The bells of Olindo rang that night, their chimes echoing across the marble streets and golden spires of the kingdom. To the outside world, it was a night of celebration—lanterns lit the skies, musicians played in every corner, and nobles raised their cups to toast the future of their glorious realm.
But deep within the highest tower of the royal palace, behind locked doors and suffocating silken curtains, a young woman sat trembling, her jeweled crown cast upon the floor.
Princess Elenya of Olindo, beloved by the people for her beauty and grace, had never felt so broken.
Her hand trembled as it rested on her swollen belly. The child within her was innocent, but its very existence was a cruel reminder of the night that had stolen her dignity, her voice, and her safety. The whispers that followed her through the corridors of the palace cut sharper than knives: defiled princess… ruined bloodline… a shame to the crown. Her father, the King, had silenced every rumor with an iron hand. Yet within the palace walls, every servant's glance was heavy with judgment, and every noble's smile was laced with poison.
And so, when the cries of her newborn son filled the chamber at dawn, no cheer followed. No herald announced his birth to the people. No priest blessed his arrival. The child had been born, but in the eyes of Olindo, he did not exist.
---
The midwives hesitated as they held the infant. He was strong, his voice raw as he cried against the silence. He had her dark hair, her delicate features… but also eyes that glowed faintly, as if nature itself had poured a spark into his soul. Elenya reached out with trembling arms. She wanted to hold him, to shield him, to whisper to him that none of this was his fault. But before she could, the doors opened, and her father entered, draped in his crimson robes, crown heavy with diamonds. The King's face was carved in stone. He did not look at the child only at his daughter.
"This never happened," he said, his voice cold as frost. "This child does not belong to Olindo. He will not bear the name of our house. He will not be raised under this roof."
"Father!" Elenya cried, tears streaking down her cheeks. "He is innocent! He is mine!"
"He is a curse," the King thundered. "A reminder of weakness. Do you wish our enemies to see the stain upon us? Do you wish the people to whisper that their princess bore a child of shame?"
Elenya clutched at the sheets, her heart breaking. "Please… if not as your grandson, then as a child of this kingdom let him live!"
"He will live," the King said, his gaze hard. "But not here. Not as a prince. Not as anything. From this day, he is no one. And with a wave of his hand, the midwives carried the newborn away.
Elenya's scream echoed through the halls of the palace, unheard by the world outside.
---
The child was taken in the dead of night, wrapped in rags instead of silks, carried past the gates like a thief's bastard.
The streets of Olindo were cruel to the weak, and to be nameless was to be invisible. Left at the steps of a forgotten alley, the boy cried until his throat was raw, but no hand reached for him. No home opened its door.
Days passed, then weeks. He survived only because stray dogs huddled against him for warmth, and crows brought scraps of bread fallen from the market stalls. It was as though the wild itself refused to let him die.
By the time he learned to walk, he was already a child of the streets. Other children mocked him, throwing stones and calling him "filth." Merchants chased him away with sticks when he begged for crumbs. Mothers pulled their children close, whispering that he was cursed.
Yet through it all, the boy's eyes never dulled. When hunger gnawed at him, he found berrieslll sprouting between the cracks of stone. When frost bit at his skin, the wind curled around him, warm as a blanket. When blood spilled from his knees, the earth sealed the wounds with moss. The world hated him, but nature nature loved him.
---
Years passed. One evening, as the boy now no older than ten searched for scraps in the refuse of the nobles' feast, a group of street kids cornered him.
"There he is, the bastard rat!" one sneered.
"Think you're special, eh? Always staring with those glowing eyes."
"Let's teach him his place."
They carried sticks and stones, their faces twisted with the kind of cruelty that only came from envy and fear. The boy backed against the wall, clutching his thin arms to his chest. His heart pounded. He had endured beatings before, but tonight their eyes burned darker, their laughter sharper.
They advanced
And something inside him broke.
Not in despair but in fury.
He did not cry out to them. He did not beg. Instead, he whispered not in words of men, but in a language older than stone, deeper than roots.
The wind stirred,the stones in the bullies' hands crumbled to dust. Vines burst from cracks in the alley, coiling around their legs, pulling them screaming to the ground. The torches on the wall flared, then died, plunging the alley into darkness.
The boy stood in the shadows, his eyes glowing with green fire. And for the first time in his short, forsaken life, he did not feel powerless.
---
Far away, in the palace that had rejected him, Princess Elenya woke from a dream with tears in her eyes. She could not explain it, but her heart whispered to her: My son lives. The child they had thrown away… was no longer a child.
And Olindo would soon remember his name.