Rain hammered against the dense forest canopy, thick fog clinging to the trees as her boots tore through the mud. She ran with one arm wrapped tightly around her swollen stomach, shielding the life inside her. The air surrounding her radiated such intense heat that falling raindrops hissed, vaporizing into steam before they even touched her skin. A fallen log blocked the path ahead. Without breaking stride, she thrust her hand forward, flame igniting across her knuckles to blast through the rotting wood. Her lungs burned with every ragged breath—the heat of her own power eating away at her from the inside.
Why... Why did you leave us?
She glanced back through the gloom. A heavy silhouette was closing the distance, matching her stride for stride.
Damn it...
She twisted to face him, but her shoes caught in a slick tangle of roots. Her legs gave out, slamming her heavily into the cold mud. The impact knocked the wind from her burning lungs, leaving her gasping against the wet earth as footsteps slowly approached. She tried to drag herself forward, a desperate attempt to escape, but it was already too late.
A cold blade sank deep into her chest.
The world went quiet. Warm blood spilled from her lips as she forced her eyes open to look up at him.
"Why... why did you do that?" Her voice was barely a rasp. "Are you really going to make our son suffer more than what he will already face...?"
The father was already lost behind his pure, starless dark eyes. He didn't answer. As the mother breathed her final breath, her last thought was of him—of the memory where he held her, promising that everything would be okay, that he would protect the son. But he didn't keep his promise.
The father looked down at the corpse. Something stirred beneath the bloody fabric of her robe—the faint, frantic cry of a newborn. The father leaned down as he cut the umbilical cord between the mother and the child. He picked him up as he looked at how he was crying. The father turned toward the shadows, stepping up to a shrouded silhouette. He held out the child, and the figure leaned in to look down at the newborn.
"He is still breathing, huh?"
The figure looked at how the child was behaving under the rain hitting his bare skin. He smirked.
"He's useful. Keep him, and hand him back to me nine years from now,"
The figure said, passing the swaddled child back to the father.
The rain was replaced by cold walls and iron chains.
The house was little more than a windowless cell, its single room locked away from the light and wrapped in thick iron chains.
For the infant, there was no warmth, no lullabies, and no soft touch. Feeding was a cold, mechanical task—bottles forced into his mouth just enough to keep his heart beating and his body growing. He was raised in total isolation, existing in a flat state where he learned nothing of the world except how to survive it.
Then, the child reached the age of six.
Having grown healthy enough to endure what was ordered, he was brought into the room that had been waiting for him. The father chained him to the center of the floor without a word, his expression entirely hollow. His eyes remained pitch black and starless, lost somewhere far behind his own face—driven by a curse or controlled by a force he couldn't fight.
The first torture began.
The father's swings were cold and mechanical. The first strike landed directly across the boy's left eye, the force of the blow carving a jagged, bleeding scar into his skin. The child survived only by the violent swell of his own innate power—a curse of its own, forcing his body to endure the agony rather than letting him die.
A second swing fell, followed instantly by a third in the same spot on his left arm, opening an ugly V-shaped wound. These were not light discipline; every blow killed the nerves on contact. Death over and over again, taking a different shape with every strike.
Through the screaming, the child was forced to count each hit. A missed number meant a heavier blow and a harsh reminder of where he had stopped.
"Six... seven... eight... uhh..."
A crushing hit slammed into his hand, making him shriek in agony.
"Nine," the father reminded him, his voice flat and casual.
The counting continued for what felt like an eternity, reaching numbers no six-year-old body should have been able to speak while still breathing.
"One hundred and one... one hundred and two... one hundred and... and three... o-one hundred and... uhhh... I-I mean one hundred a-and five?"
Another strike shattered against his hand, tearing a scream from his throat.
"One hundred and four," the father corrected, raising the weapon once more.