The small house creaked under the weight of the winter storm, its walls groaning as though protesting against the cold that seeped through every crack. Kael sat by the fire, staring into the flickering flames that danced on the charred wood, his mind far away from the warmth.
Outside, the forest loomed like a black ocean, its trees swaying violently against the biting winds. Erelith was not a kind place. A town buried deep in a forgotten valley, it was a place where light felt foreign, and hope seemed like a cruel joke.
Kael had grown up here, hated by everyone except his parents. His father, Jorath, was a hunter, his face weathered and lined with years of toil, yet his eyes carried a fierce love for his son. His mother, Lyria, was softer, her gentle hands always finding ways to soothe Kael's bruises—both physical and emotional.
"Kael," his father said, breaking the heavy silence. He was sharpening his knife at the wooden table, the rhythmic scraping filling the room. "You've been quiet today."
Kael didn't turn his gaze from the fire. "I don't feel like talking."
Lyria placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "Your father's just worried. We both are."
"Worried about what?" Kael's voice had an edge to it, though he didn't mean it to.
Jorath sighed, setting down the knife. "The people in this town…" He trailed off, as though struggling to find the right words.
"They hate me," Kael finished for him, his voice barely a whisper.
Lyria knelt beside him, her soft green eyes meeting his. "They fear what they don't understand, my love. It's not your fault."
But Kael wasn't so sure. The mark on his chest, a spiraling black pattern that had been there since birth, was unlike anything anyone had seen before. The townsfolk called it a curse. Some whispered that he was a demon, others claimed he was a harbinger of destruction. Either way, they all agreed on one thing: he didn't belong.
That night, as the storm raged on, Kael's world would change forever.
---
It started with a knock at the door. A loud, deliberate pounding that shattered the quiet of their small home.
Jorath's head snapped up, his hand instinctively reaching for his knife. "Stay here," he said firmly, his voice low and tense.
Kael and Lyria watched as he approached the door, his steps cautious. When he opened it, a gust of icy wind rushed in, carrying with it the unmistakable sound of voices.
"Bring out the boy," a deep voice demanded.
Kael's heart sank. He recognized that voice—it belonged to Garel, the town's self-proclaimed leader. Behind him were the angry murmurs of a mob, their torches casting eerie shadows across the snow-covered ground.
"You can't have him," Jorath said, his voice steady but edged with anger.
Garel sneered. "Don't be a fool, Jorath. You know what he is. That boy will bring ruin to us all."
"That boy is my son," Jorath snapped, stepping forward.
The mob surged closer, their faces twisted with fear and hatred. One of them, a wiry man named Orin, pointed a shaking finger at Kael, who stood frozen in the doorway.
"Look at him! That mark—it's the devil's own!"
The crowd roared in agreement, their voices blending into a cacophony of anger.
"Enough!" Lyria stepped forward, placing herself between Kael and the mob. Her voice was strong, but Kael could see the fear in her eyes. "He's just a boy. Whatever you think he is, you're wrong."
But Garel was unmoved. He raised his torch high, his face illuminated by the flickering flames. "Then you leave us no choice."
Before anyone could react, he thrust the torch toward the house, setting the dry wood ablaze.
"Lyria, run!" Jorath yelled, grabbing his knife.
Kael felt his mother's hand on his arm, pulling him toward the back door. The heat from the fire was already intense, smoke filling the air and making it hard to breathe.
"Go!" Jorath shouted again, his voice hoarse.
Kael hesitated, tears streaming down his face. "Father—"
"Go!"
With a sob, Kael turned and ran, his mother's grip guiding him through the darkness. Behind them, the sounds of shouting and the crackling of flames filled the night.
They didn't get far.
The mob had anticipated their escape and circled around to the back of the house. Kael and Lyria found themselves surrounded, the glow of the fire illuminating the twisted faces of their pursuers.
"Please," Lyria begged, shielding Kael with her body. "He's just a child."
But Garel stepped forward, his face a mask of cold determination. "No. He's a curse."
He raised his blade, and time seemed to slow. Kael screamed as the sword came down, his mother's body going limp in his arms.
Something inside him snapped.
A wave of heat erupted from Kael's body, throwing the mob backward. The ground beneath him cracked and split, flames shooting up from the earth. A deep, guttural voice echoed in his mind.
Child of shadow, your time has come.
A rift opened in the ground, black and swirling with fire. Kael felt himself being pulled toward it, the voice growing louder.
"Kael!" Garel's voice was filled with terror as he scrambled away. "What are you?"
Kael didn't answer. He let the pull take him, the darkness swallowing him whole.
The last thing he saw before the rift closed was the burning remains of his home and the fear in the eyes of those who had hated him all his life.