Myhra's eyes narrowed as she studied the boy standing before her. His golden eyes held a faint, unnatural glow, casting a haunting light even in the dim room. The darkness around him seemed to thicken, as though reluctant to let him go. His thin frame and uncertain gait hinted at both physical frailty and something deeper—a vulnerability etched in every nervous step. He seemed like a porcelain doll, not just fragile but somehow cursed, bearing the weight of a dark force that clung to him like a shadow.
"Come closer," Myhra urged, softening her voice to coax him forward, though she remained wary, her blood magic instinctively probing the aura around him. The energy around them swirled uneasily, responding to his presence, and she couldn't leave until she cleared the oppressive air lingering in the room.
The boy hesitated, glancing around as if anticipating another attack. "I... I didn't mean to cause all this," he whispered, voice trembling as he shuffled forward. "I was scared. They were going to hurt me, and I didn't know what else to do."
Myhra's gaze sharpened, noting the weight of his words. "They? Are there more?" she wondered aloud, though the dawning light outside reassured her they wouldn't strike again until nightfall. A bitter pang of sympathy twisted in her chest—this child had turned to blood magic, a desperate measure for anyone, let alone someone so young. "What's your name?" she asked, keeping her tone even.
"M-my name is Yittann." He stammered, barely audible. "I didn't mean to… I had no choice."
Her eyes hardened as she sensed the dark oath binding him, its traces woven into the faint purple bruises marking his wrists and the sinister shadows scarring his back. "Why did you make such a pact?" she questioned gently, though her blood stirred, warning her of the price he'd paid.
Yittann's small frame began to shake, and he lifted his arms to show the bruises forming in sickly shades of purple, remnants of his last encounter. Trembling, he turned and lifted his shirt's hem, revealing dark tendril-like marks lacing his back—shadows left by the beings he'd bargained with. Myhra felt a cold shiver snake up her spine, the sight stirring memories she'd rather forget.
His face crumpled, tears slipping down his cheeks. "They said they'd kill me if I didn't… and I was alone. I had no one," he whispered, his voice breaking.
Myhra's heart tightened. She knew the kind of dread that drove someone to make pacts with the shadows. She'd once felt it herself, a desperation so deep it gnawed at the soul. She drew him into a gentle embrace, feeling his shivers through the thin fabric of his clothes. "What about your parents? Where are they?" she asked, her voice steady but her heart sinking.
Yittann's face fell further, a fresh wave of tears spilling silently as he held back the words he couldn't say. Myhra realized he had no idea, that the Zhelis had likely erased any trace of the life he once knew. She rested a hand on his shoulder, grounding him with a soft, steadying energy, and decided not to press him further.
In her heart, she vowed to protect him, understanding all too well the shadows he had been running from and the dangers that awaited if the Zhelis reclaimed their prey.
Yittann hesitated before finally speaking up, his voice small and pleading. "Can I stay in the palace to hide? I won't be a harm. I'll leave soon, I promise."
Myhra's fingers moved carefully over his bruises, tracing the faintly glowing marks of shadow tendrils etched into his skin. She was doing her best to heal him, but her magic couldn't erase the deeper wounds, the ones that bound him to dark forces. "No, Yittann, you can't stay here. It's not safe."
His shoulders slumped, and desperation cracked his voice. "Then, can you… can you at least heal me, like you did with that vampire before?"
Her hands stilled. That he knew of such things startled her; she straightened, her gaze sharp. "Yittann," she said, trying to maintain composure, "how old are you?"
He looked confused, scratching his head. "Old? I'm not old, beautiful lady!"
Myhra was momentarily taken aback by his innocence. It was clear he knew so little of human ways. "Are you certain of that?" she asked, her tone softening as she eyed him skeptically.
He nodded, grinning with pride. "I'm not at all a bit of old. I can swear by my—"
"Hush!" She cut him off quickly. "No swearing. You don't want to make that a habit." She sighed, catching herself. "I only meant… how many years have you lived?"
He paused, his golden eyes searching as if they might reveal the answer. "I… I don't know. I never thought about it."
Sadness tugged at her heart. For all his powers, he was just a child, lost and alone in a world he barely understood. "Listen to me, Yittann," she said, her voice both gentle and firm. "Asking or taking the blood of a magic user—especially a blood magic user—is dangerous. You must never try it without knowing what it can do to you, understand?"
Before he could answer, the temple bell rang, echoing through the silent air and filling her with urgency. She glanced out the window, noting the faint light of dawn creeping over the horizon. She had promised to return before sunrise—there was no time left.
"We need to go," she said, turning to him. "Get on my back."
Yittann stared, taken aback. "What?"
"We can't stay here, and I can't leave you alone," she replied, crouching down. "Come on, we need to go now."
Yittann blinked in shock, a spark of hope flickering in his wide eyes. Still, he didn't move, rooted to the spot. Myhra softened her voice. "I'm sorry for dragging you into this, but I can't leave you behind. We'll figure this out together."
His face crumpled, and he burst into sobs, the sound raw and full of fear. Alarmed, Myhra hesitated, torn between the need to comfort him and the pressing urgency to move.
Gently, she lifted him onto her back, his small form clinging to her as his sobs gradually quieted, leaving only faint, exhausted whimpers. "Shh, it's going to be okay," she murmured, though her own heart beat with worry.
As they moved swiftly through the dim streets, Myhra's mind raced, weighed down by the growing responsibility she felt for Yittann. And the promise she'd made her thoughts turned to Minu, waiting for her at home, trusting her to return safely. She couldn't fail her.
With Yittann's arms wrapped tightly around her, Myhra pushed forward, as Silver Council Scout resolve to do what was right—even if it meant risking her own safety for the sake of this frightened child who needed her protection.
As Myhra approached the low gates of her home, nestled in the shadow of the castle, dawn cast long, quiet shadows across the cobblestone path. The air held the lingering scent of night-blooming flowers, their sweetness mingling with the earthy tang of early morning. Yittann clung tightly to her back, his grip tightening as they neared the gate, a mix of awe and apprehension flickering in his golden eyes.
"Come on, Yittann," Myhra murmured, sensing his hesitation. "No one here will harm you."
He looked around nervously, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I'm scared. What if they don't want me here?"
Myhra stopped and turned to face him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. Her gaze was steady, warm, and full of reassurance. "I promise, you're safe with me. No one will turn you away."
As if on cue, the door creaked open, and her grandmother, the town's revered Priestess, stepped outside, holding a smoking incense burner. Her lips moved in quiet incantations as she sanctified the air, purifying the space with ancient rites. Her sharp eyes flicked to Myhra and Yittann, assessing them briefly before she turned back inside, never breaking her chant.
Yittann shrank back, fear shadowing his face. "Who…who is she?" he whispered, clutching Myhra's sleeve. "And what is she doing?"
"That's my grandmother. She's one of the Priestesses of this town," Myhra explained gently. "It's her morning ritual. She's powerful but kind-hearted. She just needs time to understand."
They crossed the courtyard, and the thick scent of sage and sandalwood swirled around them. Myhra felt Yittann's small hand tremble in hers as she led him inside. He hesitated, pulling back slightly. "Please, can we go back to the castle?" he pleaded, his voice quivering. "I don't belong here."
Myhra's expression softened, but she didn't relent. Without a word, she lifted him in her arms and carried him inside. The house was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting a web of shadows across the walls. They entered the main hall, where her younger sister, Minu, sat playing with a flame, her fingers artfully molding a cluster of wax into small figurines in the glow of burning candles.
Minu looked up, her gaze sharp and suspicious as it landed on Yittann. "Who's that?" she asked, her voice wary, the flame in her hand dimming slightly.
"This is Yittann," Myhra replied, setting him gently down. "He'll be staying with us for a while."
Minu's expression tightened, her eyes narrowing as she crossed her arms. "But… we don't know him."
Myhra sighed, catching her sister's protective tone. "He's been through a lot, Minu. He needs our help."
Minu's suspicion softened just a bit, curiosity glinting in her eyes as she looked Yittann over. "He…he looks different," she murmured, the sharpness in her tone replaced by a tentative empathy.
"He's just scared," Myhra said, offering Yittann a reassuring smile. "Minu, could you bring him some blankets and warm clothes?"
After a pause, Minu nodded, casting one last curious glance at Yittann before disappearing toward the storage room.
Myhra knelt in front of Yittann, looking up into his wide, nervous eyes. "I know this must all feel strange and overwhelming," she said softly. "But you're safe here, Yittann. You're not alone anymore."
His eyes shimmered with unspoken gratitude, and he managed a faint nod. "Thank you," he whispered, the words barely leaving his lips, but Myhra heard them, feeling the weight of his gratitude and trust.