The servant's courtyard was a world of worn stone and humble routine, a stark contrast to the Qi clan's soaring pagodas. Lethean sat on a sun-warmed rock, a small, still statue amidst the morning bustle. His dazzling snow-white hair, cascading to his waist, marked him as an outsider even here. His tattered servant's robes were damp with dew; he had been sitting there for hours, his deep ocean-blue eyes staring at nothing, seeing everything.
Caiyi found him there, as she often did. Her heart, as always, clenched with a mix of boundless love and profound sorrow. "Lethean," she called softly, her voice a gentle melody against the courtyard's clamor. "You'll catch your death out here." She draped a patched but clean coat over his slender shoulders and drew him into an embrace.
He leaned into her warmth, a rare concession. "I am sorry to make you worry, Mother. The quiet helps me think."
She smiled, a gesture that didn't quite reach her eyes. He had never been a child. From his first breath, he had been ancient. He spoke in complete sentences before he could walk. He observed where others played. He never laughed, never cried, never showed a flicker of anger or fear. His emotions were a placid, unmoving lake, its depths impossible to gauge. The only ripple ever seen was a gentle softening in his gaze when he looked at her—his anchor in a world that had rejected him at birth.
"Come inside, my heart. Your breakfast is getting cold."
"Mother." His voice, though young, held a weight that stopped her. He turned his unsettlingly calm eyes to her. "I wish to ask you a question." He paused, ensuring he had her full attention. "Who is my father?"
The question was a physical blow. Caiyi's mind was flung back seven years to a blood-slicked floor and the Patriarch's voice, colder than winter iron: *"The child and mother are dead... You are never to let me see that thing in your hand again!"*
She looked at the boy—the innocent soul burdened with a cursed name and a dead woman's sin. Tears welled in her eyes before she could stop them, blurring his perfect, impassive face.
"Mother, please do not cry." His small hand patted hers. "My question has brought you pain. I will not ask it again."
His perception was terrifying. She wiped her tears away, forcing a brittle smile. "No, it is a fair question. Your father... he was a great traveler. A hero of the realm. He is alive and well, somewhere. You need not worry for him."
The lie tasted like ash. Lethean's eyes, usually deep and still, flickered. For a fraction of a second, a glacial coldness shone within them—a look so sharp and intelligent it stole the breath from her lungs. It was not the look of a child being placated. It was the look of a strategist identifying a weak point in a story.
"That is a kind story, Mother," he said, his tone flat. "You tell it to protect me. I understand. You likely do not know who he is, and that is alright. I have you."
The coldness in his gaze, she realized with a start, wasn't for her. It was reserved for the faceless man whose existence was the source of her tears. Her heart broke anew for this terrifying, magnificent child. She pulled him into a crushing hug.
"My Le'er, I am so sorry."
She carried him inside, setting him down at their small wooden table. "One month from now," she said, changing the subject with forced cheer, "the clan holds its foundation ceremony. You will receive your body tempering art. I cannot wait to see you shine."
Lethean picked up his chopsticks. "Hmmmm," he replied, the sound neither excited nor dismissive. It was simply an acknowledgment of a future fact.
***
One month later, the Qi clan's main training ground was a sea of nervous energy. Children from seven to twelve years old, shepherded by proud parents, gathered to receive the techniques that would dictate their future. The air crackled with palpable inequality: the direct clan descendants would receive prized first-grade arts, while the servants' children would scramble for the leftover low-grade manuals.
Lethean entered, a splash of ethereal white and blue against the earthy tones of the crowd. A hush fell, then a wave of whispers.
He felt the stares. The blatant jealousy from boys his age and older. The awestruck, adoring glances from the young girls. The calculating, envious looks from the parents measuring him against their own children. He accepted it all with utter detachment, a rock in a rushing river. His mother's hand tightened around his, a warm, anxious pressure.
Their progress was halted by a trio: a portly man, a sharp-faced woman named Qi Juli, and their son, who already wore a sneer too large for his face.
"Well, look what the servants dragged in," Qi Juli drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. She looked at Caiyi as one might look at a stain on a fine rug. "Lost your way, maid? The kitchens are that direction. This ground is for *Qi* children."
Caiyi dipped her head in a slight bow, her posture remaining proud. "This humble servant knows her place, Madam Juli. But the clan's benevolence extends a chance for our children to build a foundation. We are here for our rightful share."
Qi Juli's face pinched, angered by the refusal to be cowed. Her eyes then slid to Lethean, and a fire of pure, unadulterated jealousy ignited within them. His beauty was so profound it was an accusation. *Why did a servant get* this *and not me?*
She turned back to Caiyi, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Benevolence? You call it benevolence to waste resources on a whore and her fatherless bastard? To let a mute idiot dirty our sacred arts?"
That was the line. Caiyi's gentle composure shattered. "You will not speak of my son that way!"
The portly man waved a dismissive hand. "Enough, woman. Arguing with slaves is beneath us. They live on the crumbs we drop. Let them have their scraps."
As they turned to leave, something shifted.
Lethean, who had been a silent observer, lifted his gaze. His deep blue eyes, usually so calm, focused on Qi Juli. For a single, horrifying second, the temperature around them seemed to drop. A feeling of primal dread—a sensation of being stalked by something ancient and cold—washed over her. It was a dense, palpable killing intent that should be impossible for a child. She shuddered, a sudden, inexplicable fear gripping her heart, and quickened her pace without looking back.
"Pay them no mind, Le'er," Caiyi whispered, her voice shaking as she pulled him close. "Their words are poison."
Lethean looked up at her, his expression unreadable. "But their words are rooted in truth, are they not, Mother?" he asked, his tender voice at odds with the devastating weight of his question. "It is true that I am a fatherless bastard."
Caiyi had no answer. She could only look away, the truth a blade twisting in her heart, as her son, the boy named Death, stood ready to build his foundation upon a bedrock of rejection and cold resolve.