Chapter 1: A Life No One Wanted
In most villages, the sound of morning brings life with it: merchants opening their shops, farmers guiding their animals toward the fields, and children running through the streets with laughter that carries freely through the air. Ravengarde was no different. When the sun rose behind the thick forest that surrounded the settlement, the village slowly awakened with its usual rhythm of noise and movement. People greeted one another, doors opened, carts rolled through the muddy roads, and the smell of freshly baked bread drifted from small homes where families began their day together.
Yet there was one life in Ravengarde that morning never seemed to reach.
At the very edge of the village stood a small wooden shack that leaned slightly to one side as though it had grown tired of standing. The structure had once been a storage shed for grain many years ago, but time and neglect had turned it into something barely worthy of being called shelter. Rainwater slipped through gaps in the roof, the walls carried deep cracks where cold wind easily passed through, and the door hung crookedly from hinges that creaked loudly whenever it moved.
Inside that fragile structure lived a boy named Zenox.
He was eight years old, though the frailty of his body often made him appear younger. His clothes were little more than thin layers of patched cloth stitched together from scraps that had long lost their original color, and his bare feet were constantly marked with cuts and bruises from the rough ground he walked on every day. His dark hair fell unevenly across his forehead, and his eyes carried a quiet dullness that did not belong to someone so young.
Zenox woke before sunrise, not because he wanted to, but because the sharp ache in his stomach had become stronger than sleep. Hunger had long ago turned into a familiar companion in his life, one that returned each morning with unwavering patience.
He slowly pushed aside the torn blanket that served as his bed and sat up on the cold wooden floor. For a few moments he simply remained there, staring at the dim light entering through the broken cracks in the wall, as though gathering enough strength to face another day.
Outside, the village had already begun its routine.
Voices drifted faintly through the air as people spoke with one another, and the distant sound of laughter carried across the streets. Zenox listened to those sounds quietly before standing up and stepping outside the shack.
Cold air greeted him immediately.
The dirt road leading toward the center of the village was already filled with movement as villagers passed by on their way to work. Some carried baskets filled with vegetables, others guided wooden carts loaded with grain or firewood. Families walked together while talking about ordinary things that filled their lives with meaning.
None of them looked at Zenox.
At first glance it might have seemed as though the boy standing near the roadside simply did not exist.
Zenox had grown used to this long ago. When people walked past him, their eyes naturally drifted away as though their minds had already decided that nothing worth noticing stood in that direction. Even when someone came close enough to brush against his shoulder, they rarely paused or turned back.
To the villagers of Ravengarde, Zenox was not someone they hated.
Hatred required recognition.
Instead, he was something far easier to ignore.
He was nothing.
After standing there for a short while, Zenox began walking slowly toward the marketplace in the center of the village. The road was damp from the previous night's rain, and his feet sank slightly into the mud with every step. He moved quietly along the edges of the street, careful not to come too close to anyone.
When he reached the marketplace, the area was already crowded. Merchants had opened their stalls and arranged their goods neatly on wooden tables while customers moved from one stand to another examining vegetables, bread, and cuts of meat. The smell of warm food filled the air so strongly that Zenox felt the familiar tightening in his stomach again.
He stopped near the edge of the market and waited.
Zenox did not beg.
The few times he had tried to ask for food in the past, the response had always been the same. Merchants shouted at him for disturbing their customers, some pushed him away with visible irritation, and a few had thrown small objects at him simply to drive him away.
Eventually he had learned a quieter method of surviving.
He waited for accidents.
Food sometimes fell from baskets or slipped from a merchant's hands while they worked. When that happened, most people considered it worthless and left it behind. Those small forgotten pieces were the only things Zenox could claim without angering anyone.
After several minutes of watching carefully, his opportunity finally appeared.
A merchant unloading apples from a wooden crate accidentally dropped one onto the ground. The fruit rolled slightly across the dirt before stopping near Zenox's feet.
He picked it up quickly.
For a brief moment the merchant glanced down and noticed him. Zenox froze instinctively, expecting the usual shout or gesture telling him to leave.
But the man simply looked away with mild annoyance and returned to arranging the rest of his goods.
Zenox held the apple tightly in his hand before quietly stepping back toward the edge of the marketplace.
That single apple would be his only meal today.
Near the village well, several children had gathered to play a chasing game that filled the square with loud laughter. Their voices echoed through the marketplace, and the sound naturally drew Zenox's attention.
He stood still and watched them from a distance.
For a moment something stirred faintly inside him, a small curiosity about what it might feel like to run beside them instead of standing alone.
Without realizing it, he took a few hesitant steps closer.
The moment was brief.
One of the older boys noticed him almost immediately and stopped running. His expression hardened as he pointed toward Zenox.
"Why is he here?" the boy asked with visible annoyance.
The other children turned and followed his gaze. Their laughter faded quickly as they recognized the quiet boy standing near the edge of the square.
A girl frowned as though his presence alone had spoiled their game.
Another boy bent down, picked up a small stone from the ground, and tossed it toward Zenox.
The stone struck his arm before falling into the dirt.
"Go away," the boy said casually. "You're ruining everything."
The children began laughing again, though none of them seemed particularly angry. To them it was not cruelty.
It was simply removing something unpleasant.
Zenox lowered his head and turned around without saying a word.
He walked slowly back toward the lonely shack at the edge of the village while the laughter behind him gradually faded into the distance.
When he reached the shack again, the apple had already been eaten.
The small room inside was silent and empty, offering no comfort other than protection from the wind. Zenox sat down on the floor and leaned his back against the rough wooden wall while staring at the faint light coming through the cracks.
Outside, the sounds of the village continued as if nothing had happened.
For a long time he remained completely still.
Then, in a quiet voice barely louder than a whisper, Zenox spoke into the empty room.
"Why does no one want me?"
There was no answer.
Only silence.
And for the boy sitting alone in that broken shack, silence had always been the only response the world ever gave.