The late afternoon sun bathed the golden field in warm light. Rows of corn swayed in a soft breeze, rustling like whispers. Cicadas droned lazily in the heat. A scarecrow leaned drunkenly to one side, its hat missing, its straw-stuffed arms outstretched like a crucified ghost.
Kael—now seventeen—worked in silence, sweat beading along his brow, his shirt stained and clinging to his wiry frame. He was tall, but thin in a way that suggested hunger more than elegance. His black hair, shaggy and uneven, fell into his eyes. Eyes that were too sharp, too observant for a farm boy.
He moved with quiet efficiency, pulling ears of corn from their stalks, tossing them into a burlap sack.
Across from him, Virelle, a little grayer and heavier than she had been eleven years ago, moved with the practiced rhythm of someone who'd learned to live simply despite carrying too many ghosts.
> "You handle corn better than a sword, I'll give you that," she teased, tossing a cob at him with a smirk.
Kael caught it easily, but didn't smile. "Guess I won't be fighting any corn demons soon."
> "Careful. That imagination of yours is still sharp. Last time you scared that poor goat half to death pretending it was a wyvern."
Kael allowed himself the smallest of smiles. Just for her.
They worked in rhythm for a time—just enough peace to feel unnatural. Then, as they carried the last few sacks toward the barn, a voice thundered across the field like a storm.
> "KAEL!"
Jorran, the man who'd married Virelle after their arrival in the village, stomped toward them. A mountain of a man, with sun-reddened skin and a beard like tangled roots. His eyes were bloodshot, face twisted with fury.
Kael stiffened instantly.
> "You little cur! You think you can bring shame on this family? I just heard from Harwin—his boy's got a busted lip and bruised ribs! What in damnation did you do?!"
> "He came at me," Kael replied, voice low but steady. "He threw the first punch."
> "And you finished it like a little monster, didn't you?! Just like your kind!"
That word cut deeper than Jorran could know.
Jorran grabbed Kael by the collar and slammed him against the barn wall, hard enough for dust to fall from the rafters.
> "You're a curse! A burden I never wanted!" Spittle flew from his mouth. "You think we owe you something just 'cause she dragged you out of the ashes?!"
Virelle was there in a flash, pulling at his arm.
> "Enough! Let him go! He's just a boy—"
> "No, Virelle! He's not just a boy. He's something else. Something wrong. You know it, I know it—everyone around here feels it."
Kael yanked free, his chest heaving. He picked up his sack of corn, looked at it—then hurled it onto the ground. Kernels burst across the dirt like spilled blood.
> "Keep your corn."
And with that, he turned and walked off, ignoring Virelle's calls, ignoring Jorran's curses. The sun dipped lower behind him, throwing his figure into long shadow as he headed for the edge of the fields.
Kael trudged forward, his fists clenched tight in the pockets of his patched cloak, the fire inside him stirring.
They feared him. The boys in Thormans village—those wide-eyed sons of farmers and blacksmiths—they'd learned to step aside when Kael passed. Once, they'd jeered and mocked him. Then came the bruises, the split lips, the shattered pride. After that, only distance. Whispers. Avoidance. The village elders spoke of him as a curse. A shadow. A warning.
But Kael didn't care. Not really.
Not about them.
He paused at the base of an old twisted willow, the place where he often came when the weight grew too heavy. The bark was cool beneath his palm as he sat at its base, leaning his head back and staring up through the tangle of boughs above.
The memories came unbidden, as they always did. Not clear. Not crisp. Just flashes. Smells. Sounds. Echoes.
His mother's perfume—lavender and myrrh—carried faintly in the wind. Her voice, soft and humming, whispering lullabies that his ears barely remembered but his heart never forgot.
Then the blood.
He remembered the red. It had spilled across the cold stone floor like paint. He remembered the way her body dropped. Boneless. Fragile. Wrong.
The scream that tore through the air—raw, choking, his father's voice echoing across the vaulted stone chamber.
And then arms. Virelle's arms. Wrapping around him, yanking him back. His legs kicking. Tiny fists flailing. A scream caught in his throat. The wind rushing past as the world shattered behind him.
It was vague now. Like smoke slipping through his fingers.
But the feeling?
The feeling never left.
It had planted something in him that day. Not sadness. Not even fear.
Rage.
It burned low. Slow. Smoldering beneath the skin. It didn't flare easily, but when it did—it destroyed. Just like that day.
Kael exhaled sharply, staring at his hands. Calloused from labor. Stained with dirt. Yet too often, stained with blood.
They called him cursed. A demon-child. A bad omen.
But they hadn't seen what he had. They hadn't lost what he lost.
"Wickedness," he muttered aloud, voice gravelly and distant, "isn't born. It's taught. Given."
He looked up again, the branches above blurring slightly with the sting in his eyes. But the tears didn't fall. They never did. Not anymore.
Only the fire remained.
---
By the River – Dusk...
The sound of rushing water soothed his ears, but not his thoughts.
Kael sat on a smooth boulder by the riverbank, knees drawn up, fingers absently trailing along the dirt. The reflection in the water showed someone he didn't recognize. Tired eyes. Tight jaw. The boy who had once worn royal silk was now covered in mud and bruises—and he couldn't tell if that was justice or punishment.
He didn't hear her approach.
> "Brooding again?"
Kael glanced up.
Saria, a local girl his age with storm-gray eyes and untamable curls, stood above him. She wore a simple tunic, hands on her hips, and that teasing grin that always forced its way past his defenses.
> "Don't you ever knock?" he muttered.
> "Don't you ever smile?" she shot back.
She plopped down beside him, bumping his shoulder lightly. He didn't respond, but he didn't move away either.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the river twist like a silver snake through the trees. A bird cried overhead. The wind carried the scent of distant rain.
> "So…" Saria finally said, "You gonna tell me what happened? Harwin's boy looked like he'd been in the ring with a beast. People are talking."
Kael didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the water, but his voice, when it came, was cold and flat.
> "He said something. About my mother. About… me."
> "So you beat him bloody?"
> "No," Kael replied, "I stopped after the fourth rib cracked."
Saria blinked—then sighed, brushing a hand through her hair.
> "Kael… you can't keep doing this. People already look at you like you're cursed."
> "Maybe I am."
His voice was quiet. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just… empty.
---
The sunlight danced across the river's surface, casting golden ripples against Kael's motionless silhouette. Saria sat beside him, her fingers absently tracing circles in the soft mud near the riverbank, her eyes flickering between curiosity and concern.
"So," she said softly, "are you ever going to tell me what really happened?"
Before Kael could answer, the rustling of undergrowth and the low thud of boots broke through the quiet. Across the river, the trees parted, and a group of teenagers emerged along the opposite bank. They moved in loose formation, dressed in piecemeal hunting leathers—mismatched armor plates, thick hide gloves, bows slung over shoulders, and crude blades dangling at their sides. Some carried spears, others had their sleeves rolled high to show off arms already scarred with shallow nicks and tribal sigils.
Kael's gaze shifted. He recognized a few of them—boys from their town of Thornmere, and others from villages nestled deeper in the valley. The kind who were too eager to be men, too prideful to learn restraint.
Saria stiffened beside him. "Great," she muttered. "The pack of idiots."
The group paused when they caught sight of the pair on the opposite bank. A ripple of recognition passed through them. One of the boys, thick-set with a mop of sandy hair, nudged the tall youth leading the group. The leader was hard to miss—easily over six feet, lean and broad-shouldered, with a cocky grin pasted beneath dark eyes that gleamed like flint.
"Oi!" he called out, cupping his hands to project across the water. "If it isn't the Beast of Thormans village himself!"
Several of the teens burst into laughter. Saria narrowed her eyes and looked to Kael, but he remained unmoved—stone-faced, silent, his eyes fixed not on the group but the slow-moving current.
The tall boy wasn't done. "Tell me, Kael, how many bones did you break this time? Or did you just cry again and pretend it never happened?" His words dripped with mockery.
More chuckles followed. A few boys mimed wiping their eyes in pretend sorrow. One barked out, "Maybe he needs his maidmother to tuck him in!"
Kael's jaw tightened slightly, but he gave no answer. He simply looked away, the expression on his face unreadable—like a shuttered window in a house built to withstand storms.
Saria stood abruptly, her hands clenched into fists. "That's rich coming from Harwin's lapdog," she shouted across the water. "Shouldn't you be helping him chew solid food again? Or did Kael loosen more than just his jaw?"
The laughter faltered slightly, replaced by a few uncomfortable shuffles. The tall boy's smirk flickered. He took a step forward as if to retort, but Kael finally turned his head—his gaze locking with the leader's in a stare that held no fear, no rage, just an unsettling calm.