It was a bleak night, with rain hitting the roads of the great city Miklagard at an uneven yet soothing tempo. Windows were shut and doors were locked, and not a single soul was traversing the cobbled streets other than travelers running to the nearest inn to escape the storm. The only sound that permeated the ever-present rain was the howl of the wind, roaring in contest with the downpour, each trying to drown out the other. Occasionally, a flash of light, followed by the crash of thunder, outdid both of the competitors, filling the alleys with a soft glow that was gone as soon as it came.
A young boy with black hair and a frail disposition, meanwhile, was sitting peacefully in his room. Situated high above the rest of the city, and above most of the castle itself, He was constantly bombarded by the sound of rain on his roof and thunderous crashes of lightning, but he didn't seem to mind. And why should he? After all, there's only so many times one could be scared by something before it held no weight.
No younger than 15, he sat on the edge of his bed, readying himself to open a small book. Smuggling it from the royal library was no short ordeal, but the banished prince under permanent house arrest had his ways.
Django was cursed, after all. Being devious was a package deal with the affliction.
When one is locked in a room for years, they tend to run out of things to do very quickly. Django was no exception, having long made a hobby out of ransacking various parts of the castle he wasn't allowed to be in. Whereas other members of a royal family may have just walked into the castle library and take a book, he had to meticulously plan an entire route in order to sneak in. That was because Django was barely let out of his room, let alone given free range privilege, like a normal prince. Instead, he had to take a rather convoluted paths around the castle, dodging servants and guards, just to get something interesting to read, or something better than basic food to eat. Although there was nothing wrong with the food carted up to his room every day... but the repetitive nature of the meals and the people delivering them had grown old.
Django also never really experienced the same privileged upbringing of his royal peers... if he could really call other children of noble birth his peers.
'After all, it's hard to call myself someone with peers if I'm trapped in a building and have to come into contact with as few people as possible to live a semi-peaceful life.'
Django was severely lacking in most areas considered minimum knowledge for nobles. He was never taught by tutors, had his talent as a strategist tested, or ever even crossed swords with an old veteran instructor. He wasn't engaged in any politics, either. Still, he couldn't complain too much - from what he heard from servants as he snuck around, all those things seemed uninteresting, if not unimportant. Who cares if lord what's-his-face's son challenged who's-his-name's son to a duel, or if the vassal states stepped out of line, or about what this noble mistress said to that at a ball? Django had no interest in living as a noble.
Then again, maybe that was him coping for having to live like a cockroach. Living in the shadow of his own image, one conjured up by his father in order to keep others away from him, worked wonders for making him feel like a bug that others either feared or were repulsed by, if not both.
In fact, Django could barely remember a time that wasn't the case. There was always fear, in their faces and voices. It had quelled, slightly, over the years... but never enough. They never looked into his gray eyes when they spoke to him, shied away from coming into contact with his body, and always seemed to be in a rush to leave. It was unpleasant, to be undesired, but Django was used to it.
Remembering how the maid in the morning had almost jumped out of her skin when he got up out of bed to grab his breakfast, he grimaced.
'Would it kill some of you to just act nicer?' He thought indignantly.
But Django knew that wouldn't be happening, at least not for a while. Fear was a powerful weapon and means of control. His father had taught him that.
Turning the book over in his hands, Django surveyed the spoils of his latest illegal expedition into the depths of his own house. He had to be careful picking his next piece of literature to consume, since there was always the chance a missing book came back to haunt him... The last time his father, the king, was informed of his excursions, Django was barely able to scrape by with a warning. A rather dire one at that.
However, the risks were well worth the reward. Sitting in the palms of his hands was a book whose contents he had been searching forever for. Bound in a dark leather, it was a relatively thin work - only about five inches in width - but Django knew he had found the exact book he needed.
'Bingo.'
The proof was the insignia on the front. It was complexing, yet plain. While bearing the simple image of a human eye, it was detailed beyond that of even the finest carpentry furnishings in the castle. The main likeness of the eye itself consisted of a dark blot inside of an empty ring, itself surrounded by a dark flowing border. A snake-like gap inside the blot revealed the iris, and the book's engraving was such that anywhere Django's eyes looked, the iris seemed to match them, flowing and rotating to meet his eyes. Around the main eye was a border with a design that seemed almost alive.
Django mentally compared it to a fire that flared with the hatred of a raging bonfire, but somehow remained solid and smooth. Every portion of the mark contributed both to its beauty... and to its brutality. It was horrible, enchanting, and mysterious.
And it was exactly the same as the mystical tattoo on his forehead.