The boy sat quietly in the chamber, the paper doors drawn shut against the autumn wind. Faint light filtered through them, soft and golden, painting the wooden floor in long, wavering shadows. The room carried the fragrance of burning incense, mixed with the sharper scent of herbal medicine simmering in a clay pot nearby.
He was young—no more than fourteen summers—but there was a sharpness to his face that made him seem older. His hair was a deep black, falling in untamed strands that brushed against his brow. His eyes, darker still, like polished obsidian, seemed to swallow the light around them. Those pitch-black eyes were a rarity even among his kin, often spoken of in whispers as a sign of destiny. His jawline was still soft with youth, but there was resolve in the way he clenched it, the beginnings of a warrior's spirit pushing against the fragile shell of a boy.
Beside him lay his mother. Even in sickness, she carried a beauty that could not be denied. Her hair, black as midnight, spilled across the cushions like a river of ink. Her skin was pale, almost luminous under the dim light, as if illness had carved her into something fragile and ethereal. Yet it was her eyes that marked her apart—golden, shimmering faintly like sunlight caught in amber. In the clan, such eyes were said to appear once in a generation, a sign of divine favor.
Her features were delicate, sculpted with an elegance that spoke of noble blood: a straight nose, lips curved with gentle grace, and high cheekbones that gave her the dignity of a queen even as her body weakened. When she looked at her son, the gold of her eyes softened, a warmth that no pain could dim.
He wore the clan's traditional robes, their layered silk dyed in deep indigo with embroidered waves running across the sleeves. At his waist was tied a narrow sash, the crest of their family stitched in silver thread—an ancient sigil said to have been passed down from their first ancestors. His mother wore a lighter robe of cream and faded crimson, once vibrant but now dulled with years of use. Even so, she carried it with grace, as if it were a royal garment.
The estate itself stood as a monument to their lineage. Long corridors of polished wood connected courtyards where stone lanterns stood beside ponds of still water. Roofs curved like the wings of cranes, their eaves stretching outward in quiet defiance of time. Generations had walked these halls, warriors and scholars alike, and their portraits hung in the main chamber: stern faces painted on parchment, gazing eternally upon their descendants.
"Do you remember," his mother's voice was a whisper, yet it held a strength that demanded attention, "the story of our clan's founding?"
The boy's black eyes flickered, catching the dim light. He nodded, but said nothing. He wanted to hear it from her lips again.
"Our forefather was once a wanderer," she continued, her golden gaze turning toward the ceiling as if she could see beyond it. "A man with no name, no home. But when he saved the king's son from assassins, he was granted land and a name. That name became our honor, our shield, our burden." She paused, breathing carefully before going on. "From then, we were no longer free wanderers. We became guardians, bound to protect the realm with steel, wisdom, and loyalty."
The boy clenched his fists against his knees. His dark eyes burned. "And yet… what is loyalty worth when the world forgets it?" His voice cracked, betraying the anger he tried to hide.
His mother reached out, her frail fingers brushing his hand. The contrast was striking—his hands strong and unscarred, hers thin, almost translucent. "It is worth everything, my son. Names can be forgotten, but the way we carry them… that is eternal."
For a moment, silence filled the chamber, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves beyond the paper walls.
"Mother," he said softly, lowering his gaze. "When you're gone, who will tell me these stories? Who will remind me of who we are?"
Her lips curved into a tired but gentle smile. The golden glow of her eyes lingered on him as if she were passing a torch. "You will. And one day, your children will sit beside you as you sit beside me now. That is the way of our blood."
The boy swallowed hard, his chest tightening. He wanted to speak again, but instead he bowed his head deeply, as though his very breath was an oath.
Outside, a bell tolled in the distant courtyard, the sound resonating like the heartbeat of the estate itself—an ancient house, an ancient clan, still alive through memory and promise.
The boy raised his head, his pitch-black eyes steady. In those depths, his mother saw something more than grief—something ancient, echoing the whispers of their bloodline.
"Do you know what the elders say of our eyes?" she asked, her voice low, almost secretive.
He shook his head.
"The black eyes are said to be the mark of the abyss—unyielding, untouchable, destined to carve their own path through darkness. And the golden eyes…" She smiled faintly, her breath softening, "…they are the sun that guides them. Without one, the other is lost. Together, they are balance."
Her hand lingered on his cheek, trembling yet gentle. "You carry the abyss, my son. One day, you must learn whether it will consume you… or make you strong enough to protect everything you love."
But she knew, as did the clan, that his talent was already undeniable. Even as a child, his movements were sharper, his senses keener, his instincts like those of a seasoned warrior. What others spent years learning, he grasped in days. The masters praised his gifts, yet the children of his age whispered in fear.
They called him cursed. They shunned him in the courtyards, refused to spar with him, and glared at him when the elders turned away. Some hated him for his talent, others feared the black abyss in his eyes—as if looking into them meant seeing their own defeat.
The boy never spoke of it to his mother. But in that moment, as her golden gaze met his, he realized she already knew.
And she whispered, with the last strength of her fading breath, "Then let them fear you, my son… but never let them break you."
The boy lowered his head once more, and in that silence, a vow was born.