter in the garden, whispers in the dark, and the constant question that would shape his life:
Whose son was he really?