Where Trauma Comes Gift-Wrapped in Red Cloaks and Emotional Repression
The village of Draelen did not dream.
Not because it lacked the imagination. No, Draelen was full of souls who used to dream—who wanted to dream. But in Draelen, dreaming was a luxury. And luxuries? Luxuries got you noticed. And being noticed?
That got you taken.
See, Draelen was ruled by the kind of people who thought color was dangerous and laughter was a war crime. They wore blood-red cloaks—because apparently subtlety was beneath them—and believed joy was a disease that needed purging with fire. They called themselves the Overseers. Kael, even as a child, privately called them "flaming fashion fails," though he wisely never said it out loud.
He was eight years old the night they came for his mother.
And everything changed.
It had been a quiet evening. Well, as quiet as any evening could be in a place where even the birds flew in low whisper mode. Kael had just been wrapped in a scratchy old blanket, warm in the nook of his mother's lap. Her fingers gently threaded through his hair while she hummed—an old lullaby, soft as breath, about clouds and freedom.
Freedom. What a joke.
The tune floated like silk in the air, weaving warmth where there had only been cold walls and colder hearts. Kael was almost asleep. Almost.
Then came the boots.
Heavy, armored boots pounding against stone like thunder with a grudge. They weren't subtle. The Overseers never were. Why sneak when you can stomp ?
Kael's eyes blinked open. His mother stiffened.
The knock never came. Just the crash.
The door tore off its hinges as if it had insulted someone's mother. Kael barely ducked in time as one of the wooden panels flew past his face, lodging itself in the wall like it owed rent.
His mother moved fast. So fast he almost thought time froze for her.
She stood, scooping him off her lap in a single motion, and shoved him behind the soot-caked fireplace. It was barely big enough for an angry raccoon, let alone a skinny kid with a confused expression.
"Don't move," she whispered. Her voice wasn't shaking. Her hands were. "Not a breath."
It was the last thing she ever said to him.
He squeezed into the corner, heart pounding like it was trying to claw out of his ribs. Through the cracks, he saw them—cloaks like dried blood, faces like stone, eyes like they'd forgotten how to blink.
"You've been hiding a book," one said.
Just a book.
Not a weapon. Not a secret map to an underground rebellion. A freaking book.
His mother stood tall. No words. Just defiance in the shape of silence.
They didn't like that.
Kael didn't see what happened next. Just heard it. The sound of struggle. A muffled gasp. Something falling.
Then nothing.
When the Overseers finally left, the door wasn't just broken—it was gone. Like it had decided, "Nope, I'm out," and vanished. Kael crawled out, soot-covered and shaking.
She was gone.
No body. No scream. Not even a single thread from her robe.
Just... gone.
The silence that followed was a monster all its own.
---
In the days that followed, Kael didn't cry. He didn't scream. He didn't speak.
His father—once a stubborn carpenter with a booming laugh and arms like tree trunks—shrank into a shadow. His hands, once precise and steady, now trembled even when lifting a spoon. Kael became the caretaker. At eight.
He cooked watery gruel so bland it could cause an existential crisis. He swept floors. He fetched water.
And he learned how not to feel.
The Overseers ruled with fire and fear. They burned books. Destroyed music. Jailed anyone who smiled a little too long. Kael learned quickly:
* Don't draw in the dirt.
* Don't ask questions.
* Don't ever, ever look up at the sky.
The sky was where freedom lived. And in Draelen, freedom was sedition.
But Kael's soul... it didn't forget. Not really. Somewhere deep inside, something curled up and waited. A storm.
A whisper.
---
Sometimes, late at night, Kael would sneak outside. Just for a moment. Just to breathe.
And the wind—it would tug at his sleeves. Gentle. Curious. Like it remembered the song his mother used to hum.
He never said a word.
But the storm inside him grew.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just... waiting.
Like him.
---