The North Wing of the Altherion Estate was cold that morning, the kind of cold that seeped through bones and whispered of old stone and long-held grudges. The boy walked along the cobblestone path toward the central courtyard, shoulders hunched, hands clasped tight to keep warm. His thin tunic did little to protect him, and the chill made him shiver, but he ignored it.
He knew what awaited him. Every year, the families of the valley convened for the Assessment of Lineage, a ritual that decided who would rise, who would serve, and who would be erased from their record. For most children of the families, it was a day of honor. For him, it was a day of humiliation.
The courtyard buzzed with activity: children of the other four great families were already gathered, their uniforms pristine, their eyes full of pride. Servants and spectators crowded the sidelines, whispering and pointing. One glance at the boy, and the whispers sharpened, like knives cutting the cold morning air.
"Look at him… he's still alive?"
"Even the House of Valcron said he was empty."
"Does he even deserve to be here?"
The boy did not flinch. His head remained bowed. He had learned long ago that showing fear was pointless. Words could wound, but he had learned to swallow them. Yet, somewhere deep inside, a strange vibration tickled the edges of his awareness, curling faintly along his ribs.
It was the Growl.
He did not know what it was. Not yet. All he felt was the subtle pressure, as if something old and alive stirred within him.
From above, banners fluttered in the wind, crimson and black—the colors of the Altherion family. Their sigil, a coiled serpent with a glowing eye, glinted in the dim morning sun. The Patriarch stood at the top of the steps, draped in embroidered robes that seemed to swallow light. His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked on the boy.
"He is here," the Patriarch murmured under his breath, and the air seemed to shift.
The boy's legs trembled. He stepped forward slowly, drawing the attention of the gathered nobles and young heirs from the other families. They had expected someone insignificant, someone who could be mocked and dismissed in minutes. And yet, here he was, alive and standing.
A tall boy with golden hair from House Verridian stepped forward. His posture radiated confidence. His eyes gleamed with arrogance.
"You? You call yourself Altherion?" he sneered, pointing. "The Patriarch wasted words on you. You have nothing—nothing at all. Do you even know why you are here?"
The boy said nothing. He could not. Every muscle in his body screamed to shrink away, to vanish, but the Growl thrummed quietly, almost impatiently, as if reminding him he had already survived worse than their words.
The first trial was simple in name but designed to humiliate: a test of balance across a raised stone platform, surrounded by the watching families. The boy stepped forward, unsure of the mechanics. His foot slipped. A gasp echoed through the courtyard. Children snickered, nobles murmured their disdain, and the Patriarch's frown deepened.
The Growl surged faintly, brushing against the boy's awareness. He did not understand it, did not know how to control it. But instinctively, he steadied himself, his body reacting faster than his conscious mind could command. A whisper of shadow flickered along the stones beneath him, almost protective, almost alive.
"Pathetic," one of the Verridian children muttered. "Absolutely pathetic."
Next came the combat demonstration. Wooden swords in hand, the boy faced a small group of children from House Calvane. Each strike he attempted failed miserably. He stumbled, fell, and scraped his palms against the rough wood. Laughter erupted around him, cutting and sharp. He tasted blood and humiliation, but through it all, the Growl pulsed quietly, a silent warning, a whisper of potential.
By midday, his body was bruised, his tunic smeared with dirt and blood. The crowd's mockery swelled. The Patriarch, sitting atop the steps, observed quietly. But even he could feel the subtle disturbances: the flickering shadows around the boy, the faint quiver in the air near him. Something unnatural lingered here, though the boy himself had no understanding of it.
Finally, the test of lineage potential arrived. The children were to demonstrate aura, bloodline power, the invisible essence that marked true heirs. For him, there was none—or so they thought. He stepped forward, heart hammering. The crowd's whispers sharpened: empty… trash… worthless…
The Growl stirred more insistently now. A faint vibration rose in his chest, connecting him to his shadow. It moved, subtly, almost imperceptibly at first, stretching and curling as if sensing the intent of the nobles and servants around him. The crowd noticed a shift in the air. Torches flickered, shadows stretched unnaturally, and a few servants stumbled back, eyes wide with fear.
From the far corner, beyond the reach of the crowd, a figure in dark robes watched. Cloaked in shadow, eyes hidden beneath the hood, the hidden family observed silently. They did not intervene, yet their presence seemed to acknowledge the faint whisper of power radiating from the boy.
The boy did not understand it, did not know it could even be called power. All he felt was the strange, subtle pressure and the pull of instinct, urging him to focus, to survive, to awaken something he could not yet name.
The Patriarch's voice cut through the murmurs: "Step aside." He motioned, and the boy was dragged toward the side of the courtyard, bleeding, humiliated, yet still alive. The other families whispered among themselves, uneasy now. There was something here… something they could not name.
Alone in the cold stone corridor afterward, he pressed his palm to the window, staring at the courtyard below. The laughter had died down. The children had returned to their games. Yet he felt the shift. The air trembled around him, carrying the faint pulse of his own shadow.
The Growl pulsed again, steady and insistent. A whisper within him promised power, control, and vengeance.
And somewhere in the shadows, the dark-robed observer smiled faintly. He does not yet know what he is, the figure whispered. But soon… he will awaken. And then the world will see that nothing ever recorded him, yet everything feared him.
The boy's eyes, dark and unyielding, focused on the horizon. A single thought passed through his mind:
I will not be what they think I am. I am not trash. And one day, they will remember me… too late.