The rain lashed against the windows, mirroring the storm raging inside Kael. He was seven years old, huddled beneath a heavy oak table, the rough wood pressing against his small back. Outside, the world was a blur of grey and black, punctuated by flashes of lightning that illuminated the opulent study. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid scent of fear.
His parentsā¦ he could hear them. Their voices, usually a comforting melody in the spacious house, were now strained, desperate. His father's booming voice, usually filled with laughter, was now a ragged plea. His mother's gentle tone, which always soothed his worries, was now a choked sob.
"Please," his father gasped, the word barely audible above the storm. "They're justā¦ they're just children."
A harsh laugh echoed through the study, a sound that scraped against Kael's ears like nails on a chalkboard. "Children of privilege," a voice sneered. "They'll grow up to be just like you, feeding off the scraps of the powerful."
Kael didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone. It was cold, cruel, and final.
He peeked through the gap between the table legs. Two figures, cloaked in shadows and rain gear, stood before his parents. They held no weapons that he could see, but their presence radiated a menacing aura that made his stomach churn. One of them, the one who had laughed, raised a hand. A flicker of blue light danced across their palm.
Kael's mother screamed.
He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could disappear, wishing the storm would swallow him whole. He pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block out the sounds, but they pierced through his defenses. He heard a sickening thud, then another. His father's plea was cut short. His mother's sob turned into a strangled gasp.
The blue light flared again, brighter this time, illuminating the scene in stark detail. Kael opened his eyes, drawn by a morbid curiosity he couldn't suppress. He saw his parents, lying still on the rich Persian rug, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles. Their eyes, usually so full of love and warmth, were now vacant, staring up at the ornate ceiling as if searching for answers.
The two figures turned towards the table, their faces still obscured by shadows. Kael's heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to scream, to run, but he was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
One of the figures took a step towards him. Kael braced himself for the worst. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the blow that never came.
Instead, he heard a voice, cold and dismissive. "Leave him. He's nothing."
Then, the sound of shattering glass, the whoosh of wind, and the heavy door slamming shut.
Kael remained under the table, trembling, for what felt like an eternity. The storm raged on outside, and inside, a different kind of storm had just begun ā a storm of grief, of anger, and of an unquenchable thirst for justice. He would never forget the shadows, the blue light, the laughter. He would never forget the way his parents looked at him in their final moments.
He would make them pay.