~ ☆ ~
The night air was cold, but the tension on the balcony was suffocating.
Arzel lay collapsed against the stone railing, his body trembling as shimmering silver blood soaked into his clothes. Every breath was a battle, a jagged struggle against the searing pain radiating from his chest.
With a final, desperate snarl, he forced his fingers to close around his sword hilt. He lunged at the shadow before him, pouring every remaining drop of his will into the strike.
"Malakar!" he roared, his voice thick with unbridled fury.
But the strike was hollow—a mere ghost of his true strength.
"It's not every day I hear my nephew call me by my name. He-he-he!"
Malakar mocked him, sidestepping the blade with a dancer's grace. His movements were fluid, effortless, making Arzel's desperation look pathetic.
Arzel tried to steady his feet, but the world was spinning in a blurred vortex of stone and moonlight. Dark spots danced in his vision as his strength drained away with every pulse of his heart.
Before he could strike again, Malakar's heavy boot slammed into his chest.
The impact pinned him ruthlessly against the balcony floor, the cold stone pressing into his back as he gasped for air that wouldn't come.
"Pain is the only absolute truth in this world, Arzel," Malakar sneered, leaning down until his cold breath brushed against the boy's ear. "And right now, you are drowning in an ocean of it."
Arzel stared up, his eyes wide and trembling. He was trapped between a silent scream of defiance and the crushing weight of his own helplessness.
Malakar's voice dropped to a venomous, rhythmic whisper.
"Do you hate me? Do you hate Os? Your father? This god-forsaken world? Stop fighting the monster inside you, Arzel. Let it take over. Only then will you truly see how wretched and cursed this existence is."
Arzel glared back, his gaze burning with pure, concentrated hatred. He gathered what little strength remained in his lungs.
"Keep your disgusting advice to yourself," he spat, the words jagged and sharp. "The only wretched thing here... is you!"
With a last surge of will, he tried to swing his blade. Malakar looked at him as if he were mere refuse beneath his boot.
"Do you know the only true happiness in this world?" Malakar asked coldly. "It is looking down on everything from above."
With a brutal, decisive kick, Malakar sent Arzel spiraling over the railing.
Mithian, dazed and bruised, saw her son's silhouette vanish into the abyss. With a strangled cry, she lunged toward the edge, but Malakar's iron grip caught her, dragging her back into the shadows of the room.
Arzel fell through the midnight sky. A streak of silver blood trailed behind him like a dying star.
As the dark, silent waters of the lake rushed up to claim him, he reached a trembling hand toward the distant, uncaring moon.
"Mother..." he whispered.
Then, the cold depths swallowed him whole.
***
As Arzel sank into the lightless abyss, the world of the living faded. The silence of the water became the silence of the past.
He saw the Great Training Grounds—a vast, stone-walled arena that felt more like a prison than a courtyard.
A torrential rain was falling, as if the heavens themselves were weeping. In the center of the yard stood a tiny, fragile figure. The boy was dwarfed by the practice sword in his hands, its weight dragging his small frame toward the mud.
Thunder shook the foundations of the castle. Flashes of lightning illuminated the silent tears streaming down his face, only to be washed away by the relentless storm.
High above on the sheltered balcony, a stern, imposing old man watched with eyes of flint. Beside him, Mithian stood with her hands pressed to her heart, her breath hitching in a sob she couldn't suppress.
"Lord Os, I beg of you," Mithian pleaded, her voice breaking. "He is only three and a half years old!"
Os's gravelly voice cut through her desperation like a jagged blade.
"That is exactly why I gave you half a year to coddle him. Now, you ask me to ruin him with kindness? If you don't want him to grow up as useless filth, leave him be. Do not interfere until I give the word."
He turned and strode away, his heavy footsteps echoing with finality. Mithian could only watch her son, her heart shattering in the silence.
Sensing her presence, the little boy looked up. Mithian quickly wiped her eyes, forcing a shaky, heartbreaking smile as she waved her hand.
"Arzel... my son..." she mouthed.
The boy's expression softened for a fleeting second. Then, he gritted his teeth. His small hands tightened on the hilt, and he resumed his grueling forms.
***
The memories shifted, the seasons blurring into a relentless cycle of steel and sweat. The scene returned to the same training ground, but the boy had changed.
He was no longer a fragile child struggling with the weight of a sword. A lean, disciplined young warrior moved with lethal precision, his blade whistling through the air in a blur of silver.
On the balcony, Os watched with the same cold indifference. Behind him, a high-ranking officer in formal military regalia bowed deeply.
"How is his progress?" Os grunted.
"It is staggering, My Lord," the officer replied, unable to hide the awe in his voice. "Despite being only eight years old, he is already matching the performance of our elite vanguard."
Os's expression remained a mask of stone.
"It would be an insult to his blood if he achieved anything less. As a reward, allow him two hours a week to spend with his mother."
"As you command, Your Excellency."
The officer bowed, watching the young prodigy below with newfound respect.
The swirling abyss of the lake pulled Arzel deeper into his fading consciousness, unearthing another jagged shard of his past.
He saw himself as a young boy, standing for the first time amidst the cacophony of the capital city. The streets were a chaotic symphony of shouting merchants and crowded stalls, beneath architecture so alien and grand it should have stolen his breath away.
Yet, his eyes remained dimmed, untouched by the splendor.
Lost in the overwhelming sights, Arzel didn't notice the man approaching until they collided. The impact sent the small boy sprawling onto the hard, unforgiving cobblestones.
The man, reeking of cheap wine and natural malice, looked down at Arzel as if he were a fresh stain on the pavement.
"Watch where you're going, you piece of filth!" the drunkard spat, his lip curling in disgust. "Know your place, you wretched rat."
Rage flickered in Arzel's chest—a sudden, violent urge to strike back. But as he looked around, he saw only the cold, judging stares of the passersby. A heavy weight settled in his chest: he did not belong to this world.
Silently, he climbed to his feet, dusted off his tunic, and continued his lonely walk through the city.
Eventually, the narrow alleys opened into a wide plaza where a group of children were playing. Their laughter and the genuine spark in their eyes acted like a magnet, drawing Arzel closer. For a moment, he simply watched, a silent plea for inclusion written in his tentative steps.
The children saw him, but that spark of warmth he'd been hoping for never arrived.
"What are you doing here, outsider?" the eldest boy, a self-appointed leader, demanded.
"Did you come to ruin our game?" another sneered. "Get lost, you freakish beast."
"Leave," a third added, crossing his arms. "You're just polluting our street."
A few of the younger children looked as if they wanted to defend him, but fear kept them silent. Arzel felt his world tilt. He turned to leave, his shoulders slumped, but their voices followed him like poisoned arrows.
"My mother says his hair glows like silver at night," one boy shouted, loud enough for Arzel to hear. "And his mother's hair is the same."
"My mom said that too," another chimed in, laughing. "And their blood is just as weird."
"Monster mother, monster son!" they jeered in unison.
Arzel stopped. His breathing became sharp and ragged, his small frame trembling with a fury he could no longer contain.
"Let's see what color his blood really is!" a boy cried, scooping up a jagged stone.
"Yeah! Show us that silver blood, freak!"
The first stone struck his shoulder with a dull thud. Then another. "Take that, monster!"
Arzel's patience snapped. With a burst of supernatural speed, he blurred through the air, dodging the rain of stones with ease. He leapt, his leg coiling for a powerful kick aimed at the boy who had thrown the first rock.
But before his foot could connect, a massive hand intercepted him.
The man in high-ranking military garb stood like a wall before the children, his hand still stinging from the force of Arzel's kick. He looked down at the boy with a predatory scowl, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his blade.
"A monster like you belongs in a cage," the soldier growled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I see I'll have to discipline you myself before you hurt anyone else."
Just as the soldier began to draw his weapon, ready to strike a defenseless child, a cold, authoritative voice rang out from the main street.
"Adaro, what are you doing?"
Adaro froze, his face paling instantly. He turned quickly, bowing his head in a display of absolute subservience.
"Prince Malakar!"
Malakar sat atop a magnificent steed, draped in opulent robes that shimmered in the sun. Behind him stood a squadron of elite armored cavalry, their armor gleaming with an intimidating brilliance.
"I was merely intervening, My Lord," Adaro stammered, pointing a trembling finger at Arzel. "Your nephew was about to assault these children."
Malakar looked down at Arzel with a gaze of utter arrogance.
Arzel stared back, his face a mask of frozen ice, though his soul burned with a white-hot hatred.
"Every action demands a price," Malakar said, his voice as indifferent as if he were discussing a broken vase. "Adaro, deal with this."
Without another word, Malakar spurred his horse forward. His retinue followed like a sweeping tide of steel, vanishing into the crowd.
Left behind, Adaro turned toward Arzel. A slow, predatory smirk spread across his face, his shadow stretching over the boy like a shroud.
The memory shifted, fast-forwarding through hours of shadows and agonizing pain.
Arzel was walking through the city streets again. But this time, he was a wreck.
His skin was covered in deep abrasions, and his silver hair was matted with filth. His fine clothes, once a symbol of his status, were now nothing but blood-stained rags.
He looked like a fallen bird—broken, bleeding, and discarded.
Yet his eyes, now darker than ever, held a terrifying, silent vow of vengeance that promised to consume everything in its path.
~ ☆ ~