Third person (pov) sylas (10 year old)
The House of Eriden once ruled from marble towers and dined beneath chandeliers that glittered like starlight.
In those days, their banners — a silver hawk soaring through a crimson sun — flew over academies, war camps, and courts alike. Their name was synonymous with brilliance. Generals. Spellweavers. Philosophers. Kingmakers.
That was a hundred years ago.
Now, the name Eriden earned little more than forced smiles and quiet laughter behind closed doors. The estates had shrunk. The wealth had bled dry. Their ancestral holdings were long lost to tax seizures and quiet betrayals. What remained was a decaying manor on the edge of the capital — cold stone, cracked walls, and ghosts of a time better forgotten.
And within that silence lived Sylas Eriden, the second son.
---
He was not unloved.
That would have been easier.
He was... ignored.
---
From the moment he was born, he existed as an afterthought — a child born too late, too quiet, and far too ordinary.
His older brother, Kaien, had been everything the family could have hoped for: strong, golden-haired, talented in both sword and sorcery. A boy of ambition and charisma. A symbol of what the Eriden bloodline once was.
By contrast, Sylas was pale, often sickly, slow to speak, and painfully withdrawn.
He would watch quietly from behind doorways as Kaien received praise, gifts, private tutors, and the rare smile from their strict father, Lord Thareon Eriden.
Sylas, in the same room, would go unnoticed.
It was as if he was made of air.
---
As a child, he didn't understand why.
He would draw sketches of magical creatures and leave them on his father's desk. They were never mentioned.
He tried to spar with Kaien once — the wooden sword too heavy in his hand — and received a bruised cheek and a sharp, mocking laugh. His father didn't scold Kaien. Instead, he simply muttered, "He's too soft," and walked away.
Sylas never picked up a sword again.
---
His mother, Lady Ellanora, was once a renowned enchanter. Her smile had graced banquet halls. Her magic laced the walls of their estate.
But time had worn her down.
She spent most of her days staring into the garden, her hair tied in a loose, lifeless braid, her eyes always fixed on something that wasn't there.
She did not mistreat Sylas. She simply wasn't present.
When he'd sit by her feet and try to read aloud, she would nod absently — eyes glazed, mind wandering some place long lost.
Eventually, he stopped trying to reach her too.
---
His world became quiet.
Books. Shadows. Silence.
He would read in the attic for hours, surrounded by cobwebs and forgotten heirlooms. He memorized ancient tomes on alchemy, history, elemental theory. Not because anyone asked him to. But because he wanted to feel worth something.
But when he mentioned what he learned, the servants nodded politely. His father grunted. Kaien rolled his eyes.
No one listened.
So he stopped speaking.
---
He wasn't bullied.
That would have meant they saw him.
Instead, they passed him in hallways like he wasn't there.
Even at family meals, his presence was like background noise. A servant might ask if he was done eating before his own family did.
It wasn't hatred.
It was indifference.
And somehow… that hurt more.
---
At night, he'd lie awake staring at the cracks in his ceiling.
He imagined what it would feel like to be Kaien — to be seen. To be valued. To be strong enough that no one could ignore you.
He whispered to the dark, "Why wasn't I born better?"
The dark never answered.
---
There was one moment he would never forget.
His father was speaking with Kaien about the future of the house. How Kaien would soon enroll in the Imperial Academy, how the Eriden name could rise again.
Sylas had walked in, book in hand, about to ask if he could come too.
He didn't interrupt. He just… waited. Quietly.
His father glanced at him once.
> "Sylas, this is family business. Go read."
Go read.
The words weren't cruel. But they cut deeper than any insult.
Because in that moment, he knew—
He wasn't considered part of the family's future.
---
And yet… he didn't break.
Not then.
Instead, Sylas retreated further into the silence. Sharpened his mind. Read what others ignored. Observed everything, even when no one thought he was paying attention.
He knew the weaknesses in Kaien's sword form.
He knew where the old spell matrices had flaws.
He memorized the political shifts of the Empire.
He began crafting minor spells in secret — subtle, elegant ones, made from scraps and self-study.
No one noticed.
Not yet.
But they would.
One day.
---
The only person who spoke to him like he mattered was the old gardener, Merek — a one-eyed man who tended the dying estate's overgrown grounds.
"Yer eyes see more than most," he once told Sylas, handing him a carved wooden charm. "But seein' ain't worth much if ya don't act."
Sylas kept that charm tucked in his bookcase, next to the first spellbook he ever copied by hand.
---
As the years passed, the decline of the Eriden house grew worse. Debts mounted. Allies vanished. Kaien's enrollment in the Academy became their last hope — the golden son who would restore their legacy.
And Sylas?
He wasn't even invited to the farewell banquet.
He watched from the upper balcony, dressed in plain gray, unnoticed.
He watched Kaien bathe in praise, adored by nobles who didn't even know Sylas existed.
He watched his father toast to "the pride of House Eriden."
Sylas smiled, just a little.
Because pride... was a fragile thing.
And forgotten shadows remembered everything.
---
Inside him, something had begun to shift.
Not rage. Not yet.
But resolve.
He didn't want revenge.
He didn't want love.
He just wanted to become someone who could no longer be ignored.
Not out of pride.
Not even for glory.
But to prove — to himself more than anyone — that the boy they dismissed was still there.
And that one day…
He would rise.
End of chapter