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"Do you feel the wind?"
The boy's gaze— deep green like the forests at night —fixed upon the distant land. A place of pristine white, where the streets ran red with blood.
"It's cold." He answered.
His mother chuckled, her own emerald eyes gleaming with amusement as she yanked a dagger from a man's chest.
With deliberate grace, she wiped the blade clean, then took his small hands, pressing the still-warm hilt into his palm.
"We can leave this place, Beaufort."
Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of something inevitable. She smiled, pale fingers tightening over his.
"It's okay to hurt people."
A gentle caress against his cheek, smearing his skin with the warmth of another's lifeblood.
"Use your magic, my son. Hunt down our enemies."
Beaufort watched the town ahead of them.
It was already burning.
Pillaged in the name of hate. Consumed in the flames of vengeance.
