Thwack! A sickening crack split the air, the sharp sound bouncing against the stone walls of the residence. Crows stirred from the rooftop outside, their cries faint through shuttered windows. The heavy scent of iron mixed with old timber and cold stone, each detail pressing down on the moment.
Blue staggered back against a wooden support beam, his chest heaving. Silver irises glimmered through locks of electric-blue hair, eyes wide with pain yet refusing to yield. Blood traced down his cheek from a fresh cut, marking him in defiance rather than defeat.
Jordan Payne, though only fifteen, carried himself with the sharp arrogance of someone who thought cruelty was strength. Slender and wiry at five-foot-nine, his dusty brown hair fell just short of his green eyes—eyes that flickered between pride and insecurity. Quick with his fists and quicker with his tongue, he sought out weakness in others to mask the fear gnawing inside himself. His blows often landed harder than his words, but both carried the same intent: to remind those around him of their place.
His smirk widened as he flexed his fingers, the skin along his knuckles red from striking. "Pathetic. You thought you could stand against me?"
The chamber seemed to tighten, shadows pooling in the corners while the chill of stone seeped into Blue's bones. Yet beneath blood and humiliation, something hotter stirred—a refusal to bow.
He straightened slowly, muscles protesting with each movement. His breath came ragged, each exhale clouding in the cold air. When his eyes locked on Jordan, the intensity behind them made the older youth falter for half a heartbeat.
A memory flickered in Blue's chest: his mother's voice, calm and unyielding. 'One day, you'll walk a path none can bind.' The warmth of the echo clashed with the cold present, refusing to be drowned.
Jordan sneered, covering his hesitation. "You'll learn your place soon enough, Blue. Weaklings don't belong in this world." He stepped forward, boots scraping against the worn floor, the sound echoing like a hammer on stone. "Look at you. Bruised, bleeding, barely able to stand. Yet you still glare at me like you're my equal."
His hand shot out, seizing Blue's collar and slamming him into the wall. Dust drifted down from the beams above like falling ash. Blue's ribs screamed, but his gaze did not waver. The press of sweat, iron, and smoke filled his lungs, yet his resolve only sharpened.
From beyond the thick wooden door came muffled sounds of the household—pots clattering, servants moving, voices unaware of the violence within. The world continued as if nothing here mattered, as if Blue's struggle was swallowed whole by silence and stone.
Jordan leaned closer, voice low and venomous. "You're nothing, Blue. Remember that." His pride burned in his eyes, desperate to crush every spark of resistance.
But in the still chamber, amid dust and cold, Blue's resolve refused to break. Pain became fuel. His mother's words became flame. And for the first time, Jordan's sneer faltered—not because Blue struck back, but because his will endured.
Jordan's hand lingered on Blue's collar for a moment longer before shoving him down, the boy hitting the floor with a dull thud that echoed across the chamber. Splinters bit into his palms as he caught himself against the warped boards, the sting running up his arms. The chill of the ground crept into his skin, but he forced himself to rise to his knees.
Laughter spilled from Jordan's mouth, sharp and grating. "Crawl if you have to. That's all you're good for." He paced with deliberate steps, each one clicking against the stone in a rhythm meant to remind Blue of his weakness. The sound filled the room, steady and cruel.
Blue dragged in a breath, his ribs aching, his body trembling. He pushed a lock of electric-blue hair from his eyes, smearing the blood on his cheek across his skin. His vision swam, yet those silver irises burned bright in the gloom. His will refused to bend.
Jordan crouched low, pressing his face close enough that Blue could smell the sourness of his breath. "You think anyone will remember you? You'll be forgotten, left behind. That's your fate."
Blue's hands curled into fists against the floorboards. The chamber seemed to lean heavy around him, shadows stretching from every corner. For a heartbeat, even the distant sounds of the household vanished, leaving only his pounding heartbeat and Jordan's taunts. Somewhere beneath the weight of stone and pain, determination hardened like tempered steel.
He lifted his head, meeting Jordan's gaze without flinching. For the first time, a flicker of unease touched the older boy's features—subtle, but real.
Jordan's expression twisted, anger rushing in to smother his brief hesitation. He lashed out, his boot driving hard into Blue's side. The impact sent him rolling across the floor until his shoulder struck the base of a support beam. Pain radiated through his ribs, each breath sharp and ragged, but his eyes never left Jordan.
"Stay down!" Jordan barked, his voice cracking through the chamber like a whip. He loomed over Blue, fists clenched, eager to see the boy fold.
But Blue pushed against the cold stone, dragging himself upright once more. His arms trembled, his body crying out in protest, yet he rose until he stood on unsteady feet. The defiance in his silver eyes glimmered against the dim lamplight, daring Jordan to try again.
From the corridor outside came the faint clink of dishes and a servant's laughter—mundane sounds that clashed with the violence inside these walls. The world moved on indifferent, but here, in this narrow chamber, a quiet war of wills raged.
Jordan sneered, though his eyes flickered with something less certain than before. "You don't know when to give up, do you?"
Blue's lips parted, his voice rough but steady. "No."
The single word, simple yet resolute, struck harder than any blow. Jordan's sneer stiffened, his arrogance straining against the weight of a defiance he could not break.
Jordan's fist shot forward, aiming to smash Blue back down, but the boy twisted just enough that the blow scraped past his shoulder and cracked against the wall. Splinters burst from the wood, the sound echoing like thunder in the confined space. Jordan cursed under his breath, yanking his hand back from the sting.
Blue staggered but did not fall. His lungs burned, his body begged for rest, yet his eyes never looked away. Each breath drew in the mix of dust and smoke, grounding him, steadying him. The chamber seemed smaller now, not because it was closing in, but because his focus cut away everything except the figure in front of him.
"You think standing makes you strong?" Jordan spat, shaking his hand before cocking it back for another strike. "I'll break that spirit of yours until nothing's left."
The boy's silver gaze glinted, catching the lamplight. "Try."
The single word hung heavy in the air. Jordan lunged, but hesitation tugged at his movements, a sliver of doubt that had not been there before. Blue braced himself, battered body straining for one more stand, knowing that even if he fell, it would not be in surrender.
Jordan's lunge carried him forward, but before his fist could land, the heavy creak of the chamber door broke the moment. Both boys froze, tension snapping like a taut string.
The door swung inward, and in stepped Simir Glossman, flanked by several onlookers loyal to Archibald. Also fifteen but far more pale-skinned, he was shorter and stockier than Jordan at five and a half feet. Short silver hair framed a jagged scar running along his right temple, while fire-red eyes burned with jealousy more than ambition. Slightly chubby and often quiet, Simir preferred deceit to confrontation—his cruelty masked by silence and smiles. The crowd at his back pressed the air heavy with judgment as his calculating gaze swept over the scene, pausing on Blue before narrowing. "Enough," he said, his voice flat but edged with disdain. "We're not here to waste time trading blows."
Jordan's frustration shifted into a sneer as he stepped back, brushing dust from his sleeves. "Then tell him, Simir. Tell him what Archibald already knows."
Blue's chest rose and fell, every breath ragged, but his attention fixed on Simir. Sweat clung to his brow, silver irises steady despite the ache in his body. "Tell me what?"
Simir folded his arms, gaze hardening. "Archibald's personal technique has gone missing—a creation of his own making, priceless to him. I saw you near his quarters, Blue. Don't bother denying it—you've stolen it."
The accusation hung heavy in the chamber, heavier than any strike. Blue staggered upright, his body protesting, but his voice cut through the silence. "I took nothing."
Jordan barked a laugh, cruel and triumphant. "Liar. Who else would dare meddle with his work? You truly believe a stubborn glare sets you apart?"
Blue's fists clenched at his sides. The sting of earlier blows paled beside the weight of the charge now leveled against him. Shadows pressed close, the chamber thick with smoke and judgment. Yet even under their gaze, his defiance did not waver.
Simir studied him a moment longer, unreadable. Then he gestured to one of the onlookers, who stepped forward carrying a bundle of Blue's soiled clothes taken from his quarters. With deliberate slowness, Simir rummaged through the bundle until his hand closed on a rolled scroll marked with Archibald's distinct seal, its very presence radiating value and danger. Gasps rippled through the crowd as he held it aloft for all to see. "Here it is," he said coldly. "Archibald's personal technique, found among your belongings. We'll see what he says. But… this will probably be the end of you."
The chamber fell silent once more, the accusation echoing louder than any fight. Blue's ribs throbbed, his body quaked, but inside, the spark of resistance burned hotter. They could beat him, they could accuse him, but they could not take the will that anchored him standing.
The chamber's air seemed to tighten before the door even opened, torches guttering as though the room itself feared what was about to enter. When the threshold finally gave way, Archibald Pruitt stepped through, and silence fell heavy across the gathered onlookers. He was of average height at five-foot-eight, yet his presence made him seem taller, his very bearing forcing others to shrink back. Long black locks framed a face as sharp as it was sinister, caramel skin drawn into lines of cold authority, and hazel eyes that pierced through lies and souls alike. Though he appeared no older than his mid-thirties, the weight in his gaze betrayed decades beyond—closer to sixty—his ambition long since eclipsing any trace of morality. Clad in dark robes stitched with silver runes, he moved like a monarch surveying his domain. Each step was measured, shoulders broad, bearing regal, and even without wind his locks stirred, untouched by time or weakness.