The rumors spread like wildfire.
In the villages beyond Eldrath, mothers whispered in hushed tones, eyes darting to the shadows. Merchants crossed themselves, muttering prayers over every coin. Soldiers spoke in low voices about a monster, a boy stitched with the seven sins of man itself.
Kael Draven was only three years old. Three years old, and already the world wanted him dead.
His mother, Lyria, had fled the Sanctum months after his birth. The priests had not forgotten the prophecy—they would hunt him until he was ashes in the wind. Each night, she moved through the Wastes, clutching him close, hiding him from every watchful eye. Her hands trembled constantly—not from fear, but from knowing what he carried inside.
The boy had seven glowing marks beneath his skin. Sometimes, in the dark, they pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. Other times, they flared with his anger, his hunger, his curiosity.
Even at that age, Kael could feel the power coursing through him.
He learned quickly.
---
One evening, he was playing by a stream. He tossed stones into the water, watching the ripples spread. The Wastes were quiet, save for the occasional hoot of an owl and the wind sighing through twisted trees.
Then a shadow moved.
A man stepped from the brush, kneeling by the water's edge. His boots were muddy, his cloak dark. His voice was calm, smooth.
"You're alone, little one," he said. "Where's your mother?"
Kael's eyes shimmered silver. He didn't answer.
The man smiled faintly. "I see. You know how to hide. Clever."
Kael tilted his head. Hiding wasn't clever. It was survival.
The man studied him, slowly, without fear. Kael felt his marks stir beneath his skin. Red, green, gold, violet, black, grey, and blue—all pulsing faintly like tiny beating hearts under his flesh.
"You're different," the man said. Curiosity, not horror, filled his voice.
Kael didn't understand why, but he liked that.
---
That night, Lyria barely slept.
She whispered stories of the world beyond the Wastes, of kings and merchants, of saints and sinners. She tried to teach him words, manners, prayers. But Kael's attention drifted to his marks.
Sometimes, just thinking of someone cruel made them flare.
Wrath surged first—a raw, animalistic strength that he could barely control. He tore at the blankets, broke chairs, and once ripped the side of their small cottage by accident. Each time, Lyria held him close, trembling, whispering over and over:
"You must control it. They'll kill you if they see."
How do you control something born inside you? Something that burns hotter than fire and sharpens your mind faster than any lesson?
Kael didn't have an answer. He only felt it—the raw, alive power stirring in his veins.
---
One day, bandits found them.
They thought a three-year-old boy with glowing tattoos would be an easy mark. They did not know what they were dealing with.
The leader lunged at Lyria, hands outstretched.
Kael's blood boiled.
Wrath.
The fire surged through his small body. He screamed, a high, terrifying scream that echoed through the forest.
Hands stronger than iron struck the first bandit across the chest. Another fell before he could even blink. The rest froze, eyes wide, staring at a child no taller than their knees.
Kael didn't understand fully what he had done. But he felt the power. It was intoxicating, alive, merciless.
When the fire dimmed, the bandits lay unconscious. The cottage was ruined. Lyria's hands shook.
"You must learn," she said softly. "Or the world will take you before you know it."
Kael didn't answer. He stared at his hands, feeling the fire that had tasted life.
---
Night after night, they moved.
Every village whispered his legend. Parents hid their children. Priests tried to bless the paths they walked. Merchants refused them food, and travelers crossed themselves at the sight of him.
Kael learned quickly.
If someone feared you, you could run.
Or… you could break their fear into ash.
By the time he was six, he understood both.
He understood what it meant to be hated. To be hunted. To be more than human.
And he liked it.
---
In the Wastes, under the pale light of the moon, Kael learned the first lessons of survival.
He learned to move silently, to watch shadows as they moved, to listen to the whispers of the wind. He learned which creatures would flee before him, and which would bite.
But more importantly, he learned his own strength.
Wrath would surge when he was angry. Envy stirred when someone lied, cheated, or hid the truth. Pride flared when he was underestimated. Lust and Gluttony whispered, teasing him to test limits and desires. Sloth and Greed lingered beneath his skin, always patient, always waiting.
He was learning to feel all seven at once, to sense the world in a way no other child could.
Every flare of his marks left an impression in his mind, sharpening him. Making him… dangerous.
---
One morning, they reached a small village. Lyria begged for water at the well. Kael watched from the shadows, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes flickering silver.
A boy tried to push him away, laughing.
Kael felt it. Envy.
The boy's laughter sounded cruel in his ears, twisting his insides.
He did not touch the boy. Not yet.
But the boy tripped over his own feet, fell face-first into the dirt, staring in terror as Kael stepped from the shadows. He said nothing, only tilted his head. Silver eyes gleaming.
The villagers whispered behind their hands. Kael understood them perfectly. Fear was easy to read. It was a tool.
And he was learning to use it.
---
Lyria often woke to find him sitting quietly, staring at the horizon, silent and thoughtful.
"Why do you look at the world like that?" she asked once.
"I'm learning it," Kael said. His voice was small, but steady. "Like it's a puzzle."
Lyria shivered. Sometimes she saw a flicker in his eyes—a hint of the storm he could become. Sometimes she felt hope. Sometimes, terror.
But he was alive. And that was all that mattered.
---
By the time Kael was six, they could travel the Wastes and see the world change around them. Rumors had grown wilder, reaching even the towns near Eldrath. The boy with seven sins, a living curse, a child no one dared approach.
People hid. They crossed themselves. They prayed. They whispered, but the boy was gone before anyone could catch him.
He had learned to survive.
He had learned to fight.
He had learned that fear was a weapon, and he was already sharper than the sharpest blade.
Kael Draven was no longer just a child.
He was the boy the world wanted dead.
And he was alive.
To be continued...