The Hearth Witches of the Nun Coventry Orphanage found him in the Whispering Tangle, a place where the veil between worlds was thin and strange things sometimes bled through. He was curled in the roots of a great, ancient oak, half-dead and burning with a fever that smelled of ozone and forgotten stars. Sister Maeve, the eldest, felt the wrongness in his magic—a void where most of his soul should be, a coldness that drank the warmth of their healing spells. But they were Hearth Witches, and turning away from a wounded creature was not in their nature. Especially in times like these when the fanged monsters were loose and rampant in the kingdom.
For weeks, they nursed him. They fed him broth infused with sun-honey and dreamroot, and wrapped his shivering form in blankets woven from moon-touched wool. The fever broke slowly, and the boy who emerged was quiet, his eyes holding a deep, empty confusion. He remembered nothing—not his name, not how he arrived, not the life that had left such brutal scars on his body and spirit. They called him "Ash," for he was found in the ashes of his own past.
It was young Sister Elara who noticed it first. She was tending the herb garden when Ash laughed at a sparrow bathing in a puddle, and the tilt of his head, the specific curve of his smile, struck a chord of terrifying familiarity. She dropped her basket of vervain and wolfsbane their best selling herbs at the moment .
Later, as she watched him sleep, she saw it clearly: the same arch of the brow, the same sharp line of the jaw, the same unruly long hair. Could it be? She rushed to tell others to open their eyes and visualize his face . Elara was at a loss could she be the crazy one or will the others see what she sees.
Panic, cold and sharp, spread through the convent like a frost. What did it mean? Was this some trick? A doppelgänger sent to undermine the politician? But the boy was so vulnerable, so lost.Could it really be the lost son of the Livians.
He was a stark portrait of contradiction: his features, from the high cheekbones to the full lips, unmistakably echoed those of the renowned politician's son, Corbin—a youth already famous throughout the realm for his elegant, pretty femininity and his cascade of long jet-black hair. But where Corbin was a vision of polished night, this boy was a ghost of day; a shock of long, white-blonde hair, unnatural and startling, fanned around his head like a tarnished halo.
They nursed his remaining scars with a growing, nervous excitement, watching as health returned color to his face, making the resemblance to the famous young lord undeniable.
Their panic soon battled with a giddy, terrifying excitement. They hadn't just saved a boy; they had found a lost prince.
Sister Maeve, with a memory potion all ready fed it to him in excitement,her voice trembling with momentous news, sat beside Ash's bed. "My boy," she began gently, "we know who you are. You are a lost heir. Your brother is Corbin, and mother Celeste is famous across all the realm. She will be so overjoyed to have you back."
The boy—Ash—looked at her, his expression still blank. Then, a flicker of pain. "Corbin? Celeste?" He repeated the names as if they were words from a forgotten language. He closed his eyes, straining, then shook his head, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice raw with a genuine, profound emptiness. "I don't remember any of that."
The excitement in the room died, replaced by a crushing wave of pity. The truth they were so eager to shout to the world was a truth he could not hold.
As witches tried to decide on ,whether or not to introduce him to the Livians and if so when it was appropriate to do such a thing for this boy could only bear the face and not the blood,alot time went by.
For three months,the boy known as Ash was the gentle, beating heart of the Nun Coventry Orphanage. The frantic panic that had greeted the discovery of his identity slowly melted away, replaced by the daily rhythms of a simple, loving life.
Ash's personality was a quiet counterpoint to the boisterous energy of the other orphans. He was shy, speaking in soft, measured tones, and his smiles were small, precious things that seemed to bloom only when he felt safe. But his softness was not weakness; it was a profound gentleness. He was instinctively drawn to the newest, smallest, or most frightened children. He would sit for hours with a homesick toddler on his lap, patiently braiding their hair or simply holding their hand, his quiet presence a balm to their fears. He became the orphanage's unofficial elder brother, the one the children sought out for a scraped knee or a bad dream. He was responsible beyond his years, always ensuring the chores were done, the toys were put away, and that everyone had their share at supper.
But as to the stern but deeply kind Sister Maeve, Ash was a son. She saw the profound sadness that lingered behind his eyes, a ghost of the memory he'd lost, and it called to her maternal instincts. She began entrusting him with small responsibilities—helping to sort the healing herbs, minding the youngest during lessons, accompanying her to the market. He had a natural, quiet affinity for the Hearth Magic of growth and comfort, his touch seeming to encourage plants to sprout and anxious hearts to calm.
Sister Maeve would often find him in the library, not with storybooks, but with heavy botanical texts, tracing the illustrations with a delicate finger. "You have an old soul, Ash," she would say, her voice warm with affection. "The earth remembers what you have forgotten. Listen to it." He was her quiet success, a testament to the power of their peaceful magic to heal even the most shattered of spirits.
Though If Sister Maeve was a surrogate mother, then the younger, spirited Sister Elara was the mischievous older sister he never knew he needed. Where Ash was calm, Elara was all bubbling energy and laughter. She was the one who would sneak up behind him while he was solemnly watering the moon-blossoms and drop a handful of freshly fallen leaves on his head. She'd challenge him to silly races across the vegetable garden or try to teach him elaborate, clapping games that his clumsy, gentle hands would fumble, resulting in fits of shared laughter.
Their dynamic was the orphanage's favorite comedy. Elara's teasing was her language of love, and Ash's flustered, blushing responses were a sign of his deep fondness for her. He was the only one who could coax her out of a bad mood with a carefully crafted crown of clover flowers, and she was the only one who could coax a loud, unguarded laugh from him with a well-aimed berry during preserving season. It was a bond built on a foundation of unspoken understanding and a shared, playful youth that Ash so desperately needed.
Each day for Ash was a new feeling of comfort .The golden afternoon sun poured into the main courtyard of the Nun Coventry Orphanage, turning the dusty air into a haze of glittering motes. The space was a symphony of controlled chaos and joyful noise, and at its center, like a calm sun around which smaller planets orbited, was Ash.
The activity had begun with Sister Elara's boundless energy. She had gathered a dozen children for a game of "Goblin's Treasure," which involved a great deal of shrieking, running, and one very polished river stone that served as the treasure. Ash, ever the gentle giant, had been appointed the "Guardian Tree," a role that mostly involved standing still while the smaller children tried to hide the treasure in the folds of his simple tunic.
"Not there, Liam! He'll feel it!" a 13 year old girl with purely brown hair Davina squealed.
"I'm not feeling anything," Ash announced solemnly, his eyes twinkling as he stared straight ahead, playing his part with a soft smile. "I am but a mighty oak, unaware of the tiny creatures at my roots."
This sent the children into fresh giggles. Sister Elara, her cheeks flushed and her habit slightly askew, blew a stray hair from her face and put her hands on her hips. "A mighty oak that's secretly helping the goblins! Treason! This is tree treason!"
Ash's composure broke into a warm, quiet laugh just as a small voice piped up from the edge of the courtyard the clamor from the other side of the courtyard rose again. Two boys, Liam and Finn, were now in a heated debate over a wooden sword.
"It's my turn!"
"You had it forever!"
Before Sister Elara could intervene, Ash was already moving. He didn't march over; he simply walked calmly into the center of the dispute.
"A serious problem," Ash said, his tone grave but playful. He looked at the sword. "This is the legendary Sword of Sunlight, isn't it? It's said that its power doubles when it's used to defend the kitchen garden from invading rock-goblins." He pointed toward the vegetable patch. "I think I saw a whole battalion of them near the carrots. A hero of your stature, Liam, should lead the charge. Finn, you could be the cavalry, on that mighty steed." He pointed to a nearby tree stump.
The argument was instantly forgotten, replaced by a new, more exciting narrative. The boys charged off toward the carrots, whooping with delight.
Sister Elara came to stand beside him, bumping her shoulder playfully against his arm. "You're too good at that. You're going to put me out of a job."
Ash looked down, with a smile. "I just… remember what it felt like to want a story to be true."
His words hung in the air, a rare glimpse into the emptiness he carried. Elara's teasing smile softened. She linked her arm with his. "Come on, 'Mighty Oak.' Story time. And you're narrating."
She herded the now-tired children into a shady corner of the courtyard, where they piled around Ash like affectionate puppies. Davina secured her favorite spot, tucked securely under his arm. Ash didn't read from a book; he wove a tale about the creatures known as vampires and werewolves an epic battle filled with love and redemption , his voice a soft, melodic rhythm that held every child spellbound. He did all the voices, making the wolves gruff and the vampires whispery, and when he described the protagonist's fear of the dark, Davina's hand crept into his.
Sister Elara watched from the periphery, her heart full. She saw the leader in him—not a leader who commanded, but one who guided by empathy and quiet strength. He had effortlessly defused a fight and was now gifting them all a world of imagination. In this sun-dappled courtyard, he was a prince, his kingdom made of laughter and trust.
As the story ended and the children were called inside for supper, Ash remained on the ground for a moment, with Davina fast asleep against his side. He looked so peaceful, so perfectly in his element. Elara felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. The world outside their walls was one of power, politics, and a family that had forgotten him. But here, he was already everything a leader should be: kind, patient, and loved.
Though adapted Ash always felt unknown, he was where he never belonged,and after 3 months the question overwhelmed him during this lonely night.
Ash decided to take a walk in the orphanage's herb garden at twilight, a place of quiet magic where the evening dew began to jewel the leaves of sage and lavender. He sat on a worn wooden bench, not tending the plants, but simply staring at his own hands as if they might hold some secret. The fading light caught the unique gold of his hair, turning it to a soft halo, a stark contrast to the deep brown of his skin.
Sister Maeve watched him from the doorway, her heart aching with a familiar weight. She saw the stillness in him, a profound quiet that was different from his usual gentle calm. This was the stillness of deep water, hiding currents of unspoken sorrow.
She moved to sit beside him, the bench creaking softly under her weight. For a long moment, they sat in silence, listening to the distant laughter of children being put to bed by Sister Elara.
"The night-blooming jasmine is about to open," she said softly, gesturing to the delicate vine climbing the wall. "You can almost hear it, can't you? That little sigh before the petals unfurl."
Ash didn't look up. "Sister Maeve," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you think… do you think a person can feel homesick for a place they've never known?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and true. It was the closest he had ever come to giving voice to the hollow space inside him.
Before she could form an answer, he continued, "I look at the other children. They have stories. Sad ones, yes, but they are theirs. They know where they came from. I just have… nothing. It's like I started existing the day you found me. Everything before is just a blank page." He finally turned to her, and in his eyes, she saw the deep, weary longing of an old soul. "Who am I?"
The plea in his voice shattered her resolve. For three months, she had protected the secret, believing it was for his own good. But now, seeing the quiet agony of his anonymity, she felt a surge of fierce, maternal injustice. This beautiful, kind boy was not meant for a life of obscurity. He deserved his name. He deserved his legacy.
Later that night , in the quiet of her study, the confirmation came. A formal, gilt-edged invitation arrived for the orphanage's matron, a mere formality of civic duty. It announced the upcoming Bloodright Ball for the esteemed family of Livians. It was more than a party; it was the sacred ceremony where Corbin would officially be inducted into the family's Dark Witch rites, securing his position as the sole heir.
Sister Maeve held the thick parchment, her fingers trembling. She looked from the invitation to a small, forgotten society sketch tucked in a drawer—a drawing of the family, the mother proud, and a young Corbin, his pretty, feminine features and long black hair a perfect mirror of Ash's own bone structure.
A plan, terrifying and brilliant, crystallized in her mind. This wasn't just a party; it was a stage. A gathering of the entire elite. If she brought Ash there, presented him not as a threat but as a lost son returned on the very eve of his brother's inheritance… it would be impossible for them to ignore him. The world would see. He would have a chance to claim what was rightfully his. He would have a chance to know who he was.
"He deserves to compete," she whispered to the silent room, the words a vow. "It is not just Corbin's birthright. It belongs to both of them."
She thought of Ash's question—Who am I?—and a determined light filled her eyes. She would give him the chance to find out, no matter the consequences. She would take the gentle boy from the garden and walk him right into the lion's den, praying that the truth would set him free, not destroy him.