February 2010
The sun was high above the dusty roads of Raven Hollow, casting golden beams across the small cottages and farmlands. Damian, now a charismatic young man of ten, stood on the worn-out steps of the Wayne cottage, his hazel eyes gleaming as he gazed out over the fields. His striking features, a strong jawline, and a mop of tousled dark hair made him stand out, but it was his eyes—those captivating, bewitching hazel eyes—that mesmerized anyone who looked too long.
Despite his boyish charm and growing strength, life in Raven Hollow was no easier. Poverty weighed heavily on his family, but Damian wore his hardships like a badge of honor, refusing to let them strip away his spirit or his dreams. The Waynes—whom he called his grandparents—were all he had known. His real parents, he believed, had passed long ago, and the Waynes had taken him in as their own. Yet, in the quiet moments, Mrs. Wayne's worry was palpable.
She sat at the edge of the wooden table in their small kitchen, her hands shaking as she knitted, her eyes frequently darting towards Damian, who was busy chopping firewood outside. Today, she couldn't keep her fears hidden anymore.
"Damian," she called, her voice trembling ever so slightly.
Damian turned, flashing her a bright smile, one that reached his eyes and instantly warmed her heart.
"Yes, Mom?" he responded, walking into the cottage.
Hearing the word 'Mom' made her chest tighten with emotion. His voice was filled with love and trust, something her son Richard had never afforded her. But here was her grandson, a boy who knew nothing of the truth, looking at her like she was his entire world. It hurt in ways she could never explain.
"Come, sit with me, son," she said, patting the chair beside her. Damian plopped down, his legs slightly swinging. Even at ten, he had a confidence and grace that made her heart swell with pride.
"What's wrong, Mom?" he asked, his tone filled with curiosity, but also care.
Mrs. Wayne gently placed her hand on his cheek, rubbing it with the tenderness only a mother—or a grandmother—could show. "Damian, my sweet boy," she began, her voice heavy with concern. "The world is a dangerous place, especially for people like us—the poor. The rich, they take what they want. They exploit people. They'll use you if you aren't careful. You must stay away from them, do you understand? I don't want to lose you."
Damian's smile didn't waver. He shook his head confidently. "You won't lose me, Mom," he reassured her, placing his small hand on top of hers. "One day, I'll make lots of money, and we'll leave this place. We can go to Silver Hills or Goldengate where the rich live, and I'll make sure you and Grandpa never have to worry about anything again."
Mrs. Wayne's eyes welled with tears. She reached out, caressing his cheek again, though the weight of her words hung heavy between them.
A few days later, the town of Valemont was buzzing with activity. Mr. Wayne had just harvested his crops and was preparing to take some to market. It was a big day for him—an opportunity to make enough money to get by for the coming months. He and Damian traveled together to the market, a sprawling space located where the borders of Silverhill, Goldengate, and Roselake met. It was a place where all classes mingled, rich and poor alike, though their interactions were seldom friendly.
Damian was excited as they arrived. The market was alive with color and sound—the air was thick with the scent of baked bread, fruits, and freshly slaughtered meat. Merchants yelled from every corner, hawking their goods, while townspeople bustled about, trying to make deals.
"Stay close, Damian," Mr. Wayne warned, his hands busy arranging their stall. "This place is big, and I don't want you getting lost."
"Yes, Grandpa," Damian answered, but his eyes were already wandering. He had always been curious, and today was no exception.
Mr. Wayne became engrossed in his sales, talking with potential buyers and haggling over prices. In the chaos of the market, Damian slipped away. Drawn by the excitement of it all, he wandered further into the crowd, marveling at the sights and sounds around him.
At the far end of the market, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Eyes turned as a sleek red Ferrari pulled up, its gleaming exterior catching the sunlight. The car was out of place in the humble market, an unmistakable sign of wealth and privilege. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd, eyes fixed on the vehicle. A moment later, the door opened, and a woman stepped out, her red heels clicking against the cobblestones.
She was breathtaking. Her long brunette hair cascaded over her shoulders in perfect waves, her outfit a tailored designer dress that clung to her curves elegantly. Her presence alone was enough to command attention, but it wasn't just her beauty that left the crowd stunned—it was the way she carried herself, like royalty descended from Mount Olympus.
"Is that their son?" a villager whispered, eyes darting to the car again.
Following her out of the car was a man with fiery red hair, equally striking in his appearance. His sharp features and commanding aura made him seem almost godlike.
Then, a boy emerged from the backseat. He couldn't have been older than ten, with long red hair that fell over his shoulders and midnight blue eyes that were as enchanting as they were cold. His features were flawless—too perfect, even for the wealthy.
Lamia's parents disappeared into the market, leaving him alone in the car. Despite the luxury surrounding him, Lamia felt stifled. His mother had forbidden him from wandering, and he knew better than to disobey her. Still, he was bored. Resting in the car with nothing but his tablet, Lamia played his video games, though his mind was elsewhere.
As he looked out from the car, his eyes caught sight of a young boy running through the market, laughing as he weaved between the stalls. The boy was scruffy, his clothes mismatched and dirty, but there was something about him that drew Lamia in—his freedom, his joy. The boy seemed so carefree, something Lamia, with all his wealth and privilege, had never been allowed to feel.
Lamia watched the boy closely, envy burning inside him. He had everything—money, power, fame—but he lacked the one thing he craved most: freedom. His eyes followed the boy as he darted between people, and then, suddenly, chaos erupted.
The boy had collided with a man balancing crates of eggs on his bicycle. The impact sent the eggs crashing to the ground, shattering into a messy pile. The man's face twisted in rage, and he grabbed the boy by his ear, hauling him up.
"You little rat!" the man snarled, his face red with anger. "You filthy urchin! Do you have any idea what you've done? Pay for those eggs, or I'll burn you alive!"
The crowd around them began to murmur, and soon enough, the taunts started. The people of Valemont were harsh, and the wealthy had little patience for mistakes made by the poor.
"I'm sorry!" Damian cried, his voice cracking as he tried to explain. "I didn't mean to! Please, I don't have any money—"
The man slapped him across the face. "Worthless scum. Probably from Raven Hollow. You deserve to rot."
The crowd cheered, relishing the scene. It was a cruel, unforgiving place, and they reveled in the spectacle. Damian's heart raced in fear, his mind spinning with worry about what would happen to him.
But before the man could strike again, a voice rang out, clear and authoritative.
"Stop it. All of you."
The crowd turned, eyes widening as Lamia stepped forward, his regal presence unmistakable. He stood tall, his chin held high, dressed in an expensive vintage shirt, designer jacket, and sneakers that could buy out the market ten times over. His midnight blue eyes blazed with anger.
"You fools disgust me," Lamia said, his voice cold and commanding. "You want to punish a ten-year-old boy over some miserable eggs? And you," he pointed at the man, "why would you carry that many eggs on such a rickety bike? You're the fool."
The man growled, but Lamia didn't back down. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a wad of cash and threw it at the man's feet. "Here's your money. Now get out of my sight."
The man, stunned by the sight of the money, quickly scrambled to gather the bills, while the crowd, murmuring in awe, began to disperse.
Lamia walked up to Damian, who was still trembling from the shock of the encounter. "Are you okay?" Lamia asked, his voice softer now.
Damian, still too shaken to respond, could only nod. Lamia crouched down, opening a small first-aid kit he carried and began tending to the cuts on Damian's arms.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Lamia said gently. "My name's Alexis."