The name fell 'pon the hush'd air as shattered crystal on cold stone, and the lad did flinch—as one struck by an unseen hand. His eyes, wide with fear and marvel, did betray the tumult within.
His lips parted, yet no utterance found passage through them.
With quiet tread, Acheros drew near, each step a whisper, and did kneel beside the trembling youth.
"I... I come not to bring thee harm," quoth he, his voice low, unsure whether his breath soothed or sharpen'd the wound.
Yet Vecillious spake not.
His mouth did tremble, and in his throat, a sob sought flight but found no sky. At length, a breath—scarce more than a ghost—escaped him, and said:
"Thou knowest me?"
Acheros wavered. What truth might he offer? What lie, if lie must shield?
At length, he only gave a solemn nod.
Then did Vecillious, fragile as frost 'fore morning's blaze, murmur, "Dost thou seek aught of me? Or is there any that doth hunt me still?"
His voice bore no ire, no fire—only a weary wind, the sound of one too oft pursued, and never truly found.
Acheros beheld him then—not with the eyes alone, but with soul uncloaked—beheld the bruises yet livid, the arms wrapped round his slender frame, as though to hold together the fragments still unshattered.
And shame found Acheros—shame not born of his own misdeeds, but of the world's grim cruelty wrought upon one so young, so tender.
"Nay," he breathed, gentle as twilight's hush. "I saw thee, and thought—"
He faltered. What truth had voice? That he had glimpsed a ghost the crown would see buried, a shadow passed unnoticed?
So he made no plea, nor promise. He only sat, where lantern's glow did flicker faint between them, and let silence keep dominion.
No savior's hand, no command. Merely presence.
The hush deepen'd, a gulf neither dared cross. Words welled in Acheros's chest, but tangled there, unspent.
Should he ask the lad why he lingered? Why noble blood wept in shadows, far from hearth and hall?
Or offer comfort, though he knew not the shape of it?
He cast a glance. Vecillious stirred not, save for the flicker of dread in his gaze—the look of one who expecteth pain, even wrapped in kindness.
Seeking no art but simple warmth, Acheros did murmur,
"The night is cold."
Naught but a simple truth, foolish to ears that know not stillness.
Yet oft, it is not the weight of words, but the soul that speaketh them, that reaches.
Vecillious answered not, but sniffed—a soft sound, like a drop in a dry well—then brushed his cheeks, where tears had carved their secret path.
Acheros watched, and in that frail defiance, saw the ghost of his own self—buried beneath years and silence, like a mirror dimmed with time and sorrow.
He spake not, and the wind did whisper through the stones, as though the world itself held its breath.
Slowly, gently, he drew closer—not to trespass, but to be.
"Thou remind'st me of a young lad I once knew," said he, "who bore silence as a shield, and thought his tears his shame."
Vecillious raised not his eyes, yet his shoulders did shift—a trembling barely seen, yet loud as thunder to one who knoweth grief.
Softly then, Acheros spake on, "The broken do not always fall apart. They spill, aye, but walk still."
A pause. "I walk still."
And the night closed round them like a cloak—not to bind, but to keep.
They asked no answers of one another. They demanded no strength.
Two souls, scarred yet unfallen. Breathing. Present.
Then, after silence long held, a breath like a feather's fall:
"Thou... art still walking?"
Acheros looked upon him—not as one lesser, nor one in need—but as one who was.
He answered not with pity, for pity chill'd the heart. He answered as one who understood.
"Not I who walk alone," said he, not to mislead, but to lend hope—to stir the ember in the lad's chest, and bid it glow once more.
Then did he speak of a lad once known—second son to a cruel man, a black hearted knave whose wrath fell not for deed but blood.
A man who struck his lady wife, not for her sin, but for her sire's.
The blow fell oft upon their firstborn—slow of wit, with stammer'd tongue, who lagged behind his kin.
Upon the youngest daughter too, for the sole fault of being born woman.
But as for the lad himself—the one of whom Acheros spake—he was not as his kin.
Nay, he was no stammering fool, as the elder brother was deemed. Nor bore he the curse of womanhood, as did the youngest.
His burden was of another sort.
He was clever, and for that, he was claimed.
Marked from the cradle as heir, for his mind was sharp and his gaze too knowing, he was not spared as others were—not beaten for failure of tongue nor for the shape of his flesh, but for expectation.
From the hour his feet could scarce find balance 'neath him, he was set upon the path—not of childhood, but of duty.
And when he faltered—aye, as all children do—his punishment was swift and cruel.
Blows rained not from wrath, but from cold resolve. Not passion, but calculation.
Each mistake carved its lesson in bruises and blood. Each misstep was met with starving, till his belly clung to his spine, and he dreamt not of toys nor games, but crusts of bread.
He was torn from the arms of his mother, from the laughter of his sister, from the slow, gentle company of his elder brother.
And there—alone—he was forged.
Forged not in love, but in necessity. Shaped like steel in fire, without comfort, without warmth.
He knew the shape of hunger more than embrace.
Knew how to bow, how to strike, how to speak the tongue of lords and courts.
But never did he learn how to be held.
For he was not raised.
He was crafted.
And though the world named him privileged—heir to title, blood of house and throne—he bore a silence more suffocating than any servant's chain.
Within the darkness of the night, the lad did oft weep, as oft as his aching heart did bear its burden, shedding silent tears in lonely shadow. But anon, a whisper took root deep within—a voice that cried such tears were weakness made flesh. And so, with all the strength his soul could summon, he did strive to bind his grief, to hush the tide of sorrow that would rise.
As the nine seasons passed, this striving grew heavy upon his soul, and slowly, he lost the touch of feeling, the warmth of love, and the grace of tender mercy.
But when the world lay hushed and no living soul did stir, the black hearted knave the Grand Duke's right hand would come in shadow, and bear the lad away to his mother's side.
She, with all her might and mother's heart, sought to teach him how to feel once more—to know love's gentle flame, and to walk as a true gentleman among men.
This secret tending endured, and the lad clung fast to her words, whispered soft beneath the stars:
"When thou must silence the screams and tears of others; when thou dost bear the lash and pain; when thou dost rule and see those who disobey thee—know this:
That even when thou disobeyest, 'tis proof thou art alive and human still.
Forget not, no matter the cost, that thou art mortal flesh and soul—and those whom thou dost rule are as such.
Weep when the hurt is great, but rise and keep walking thereafter, for tears are not the sign of weakness, but of the human heart's true strength."
And thus the lad lived, with but one thought a-flame within his breast as his mother thought him:
"I am but human. They too are human. We be human—No beasts, nor monsters, But flesh and spirit alike. We do this, that we may survive."
Time passed like distant rain—soft, unnoticed at first. And in that hush, the lad was at last introduced to his brother and sister. He did not run to them, nor cry out with joy. He only sat close, let his shoulder brush theirs, and in that small warmth, something long buried began to stir.
He smiled once. Just once. And though no one saw it, it was real.
But such changes do not go unseen for long in cold houses.
That black hearted knave of a duke, ever watchful, felt the shift and grew uneasy. Kindness was not something he allowed to grow in his shadow. He set spies to watch, to listen. To drag into light whatever had touched the boy's heart.
Yet all they returned with was silence—carefully laid by the right hand man, who gave nothing away.
Pressed for truth, the man offered only part of it. He said he had taken the boy to the world outside—into crowds, music, light—where a child might remember he was still alive. Which was not a lie it did happen once or twice with his siblings yet it was the truth not all.
He said it plainly, without shame. But he had done it without permission.
And that was enough.
That black hearted knave of a duke did not shout. He did not rage.
He simply turned to the lad—ten years old, slight of frame, eyes too tired for his age—and said the words like iron:
"Kill him."
No reason. No explanation.
Only the cold weight of command.
When the black-hearted knave turned his back, his voice laced with venom and command, the right hand man—worn by years, yet ever steady—cast but a single glance toward the boy.
A blink. Subtle. Measured.
Not panic, nor plea—but a sign. The kind spoken without voice, understood only by those who have known long suffering.
And the boy understood.
Within him, thought stirred not in chaos, but in cold, calm clarity:
I am but human. They too are human. We be human—No beasts, nor monsters, But flesh and spirit alike. We do this, that we may survive."
No trembling overtook his hand. No tear wet his cheek.
Without a word, without the beat of hesitation, he stepped forth—and with one swift motion, clean and practiced, he drew the blade across the throat of the man who had once carried him through shadow.
The body did not cry out.
It folded, as if sleep had claimed it.
The boy stood still a moment longer, his eyes steady, his breath shallow.
And though none in that cold chamber spoke, the silence rang louder than any scream.
Anon, that black-hearted knave dealt a cruel slap upon the boy's cheek, His hand striking swift as thunder 'fore the boy couldst draw his breath.
Then the black-hearted knave, his eyes alight with cruel mirth, did lean low and speak:
"Why didst thou slit his throat, hmm? Was it mercy thou sought? That he might die swift and spared of pain?"
But the boy answered not. His tongue lay still behind parted lips, and his gaze fell low to the floor, For he knew not what words might mend what was already broken. Silence, cold and heavy, settled like ash.
The knave with a snarl, he turned to the guard stationed near the chamber door. "Seize this varlet," he barked, "and cast him down among the hounds— the wild and starved.
They came for him with no words. No explanation. Only hands that dragged and shoved and gripped too tight.
He was thrown once more into the dark chamber of stone and straw, the air thick with the scent of old blood and fouler things. And there, waiting for him, crouched two wild hounds—starved near to madness, ribs like jagged bars across their sides, their eyes a fevered glow.
Before the heavy door sealed behind him, a cold hand pressed something into his palm. A whisper brushed his ear, low and hurried.
"Hide it well—use it if ye must."
It was a dagger, small and rusted, no longer than a man's finger, but sharp still at its edge. It barely weighed in his hand, yet somehow, it bore the weight of choice. Of survival.
Then the door clanged shut, and the beasts began to circle.
He bled before he could strike. One hound lunged and tore through his shoulder, its teeth rending flesh with savage joy. The other came from the side, and he fell beneath them, arms raised to shield what he could.
Pain bit into him in more ways than teeth alone. But he moved—not with grace, nor fury, but with desperation. He struck wildly, and the dagger found its mark. Once. Twice.
Blood sprayed. Not just theirs.
His vision blurred, breath ragged, chest burning.
When it was done—when both hounds lay still, their snarls fallen to silence—he stumbled backward and collapsed against the wall, his small frame shaking.
He bled from his arm, his side, his neck—wounds deep and raw. Blood dripped from the youths fingertips, It stained the ground with dark stokes. The dagger left his grasp, brushing against the stone with noise enough to silence the quiet.
And in that moment, all strength left him.
He sank to his knees. Then to the floor.
His throat clenched once. Twice. Then came the sob.
"Why…" he whispered."Why must I endure this?"
His voice cracked. It wasn't the first time he'd wept—but it was perhaps the first time the weeping reached so deep it threatened to break him.
"Why did I have to kill him—Uncle…?Why am I cast away from Mother?From Ira… from Brother…?"
He pressed his bloodied hands to his face, the iron stinging his skin.He was not a knight. Not a prince. Not a monster.
Just a boy—wounded and weary, left to scream into stone that would not listen.
"Why must I fight to live, when I never asked to be born?"
And none answered.
Only the cold,and the dead,and the silence that waited with open arms.
Then, his limbs, drained of all strength, gave way.
The bruised boy, bloodied and broken, sank to the cold stone floor. His breath faltered—shallow, trembling—then ceased for a moment's pause, as his eyes rolled back beneath heavy lids. The weight of pain, sorrow, and blood-loss bore him into darkness, and he knew no more.
He fainted—silent and still—before the guards of the black-hearted knave had come with their laughter and chains.
But they were not the first to arrive.
A shadow moved swifter than the dogs had. A man cloaked in gray—his breath shallow, his face hidden beneath time's weary veil—knelt beside the boy. 'Twas he who had slipped the dagger into the boy's hand ere the beasts had been loosed. And now, with quiet fingers, he reclaimed it.
No words were spoken. Only the clink of steel as the blade was drawn from where it had fallen, its edge slick with blood both noble and wild.
The man held the dagger in his hand a while, eyes heavy with what could not be uttered—regret, perhaps, or guilt too long carried. Then he slipped it back within his cloak, as if it were never there at all.
He looked upon the boy once more—his chest rising faintly, a child cast in ruin—and bowed his head.
A whisper passed his lips:
"Forgive me, lad. 'Twas the only path left to thee…"
Then the door groaned open behind him.
And he was gone.
By the time the guards entered, finding the lad bloodied, unconscious, and breath barely drawn—they saw only what they were meant to see.
A broken child, with no weapon.
No ally.
No proof.
Just silence.
And blood.
And pain.
....To be continued