Valefort was a vibrant city where the ancient and the modern coexisted in harmony. Surrounded by mountains and dense forests, its wide streets were dotted with flower-filled squares and imposing stone buildings. Atop a hill, the fortress that gave the city its name stood tall, overlooking the daily life below. Commercial, residential, and artisan districts intertwined, with the constant sound of hammers and laughter echoing through the alleys. On the horizon, the Divine Glory Academy rose as a symbol of Valefort's military and magical power, where heroes and adventurers were forged.
In a small building located in the city's most precarious area, Cyrus Blackthorn woke up with a silent scream, his throat too constricted to make any sound. Cold sweat glued the sheets to his skin as fragmented images danced in his mind. A sky torn by lightning. Golden eyes watching him through the darkness. Blood, so much blood.
"Just another nightmare," he thought, trying to convince himself.
"The same as always," a voice in his mind commented, dripping with sarcasm. "How boring."
Cyrus closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Nathanos was always the first to wake up after nightmares. It was as if he fed on the torment in his mind.
"Silence, Nathanos," another voice intervened, deep and solemn. "The boy needs rest, not your morning venom."
Orion, always the protector.
"Both of you. Quiet." Cyrus mentally ordered, knowing it would be another day filled with noise and arguments in his head.
Cyrus's room was small and cramped, barely illuminated by a broken lamp. The stone walls were cold and damp, stained with mold. The only window, small and with parts of the glass broken, overlooked the busy street, but the noise barely penetrated the stifling atmosphere. The worn-out mattress creaked beneath him, and the feeling of claustrophobia was constant.
He took a deep breath and pressed his fingers against his temples. It was always like this. He would wake up, mentally argue with his own voices, and throw himself into the chaos of the outside world, as if he could escape from himself. But no matter how much he ran, the voices were always there, whispering, judging, waiting for a chance to take control.
He stood up abruptly and stopped in front of the dirty, cracked mirror in the corner of the room. The reflection showed a sixteen-year-old boy, thin, with eyes as dark as night. His straight hair, messy from restless sleep, fell over his pale forehead.
"Pathetic," came a mental growl, and Cyrus recognized Khaz, his uncontrollable rage. "Look at you. No muscle, no strength. How do you expect to survive being such a weakling?"
"I didn't ask for your opinion," Cyrus murmured under his breath.
"He's right, you know?" The soft, cold voice of Caedrel slid through his consciousness. "How do you expect to pass the Divine Glory entrance exam with a body this frail? If you keep this up, we'll all end up..."
"Enough!" Cyrus slammed his hand on the mirror, shuddering with the pain and the momentary fear of breaking it completely.
The mental silence was brief, but enough for him to put on his clothes: black pants, a tank top, and military boots worn by time.
He tied his bootlaces and left the apartment without looking back. A new day had begun, and all he could do was move forward.
Valefort was already awake, the streets bustling with activity. Cyrus ran down the building's stairs, passing like a shadow through the lobby.
"Good morning, Mr. Ernet!" he shouted without stopping.
"Good morning, Cyrus!" The doorman, an elderly man, smiled as he saw him. "I've already paid for your pack of cigarettes with Omar. Be careful at work, boy."
Cyrus waved without looking back and headed to the end of the street. He picked up his cigarette at Omar's Bar and, without the patience to wait, grabbed onto the back of the bus that passed by his workplace.
The Passion de Venus was located in the upscale neighborhood, a world completely different from the one he lived in.
The crystal chandeliers cast golden reflections on the white marble tables, where clients dressed in fine fabrics and discreet jewelry conversed in low voices. The aroma of freshly ground coffee and delicate pastries permeated the air, mingling with the soft sound of a piano in the background. It was a place of refinement and luxury, made for people who had never experienced hunger or despair.
But, despite feeling out of place in "his world," he was no stranger there.
The owner of Passion de Venus, Louis Vanille, an elegant man with blond hair and light blue eyes, smiled contentedly as he saw him enter.
"Finally, the star of the house has arrived."
Cyrus huffed but couldn't help a small smirk. Despite everything, he liked Louis. The man had a theatrical manner, but he wasn't fake. He genuinely appreciated Cyrus, and that extended to the clients.
"Cyrus!" A cheerful voice called from one of the tables.
He turned just in time to see a group of high-society girls waving at him. Some disguised their excitement with restrained smiles, but their gazes betrayed their fascination.
"Good morning, ladies," he greeted, his voice carrying a practiced calmness.
It was like this every morning. Even though he belonged to the darker side of Valefort, Cyrus shone at the Passion de Venus. His handsome face, husky voice, and air of mystery made him a favorite among the clients, especially the women.
And, as much as he told himself he didn't care about it... a part of him enjoyed the attention.
"Come on, Blackthorn, less posing and more work." Louis teased, tossing an apron in his direction.
Cyrus caught it mid-air, tying it around his waist with a sigh. It was time to start the day.