"Take it up," quoth foul Ivan, his tongue steep'd in bile and mockery, and with a flick of his gauntlet-stiff'd wrist, did cast his soiled kerchief unto the earth—like a scorn'd offering to the dust itself.
"Wh-why must I?" spake young Vecillious, voice scarce more than a breath 'pon frost-wind, his words stammer'd and faint, as though afeard to be heard.
His eyes—aye, those sorrowful lamps—were brim-full of storms unshed; not tears of weakling sort, nay, but silent reckonings of battles fought within a boy too young for war.
Ivan answer'd not with words—but with hand.
Like thunder drawn swift from sky, it fell upon the lad's cheek, cracking 'cross his tender skin with such might it seem'd the chamber itself would echo his shame for years to come.
Down stagger'd Vecillious, small frame folding like parchment in cruel hands. He near fell, but caught hisself, for falling be worse than pain—it earned more.
Eight winters had he suffer'd, though none bore him joy. Chains unseen did bind his limbs, forged not of iron, but of hate and hollow kinship.
Aye, he knelt.
As he had knelt many times before.
Breath bitter as wormwood, mouth dry as parch'd scroll, he stretch'd forth his trembling hand and gather'd the foul cloth. No pride moved him—only the dull quiet of surrender.
The rag, soiled in more than earth—stain'd with the trampled dignity of a boy born of silence and sin—he handed to a servant who dared not meet his gaze.
None did.
None ever would.
'Tis easier thus, to act as though he never was.
And so did Vecillious turn, a shadow slipping 'neath heavier shadow, feet bare and breath tight in chest.
Through halls of chill'd stone he fled, where no hearth nor mercy dwelt. His toes struck 'gainst the cold flagstones with soft thuds like ghost-steps.
Down, ever downward, to that forsook chamber—his own—a den not fit for beast nor beggar.
There, in yon bowels of the keep, behind a crooked door and dripping eaves, he found his rest—not rest, nay, but exile.
The walls did weep with age, the air stank of mildew, and the ceiling stoop'd low—as if the room itself wish'd to bury him beneath forgetting.
A basin stood, broken and green'd with moss, while 'pon a cot half-rotted, vermin skitter'd like secrets in the night.
There was no fire. No warmth.
Not even the mocking kindness of a barred cell.
He fell 'pon his knees again, as was oft his custom—unto stone cold and wet, arms 'round hisself like one who feareth he might spill open.
"Not… a place… of comfort…" quoth he, voice wav'ring as autumn leaves.
"Then… then where? Where lies my solace?"
The silence answer'd not. It never did.
Tears—aye, the slow kind, the kind that come not from sting, but from the hollow ache of never being seen—slid down his grime-worn cheeks.
His mother—gods keep her shade—had pass'd but months after gifting him breath.
His father… a crowned man who bore no warmth for bastards, ne'er so much as whisper'd his name in hall or court.
Vecillious, child of shadows and silence, was to them a rumor best forgot.
The court, robed and ringed with gold, spake of him only in hush'd voice, and seldom at that.
His half-kin, noble-born and polish'd like silver chalices, bore no love for their lowborn shadow. Nay—they sharpen'd their pride upon his sorrow, and each morn came with new jest, new scorn, new wound.
Thus was his life writ in cold ink—one of echo'd steps, forgotten meals, and eyes that turned away.
He wiped his cheeks with soiled fingers, though the tears clung stubborn, as though they too refused to be banish'd. His breath came in ragged fits—like tempest gales breaking upon the shore of a hollow chest. With hands unsteady, he smear'd sorrow into the grime already upon his face. Yet still the tears fell—steadfast, helpless, and true.
Then stirr'd that old familiar ache—a low growl deep in the belly, beast-like and starv'd. It echoed through the damp-womb'd chamber like a cruel jest. He press'd his arms to his stomach, willing it hush'd, but the pangs remain'd—sharp as needles in winter.
Food came not with the sun, nor by rule, but as fate fancied—scattered crumbs from servant hands, mercies vanishing ere they could be named. Oft forgotten. Oft denied.
He curl'd upon the stone, cold as a coffin, limbs drawn to chest like one unborn. His spine lean'd 'gainst the weeping wall; he lay his head 'pon a shiv'ring arm, and there he stay'd.
He meant not to sleep—but sorrow is heavy, and weariness comes not always with bidding.Thus did he fall—not into rest, but into that black numbness of one who hath nothing left to lose, and less still to dream.
He did not perish, though starvation walk'd beside him like a ghost's shadow.When pain sharp'ned into hunger's blade, he'd drag himself to stable's edge and chew what bitter weeds push'd 'twixt the stones, and sip shallow water warmed by horses' breath.
Once—just once—when mercy bested fear, a servant left behind a crust, a small fruit, a bit of flesh in rough cloth. A whisper of kindness in a world built of cruelty.
Enough to draw one more breath. Enough to wake to another grey morning.
He stirr'd in that morn as he had in many before—alone, stiff of limb, cold to the bone. Stone offer'd no kindness. Yet still he walk'd.
Like a ghost haunting halls none dared tread, he roam'd through empty wings where silence sat thick and even the lowliest servant would not linger.
But there, beneath an ancient oak whose roots claw'd deep into the castle's skin, he found a narrow mouth in the earth—small, near-hid, fit only for a boy with more bruises than hope.
A door, perchance, to freedom—or folly.
He cloaked himself in tatter'd wrappings, poor armour 'gainst cold and dirt, and his heart beat as though it would flee before he did.
With care of thief or mouse, he crept—step upon silent step—slipping past watchful corners, away from those who might call him back.
Yet none called. None watched.The prince forsaken had no jailor left—only walls too proud to notice.
And so, with sudden fire that despair alone could kindle, he fled.
Through broken gates, past stone grown weary of holding him, he ran—ran into the vast not-here, into a world that might be cruel or kind or simply uncaring.
His feet beat the dust in rhythm with his breath; his heart danced a strange dance—half fear, half joy.
No hand held him back now. No chain clung.
Freedom, when first tasted, is a bitter-sweet draught—sharp as knife's edge, strange as dream.
He wander'd—no path, no name.Sun droop'd low, painting the earth with gold and bruised violet, a sky at once dying and divine.
And at the empire's edge, when night drew her black veil, he came upon a place unlike all others.
A great bazaar, stretched like a many-limbed creature, writhed with life and scent and sound.Tents flutter'd like sails in foreign wind.Traders pack'd goods with jaded hands.But life still thunder'd—a wild, blood-hot heartbeat.
Lanterns sprang to life, like stars coax'd down to bless the dirt.From alleys, music coiled; from taverns, laughter spilt like wine.Dancers spun in firelit circles, skirts like rivers.Old men, croak-voiced and beard-deep, sang tales under flame's kiss.
Vecillious stood just beyond—tatter'd, ghost-skin'd, devour'd by the crowd.
He clung to his rag like it were armour wrought by saints. His hands trembl'd.The world was loud—too loud.The joy too strange.
He wander'd 'til the press became too much, and there, 'mid the bones of a stall long-empty, he shrank—knees to chin, heart thundering wild.
Tears return'd, soft this time, like rain in a ruined chapel.Not for others. Not to be seen.
But because the heart will spill, when silence is too full to hold.
He watch'd the brightness—the movement—the laughter—and knew not what to make of it.
None look'd his way.No hand beckon'd.No word was spoken.
And for the first time in all his moons of misery… he could go anywhere.
But where is "anywhere" to one who hath never known "somewhere"?
Freedom, to a heart never safe, feeleth much like terror.
And so he sat, a still thing in a world ablaze, and wondered:Shall I be glad? Or sorrowful?
The revelry raged like storm tide—drums, slurr'd voices, wild firelight.Men stumble'd. Shadows stretch'd and shrank.The night lived loud.
Vecillious shrank further.
The joy of others grew monstrous—too vast, too careless.A cruel thought grip'd him like frost:
"I would go back."
Back to stone. Back to cold. Back to the pain he knew.
But he knew not the way.
Panic swell'd in his chest—like smoke with no escape. His legs mov'd ere his mind could halt them.
He fled—through crowds, past flame and silk, into shadow.A narrow lane reveal'd itself, stone-wall'd and fetid. He darted in.
The air was rank. Rotting fruit, piss, rat-breath.
He did not care.
He sank to the ground, arms about legs, face to knees.
And there—at last—he wept.
Not for eyes to see.Not for pity to find.
But as one who must break somewhere, sometime.And had found, by accident, a place the world forgot.
His sobs rang faint, but true.And in all the color, all the sound, all the life that bustled unheeding—
Vecillious, child of no home,Heard himself.
***
Acheros slipped like breath through the side gate of the great house, the night drawing tight 'round his heels like a cloak of ash. The revel yet echoed afar—laughter cast from distant courtyards, and lanterns trembled 'pon the rooftops like fireflies caught in storm. Their flick'ring flame prick'd the dusk with sorrowful gold.
From every corner of the empire's breast came music—wild, high, and sweet. Laughter spilled and echo'd through twisting alleys like water through a broken flute.
He had done it. He had escaped.And yet he was but twelve winters old.
But his bearing belied the years he wore—his frame upright, his gait sure, not with arrogance but a grace solemn and full of purpose. Gentleness moved with him, as wind through leaves; and in his eyes shone something rare: a kindness not naive, but firm as rooted oak.
He passed through the crowd unseen—not cloaked nor hooded, but by the older art of simply not being noticed, as though the world itself look'd away when he passed.
But within that calmness, there slept an old ache. A quiet grief, not sharp nor sudden, but slow and steady as frost 'cross stone. A loneliness that did not wail, but waited.
Around him the festival surged—flags of silk and tents in myriad hues, dancers spun like falling stars, voices cried out in joy. Yet his thoughts wandered far—whisp'ring 'twixt memories worn with time.
"A river of sorrow," he murmured inwardly, voice so soft the words scarce reach'd his own ears. "Not a river that brings sorrow, but..."
There his words falter'd. His brow furrow'd.
He could not name the thing that follow'd him.
And then—quietly, sweetly, as if from behind the veil of a forgotten dream—he heard her voice again:
"I have named thee Acheros, beloved. Not for sorrow thou art made, but because one day, thou shalt bear it away—like rivers bear the shadows to the sea."
He stopp'd midstep, still amidst the clamor. His hand came to his chest, clenched there as if to guard the echo of her memory. Her voice—the last true warmth still kindled in the hearth of his heart.
And in that moment, the ache within him ebb'd.
Yet soon came again the pull, and he turn'd from the revelry. For all its brilliance and joy, it bit now too sharp 'gainst his soul. He yearn'd—not for silence alone—but for the kind of stillness where one might be known without fear.
But happiness is a fickle phantom to the heart that hath known too much. It slipped always through his grasp, like water from a trembling hand.
So he walk'd on—beyond music, beyond the press of humanity—until a narrow alley yawn'd before him, hidden 'twixt old stone, shadow'd as a whispered benediction.
Without pause, he enter'd it.
And the darkness clos'd round him like an old friend.
Deeper he walk'd, and the festival dwindled behind—music became murmur, murmur became hush.
And then—a sound. Soft. Broken.A sob, faint as a spark choking in ash. A cry too tired to echo.
He stopp'd, heart pausing in time with the silence. He listen'd.
Again—it came. A weeping not made for others to hear.
He moved forward, slow, careful, as one approaching something sacred or wounded. His eyes adjust'd to the gloom.
There—crumpled against the wall, limbs drawn tight, was a boy.
Small. Thin. Younger still than he. Arms locked 'round knees. Shoulders quivering. Head bowed.
Acheros open'd his lips to speak—
—but behind him came the heavy fall of steps, stumbling and graceless.
He turn'd.
From the mouth of the alley lurch'd a man—hair awry, coat open, wine heavy on his breath. A torch cast odd shadows on his features, and his gait was like a ship unmoored.
"Huh?" the man grunted, peering through the dark. "What're ye two doin' here?"
Acheros said naught. Nor did the boy.
The man squinted, hiccup'd.
"Children… bah. Can't even hold a bloody lantern..."
He unclasp'd a dented thing from his belt, pressing it roughly into Acheros's hand.
"Here. Before ye break yer necks."
With that, the man turn'd, vanishing back into light and clamor, his shadow swallowed by festival once more.
Silence returned.
Acheros stood still, fingers curled around the worn handle of the lantern. The flame within it sputtered softly, a trembling heart of fire.
He took a step forward.
The light stretch'd, casting its gentle warmth upon the huddled shape.
Then another step. Then he knelt.
And with the gentlest of voices, uncertain and soft, he ask'd:
"Art thou… well?"
The words falter'd in his mouth, awkward with worry.
No answer.
But slowly, the boy raised his head.
Tears gleamed on skin smudg'd with dust. Lips pale. Hair tangled and dull-red—shimmering faint in lantern-glow like old embers.
And his eyes—
Acheros gasp'd, breath caught.
Eyes pale blue. Eyes that seem'd carved of ice and sorrow. Eyes that mirrored ones he had seen behind gold and thrones. The emperor's stare. The imperial gaze.
But the hair—that auburn shade found only among the low-born Elsereni.
His thoughts raced. Memory broke like storm. Whispers. Rumors. A name never spoken in courts but always known in corners.
The hidden son. Slave-born. Half-named.
His voice broke before it became sound. And then, whisper'd low and shaking:
"...Vecillious?"