Arion trained every day. He trained until his limbs ached and his breath came ragged and shallow. For in the stillness between sword drills and incantations, his mind would always return to that day—the screams, the stillness in the eyes of the dead. In his past life, he had never seen a corpse. Now, he saw dozens each time he closed his eyes.
A full month had passed before his father returned. His expression was somber, his thoughts unreadable.
It wasn't until dinner that evening, in the quiet intimacy of candlelight and clinking cutlery, that his parents finally told him the truth. Perhaps it was Lady Ariana's worry that loosened their tongues—or the fear that her son was drifting too far away. Or perhaps they simply believed he deserved to know, if only to ease his unrest, however slightly.
Lord Sued began, his voice low. "Commander Marius tells me you're improving rapidly."
"Did he also mention the beatings?" Arion replied without looking up, his tone dry.
"He spoke of his teaching methods," his father said, cutting into his meat with the practiced elegance of a noble.
"He praised you, regardless."
"So that's what he calls it—teaching." Arion muttered. The way he winced as he brought food to his mouth betrayed the truth: today's lesson ached with every breath.
This training kept the memories at bay, yes—but had he still lived in his previous world, he might've had Marius reported for child abuse.
Lord Sued laid down his utensils, folding his hands before him. "I imagine you want to know the truth about the priest—and his master."
Arion looked up. "Yes!" he blurted. "Since Mother didn't tell me anything."
Lady Ariana finally spoke, her voice touched with guilt. "It was for your own good."
"What good? The servants whisper that I'm cursed. That I'll become a demon and eat their children."
He stabbed a piece of potato, then added indignantly, "As if I'd eat spoiled meat."
A fleeting smile passed across Lord Sued's face.
"You know your father and I tried for many years to have a child," Lady Ariana began, her voice steeped in sorrow. "But every attempt ended in tragedy. It seemed as though the heavens themselves denied us happiness."
She paused. "So… we turned elsewhere. If the heavens would not help us, we would find another way."
"At the time, we were desperate," Lord Sued continued. "That's when we heard whispers—about a cult, about a ritual. About… an answer."
He didn't speak the name. Arion noticed that. They never did.
"So you made a pact with a demon for a child, in exchange for my soul," Arion said bluntly.
His parents exchanged a heavy glance.
"In short… yes. But not quite."
"What do you mean?"
"When we began the ritual, we didn't know the true nature of what we were dealing with," said Lady Ariana. "Not a mere demon—but a god. A god from the void. As the ritual reached its end, we learned the price: the soul of our firstborn."
She looked at her son, eyes heavy. "Your father ended it. Killed every last one of the cultists."
The words hung in the air like smoke from a dying fire—bitter, final, and impossible to take back. Arion met her gaze and saw no triumph in it. Only sorrow. Only memory.
"Every last one?" he asked, his voice low.
Lady Ariana nodded slowly. "He hunted them for years. One by one. Town to town. Temple to temple. Until there was no trace left of their foul god's name. Or so we thought."
There was no pride in her voice. No glory in the tale. Only the quiet toll of survival. Arion realized then—his birth had not been a miracle. It had been a war.
Her voice trembled. "Then… I learned I was with child." Her eyes drifted to some distant place beyond the flickering candlelight. "And those nine months were agony," she whispered. "You tried to vanish—again and again. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. I was bedridden in constant pain. The healers told me I might die if I gave birth."
Sued's fork clinked gently against his plate as he set it down, the movement deliberate, careful. His voice came low and heavy. "I begged her to stop," he said. "To let go. To save herself. But she convinced me to hold on. Just one more time. One final chance."
The room was still. The fire snapped softly, as if daring to speak would break the fragile truth unraveling before them.
Arion sat motionless. There was no hatred in him, no rage—only the terrible stillness of understanding. They had paid for him in blood, in fear, in defiance of gods and healers alike. And still he had tried to leave. Still he had tried not to be born.
He looked at his mother then, and saw not weakness, but a woman who had carried death inside her and still chosen to give life. And he saw his father—not as the aloof lord of the house, but as a man who had slain monsters and begged the woman he loved to survive, even if it meant surrendering their dream.
"I didn't know," Arion said quietly.
"You weren't meant to," his mother replied, her voice almost a breath. "We wanted to give you a life untouched by shadows. But the past… it does not let go so easily."
Arion lowered his eyes, the weight of a new truth settling quietly upon him. No longer just a child lost in the stories others told, he felt himself becoming something more—shaped by choices made long before his own breath ever stirred.
"That's why we named you Arion," Ariana said softly, "the mortal who defied fate, the one who rose to the stars and burns brightest in the heavens. If darkness gave you birth, then light shall be your guide in life."
Arion blinked, doubt flickering in his eyes. "But… isn't the Ever Burning just a story?"