"Pick it up," sneered that filthy Ivan, his handkerchief tossed with spite upon the ground, a careless challenge in the dust to drown.
"Why should I?" asked Vecillious, his voice a trembling whisper, eyes glassed with unshed storms, as tears welled—not of weakness, but of battles fought in silence.
Ivan's hand cracked through the silence, a slap like thunder across the boy's cheek. Vecillious staggered—his small frame swaying, knees buckling beneath the weight of humiliation.Eight years old, and already a prisoner to the whims of the filthy with hollow hearts.
As always, he gave in.Bitter breath held, he knelt, fingers trembling as they brushed the filthy cloth, and lifted it—not out of obedience, but because resistance had long been beaten into quiet compliance.
After picking it up—that cursed cloth stained not with dirt, but with crushed pride—Vecillious handed it to the servant standing nearby. The man didn't look at him. He never did. None of them ever did. It was easier to ignore a child when you pretended he didn't exist.
Like always, Vecillious turned and ran.
Down the long, hollow corridors of the castle, through stone passages colder than the people who lived in them. His small, bare feet slapped against icy marble, his breath sharp in his throat. He didn't stop until he reached the door at the far end of the lower wing—his door.
His room.
A forgotten space carved into the underbelly of the castle. No windows. No light. Just damp stone walls slick with condensation, and a low ceiling that pressed down like a secret meant to suffocate. The floor was always wet, smelling of mildew and rot. A single, cracked basin sat in the corner, green with moss. The thin mattress on the floor was torn and stained, crawling with the things no one dared name. Rats had made a kingdom here long before him.
Even the servants had warmth—a hearth, a blanket, a room with air that moved. Vecillious had this: a space that wasn't a cell, but somehow felt worse.
He dropped to his knees.
There was no comfort here. No softness. No light. Only the walls that wept and the silence that mocked him.
"Not a place of comfort…" he whispered, voice shaking. "S-so j-just w-where s-should I g-go n-now, huh? All I desire to know is why should I do all that they command"
The words tumbled out, broken. He wrapped his arms around himself as tears carved trails through the grime on his cheeks. Not because he was weak, but because no one had ever let him be anything else.
Alone again. Bruised again. And still, like always… forgotten.
His mother had perished shortly after his birth. He was a prince—by blood, yes—but illegitimate, the product of a fleeting sin the Emperor never cared to acknowledge. The court spoke his name only in whispers, if at all. The Emperor, his father in name alone, showed no interest in the boy who bore his features but not his blessing.
Vecillious grew up in the shadow of the throne, unwanted and unseen.
His step-siblings, all pure-blooded, polished and perfect—made sure he never forgot his place. They wore their nobility like armor and used it like a blade, finding new ways each day to torment him. In their eyes, he was filth—less than a servant, a blemish on their pristine legacy. And in the silence of the stone halls, far from the gaze of their father, they made sure he suffered for ever daring to exist.
He wiped his tears, though they still refused to stop. Each breath came ragged, as if his chest had forgotten how to hold air without pain. His trembling fingers brushed his face, smearing tears into grime, but still they fell—steady, helpless, honest.
Then came the sound—low and hollow—his stomach crying out in hunger. It growled like a wounded animal, echoing in the stone room that offered no comfort and no care. He pressed his arms against it, hoping pressure might hush the ache. It didn't.
There was no food. There never was.
Curled on the cold floor, knees to his chest, back against the damp wall, he let his head rest sideways, cheek against his arm. The stone beneath him was wet and unwelcoming, but it was all he had.
He didn't mean to sleep.
But exhaustion is a quiet thief, and when sorrow weighs heavy, even discomfort becomes a cradle.
And so, still hungry, still hurting, Vecillious slipped into unconsciousness—not because he was at peace, but because he had nothing left to feel awake for.
He didn't die of hunger.
Somehow, he never did.
Because when the pain grew sharp enough to blur his vision, he would crawl out to the edges of the stables and chew at the wild grass that grew between stones. It was bitter, dry, and hard to swallow—but it was something. And if he was lucky, he'd drink from the shallow troughs where the horses fed, the water warm and muddy, flecked with straw and dust.
Once in a while—on nights when pity overpowered fear—a servant would sneak him scraps: a crust of bread, a piece of fruit half-rotted, or a bit of meat wrapped in cloth. They never stayed long. Just a flash of movement in the dark, a whisper behind the door, and the smallest gift left on the floor. They never spoke to him. Never dared.
But it was enough.
Enough to keep the boy breathing. Enough to keep him alive for another day.
Alive—but barely.
The next day, Vecillious woke as he always did—alone, cold, and restless. His limbs ached from the hard stone floor, but still, he rose. The castle's shadows seemed to cling to him like chains, and so he wandered through the endless halls and forgotten wings, moving like a ghost nobody noticed.
His feet carried him farther than usual, to the back of the abandoned palace—the part where even servants dared not tread. Here, crumbling walls were swallowed by ivy, and silence ruled like a monarch.
There, nestled in the thick roots of an ancient oak, he spotted it: a small doghole, barely large enough for a boy to slip through. A fragile doorway to freedom, or so it seemed.
Heart pounding, Vecillious grabbed a rag and wrapped it around his thin frame—an armor of cloth against the cold and dust.
He crept toward the hole, moving slowly, deliberately, every step measured to avoid the sharp ears of guards or the quick eyes of spies. He imagined slipping through unnoticed, vanishing like smoke in the wind.
But then the truth struck him like a blow: no one was left to protect a prince abandoned by blood and birthright. The castle was empty of loyalty, empty of love.
So, with a sudden burst of desperate courage, he ran.
Out through the crumbling gates and into the wild beyond—into anywhere but here.
As his feet pounded the earth, a strange thought swirled in his chest—should he feel sadness? Relief? Fear? Joy?
No one would stop him now.
No one would hold him back.
And yet, the freedom tasted strange—like the edge of a knife, sharp and unknown.
He wandered—here, then there—without direction, without purpose. The world outside the palace was far larger and louder than he'd ever imagined. Dust clung to his bare feet, and the sun dipped lower with every step, painting the sky in bleeding gold and bruised purple.
As night fell, the empire's heart began to stir.
He had stumbled into a place unlike any he'd seen before—a great open bazar, where tents flapped like sails in the wind and voices spilled from every corner. Merchants packed up their goods, but the air still buzzed with life. The festival was beginning.
Lanterns bloomed to life overhead, one by one, casting warm light on streets that knew too many footsteps. Music broke out from shaded corners. Laughter burst from ale-slicked mouths. Dancers spun in circles of silk and color. And the storytellers—ancient men with voices like sand—began their songs beneath the glow of firelight.
Vecillious stood at the edge of it all, a tattered shape swallowed by the crowd.
He wrapped the rag tighter around his body, hiding in its folds like armor. His small hands trembled. The noise overwhelmed him. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what to do.
This wasn't the cold silence of the castle halls. This was chaos, celebration, motion—and he was just one lost boy in it all.
He backed into a shadowed corner between two empty stalls and crouched down, knees to his chest. His breath shook in his throat. And then, softly, the tears returned. Not loud, not wild—just slow and quiet, the way sorrow settles when it's too deep for screaming.
He watched the light, the movement, the joy he couldn't touch.
No one noticed him.
No one stopped him.
And for the first time in his life, he could go anywhere.
But freedom, when you've never known safety, feels more like fear than flight.
So he sat there in the dark, wondering—should he feel happy, or sad?
And as the dancers spun and the stories soared, he realized he didn't know the answer.
The festival roared around him—drums, laughter, voices slurred with wine. Drunk men stumbled through the stalls, shouting, singing, some collapsing with bottles still in hand. Flames from lanterns danced wildly in the wind, casting strange shadows on the walls.
Vecillious shrank back further.
The sounds were too loud. The people too many. And the looks—those careless, wandering glances—terrified him more than silence ever had.
A sudden thought gripped him:"I want to go back."
Back to the cold room.Back to the silence.Back to the stone floor that didn't move beneath his feet.
But he didn't know the way.
He spun around, panic rising in his chest like smoke in a locked room. His breath quickened. His legs moved before his mind could catch up. He ran—through crowds, past stalls, under hanging fabrics—anywhere, just away.
Then he saw it:A narrow alley, hidden between two stone buildings, cloaked in shadow.
He slipped inside.
It smelled of damp stone and old fruit. Rats scurried near broken crates, but he didn't care. He dropped to the ground, curled his arms around his knees, and pulled them tight against his chest.
And then, he cried.
He cried not like a child trying to be heard—but like someone trying not to be.
Yet the sobs came so deep, so raw, they shook through him—loud enough to pierce even the festival's noise.
And for the first time that night, in all that noise and color and chaos...
he heard himself.
***Acheros slipped through the side gate of the mansion, shadows hugging his steps as the distant hum of celebration reached his ears. The festival had begun. Lanterns floated above the rooftops like fireflies, music spilled from courtyards, and laughter echoed through the alleys of the empire.
He had made it.
At just ten years old, he moved with a calm that seemed older than him—confident, yet gentle. His posture straight, his pace steady. There was strength in his walk, but it wasn't loud. There was kindness in his eyes.
He walked among the crowd unnoticed, not because he hid—but because he had learned how to be invisible in plain sight.
Yet inside, he carried a quiet ache. Loneliness, not loud, but always there. A weight he was too young to name, but too familiar with to forget.
As voices rang around him and dancers spun beneath colored silk banners, his thoughts drifted like the wind between stalls.
"Hmm… A river of sorrow. Not one that gives sorrow, but…"
He paused in his steps, furrowing his brows. The sentence broke off, unfinished, as if something inside him refused to believe it.
Then—softly, gently—her voice returned.
"I named you Acheros, my love. Not because you are made of sorrow…but because one day, you'll carry it away—just like rivers carry darkness to the sea."
He stopped for a moment, surrounded by lights and strangers, and pressed a hand to his chest. That memory, that voice—it was the only warmth that still lived in him.
And for just a moment, the ache inside him flowed softer.
He walked farther and farther from the festival's bright chaos,the noise that once stirred excitement now gnawed at his nerves.He wanted—more than anything—to lose himself in the laughter and light,to feel joy instead of this heavy weight inside.
But no matter how hard he tried, the happiness slipped through his fingers like water.So he kept walking—past the music, past the crowds—until a narrow, dark alley appeared like a secret waiting for him.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the shadows,where silence welcomed him like an old friend.
The deeper Acheros moved into the alley, the quieter the world became—the sounds of the festival fading into a distant blur.Then he heard it.A soft, shaky sob, barely louder than a whisper.
He stopped, listened.There it was again.Not far.
He crept closer, eyes adjusting to the dark,and there—curled up against a crumbling stone wall—was a boy.Small, younger than him.Arms wrapped tightly around his knees, face buried, shoulders trembling.
Acheros stepped forward, cautious.He opened his mouth to speak, but just then—
Footsteps stumbled into the alley behind him,clumsy and loud.
A man's shadow swayed under the dim torchlight from the street.He smelled of spilt wine and roasted meat,his coat unbuttoned, hair wild.
"Eh? What're you two doin' back here?" the man muttered,his voice thick and slow.He blinked at the darkness, then hiccupped loudly.
Acheros froze. So did the boy.
The man squinted, swaying slightly."Hah... kids… can't even bring a damn lantern…" he mumbled.He fumbled at his belt, unhooked a dented lantern,then shoved it in Acheros's direction.
"Here. You'll trip on yer own feet in the dark."He gave a tired hiccup,then turned with a grunt and wandered out,the sounds of music and shouting quickly swallowing him up.
The man's footsteps vanished into the noise, and silence crept back into the alley.
Acheros stood there awkwardly, holding the lantern by its worn metal handle.The warm glow swayed with the flame, casting shaky shadows on the walls.
He stepped closer to the boy, the light stretching just far enough to catch the small figure huddled by the stone.
Acheros hesitated, then offered a quiet smile.
"Um… are you okay?" he asked, unsure, the words stiff on his tongue.
The boy didn't answer.
Slowly, he lifted his head.The lantern's glow brushed across his face—revealing tear-streaked cheeks, tangled hair, and pale, trembling lips.
His eyes blinked open—a tired, watery shade of blue that shimmered in the soft light.His hair, where the light touched it, flared a dull red.Not bright… but enough to see.
Acheros stared, caught off guard.
Those eyes—pale blue, sharp even through the tears.
He knew that color.He had seen it before.In the emperor's cold stare.In the crown prince's narrowed gaze.
Only one family in the empire had eyes like that.
But then—his breath hitched.
The hair.
Dark red, messy, sticking to the boy's damp cheeks.Not common in Aeseulia.No—Elsereni.The deep auburn shade some of the palace servants had.
Acheros's thoughts spun.
Eyes like the emperor. Hair like the slaves How…?
Then he remembered. The rumors.The boy born from the emperor and a foreign slave.The one no one mentioned by name.The illegitimate child kept locked away,unseen—except in whispers.
His stomach twisted.
Softly, barely more than breath, Acheros murmured,"…Vecillious?"