The sun was high by the time the lessons ended, its light warming the dusty backyard of the orphanage. A few kids scattered about, kicking pebbles or chasing each other, already lost in play. But near the back wall, under the shade of a half-dead tree, Matthew sat cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by Max, Tod, and two other kids from their group.
He was trying to teach them. Again.
"Just… close your eyes," he said patiently, for what felt like the tenth time. "Try to relax. Feel the air around you, and imagine the blue threads. Like... thin ribbons floating everywhere. They're there. You just need to notice them."
One of the boys sighed loudly and gave up, muttering something about it being impossible. Another followed, throwing his hands up before running off to join the kids playing tag. Matthew didn't try to stop them. He knew not everyone could do it. Still, a flicker of disappointment passed over his face.
Only Max and Tod remained, both sitting still with their eyes closed.
Matthew watched them in silence for a moment. He was trying to remember how it had felt for him. That day, a month ago, in his village. The Truth Seeker's calm voice, the strange warmth in the air, and then—clarity. The One Power had revealed itself to him like it had always been there, just hidden behind a curtain.
It had taken him barely a minute.
But now, seeing Max and Tod struggle, brows furrowed in concentration, fidgeting uncomfortably in the silence—it was... weird.
He tilted his head slightly, puzzled. Why had it been so easy for him?
Max opened one eye and shook her head at him.
Tod grunted. "I don't get it. I want to see it. I can imagine the threads. I'm doing everything you said."
Matthew frowned, more thoughtful than frustrated. "I know," he replied softly. "You're doing everything right. It's just… strange. For me, it just… happened."
Max blinked. "After just a minute?"
He nodded slowly. "Yeah. The Truth Seeker showed me once. He said I was 'super blessed.' And then… boom. I saw it."
Tod opened both eyes and leaned back, arms behind him. "Maybe that's what it is. Maybe we're just not blessed."
Matthew didn't like the sound of that. He looked at Max, hoping she wouldn't get discouraged again. But instead of frowning, she was staring off into the trees with a thoughtful look.
"Or maybe," she said quietly, "you're not a good teacher."
Matthew gasped. "What?!"
She cracked a grin.
He huffed and crossed his arms. "I am a good teacher."
Max chuckled, and Tod laughed beside her. The tension broke, and for a moment, it didn't matter if they could see the One Power or not.
Still… the thought lingered in Matthew's mind.
Why had it been so easy for him?
He sighed, a little disappointed, then shook his head, brushing off the feeling. But before he could speak, his eyes caught on someone—someone watching him.
It was the same girl from yesterday. She stood quietly near the edge of the backyard, half-shadowed by the orphanage wall. She looked around six years old, with blonde hair and blue eyes—just like his, and just like Max's. Her gaze was steady, fixed on him with an intensity that made him frown. Why was she staring?
Tod noticed the shift in Matthew's expression and followed his gaze. When his eyes landed on the girl, he tilted his head. "Do you know her or something?" he asked, confused.
The young boy shook his head and asked, "Who is she?"
Max glanced toward the small girl, then back at him. "Her name's Lucy. She's six. Came to the orphanage about six months ago, I think. She doesn't talk much. Barely at all, actually. Quietest kid here."
Matthew looked back at the girl, frowning slightly. "She's been doing this for the last two days… Just standing there and staring at me."
Max folded her arms and tilted her head, thoughtful. "Yeah, I noticed. But I've got no clue why."
Tod, who had been watching the exchange silently, shrugged. "Why don't we just go ask her?" he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Matthew hesitated, clearly unsure. He glanced back at Lucy, still standing across the yard, half-hidden near a corner of the orphanage wall. Her small hands were clasped together in front of her, her expression unreadable. She didn't look afraid or sad—just... quiet. Watchful.
Tod shrugged. "I mean, she's just a kid. What's the worst that could happen?"
Max stood up, brushing dust off her trousers. "He's right. C'mon, let's go see what she wants."
Matthew rose slowly, still unsure, but curious now more than anything. Together, the three of them walked toward Lucy. She didn't move as they approached—no sign of running off or pretending she wasn't staring. Her blue eyes remained locked on Matthew the whole time, as if she had been waiting.
When they stopped in front of her, there was an awkward pause. The girl just looked up at him.
"Um… hey," Matthew said quietly. "I'm Matthew."
A small nod.
Tod leaned forward slightly, trying to be gentle. "Do you... wanna talk to him or something?"
No response. Lucy just kept staring at Matthew.
Max crossed her arms and frowned. "You've been looking at him a lot. Why? Do you know him?"
Another long silence. Then, finally, Lucy spoke. Her voice was very soft—so soft they almost missed it.
"I want to know… why the adults are nice to you."
Max and Tod both blinked, immediately understanding what she meant. She wasn't just asking out of curiosity—this was coming from somewhere deeper. A quiet bitterness, one not unusual for children in the orphanage. Max looked at Lucy with a faint frown, but didn't answer. Tod's face turned more thoughtful. They both turned toward Matthew.
The boy looked a little surprised at the question, then slowly smiled. It wasn't smug or proud—it was light, like he didn't fully grasp the depth of what she was feeling. Or maybe he did, and just didn't want to weigh her down any further.
"It's 'cause the Fierce Lion told them," he said, his voice warm, "that if they're not nice to me, he'll punish them for it."
Lucy blinked, but otherwise didn't move. Her expression didn't change, but Max saw something small shift in her eyes. Confusion maybe. Or realization.
Tod nodded, confirming Matthew's words. "Yeah… the Cavias Family looks out for him."
Max added with a quiet voice, "They do."
Lucy kept staring at Matthew, her expression unreadable. Then, after a moment, she asked softly, "Can they protect me too?"
The question struck like a thunderclap.
All three froze.
Tod and Max exchanged an awkward glance, both unsure of what to say. Matthew looked stunned, completely caught off guard. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, at a loss for words.
She was right.
He was the only one protected here. The only one with someone standing behind him. All the other kids—Lucy, Max, Tod—they weren't. They were just… surviving. Alone.
It felt unfair.
Not because he didn't want the protection—but because they didn't have it too. Just because he met the Cavias Family. Just because they didn't.
What should he do?
Robert… Robert probably wouldn't listen. He was strict, and he only did things because of Asvin. And Asvin… would he help?
Could he?
Matthew's brows furrowed slightly as he looked down. He'd have to ask. If Asvin could make an exception for him, could he make others too?
He had to try.
...
The sun hung high beyond the window, casting soft rays of light across the wooden floor of Matthew's small room. The orphanage was quiet for a moment, distant laughter echoing from the backyard where Max and the others were still playing. But Matthew wasn't with them. He had told them he wanted to nap for a while.
It wasn't true.
He sat on the edge of his bed, legs swinging lightly above the ground, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His brows were slightly furrowed, eyes unfocused as they stared at the floor, seeing nothing in particular.
He couldn't stop thinking about Lucy.
About her voice. Her words. That look on her face when she asked if they could protect her too.
She was only six—just a year younger than him. Tiny, quiet, and alone. She hadn't asked for sweets, or for toys, or for attention. She hadn't even asked to play with them. All she wanted was… protection. Safety. To be spared from whatever darkness haunted the orphanage's quiet corners.
Matthew didn't know exactly what the adults did here. No one ever said it outright. But he could feel it. The fear in the air. The way the other kids avoided certain hallways. The silence that crept in at night. The bruises that were never explained.
It had to be worse than anything he could imagine.
And yet… he had been spared.
Why?
Because of Asvin's words. Because of the Cavias Family. Because Robert and the others knew they couldn't touch him, or mistreat him, not even by accident. He was protected. He had a shield.
But what about the others?
What about Lucy? Max? Tod?
Why didn't they get a shield too?
Matthew's chest tightened at the thought. A lump formed in his throat, and he looked down at his hands—small, pale, powerless despite the flame he could summon. The Fireball didn't help with this.
He had power in the One Power. Maybe even more than most.
But was it enough?
Could he really change things here?
He didn't know.
But he had to try.
He had to at least ask.
Matthew's thoughts spiraled deeper, his fingers curling into small fists on his lap as he remembered what Asvin had told him—not just about this orphanage, but about the people behind it.
The Poblico Family.
The name echoed in his mind like a heavy drumbeat. It wasn't just any noble family—they were the strongest in all of Decartium. Their influence stretched through the kingdom like thick vines choking out anything that tried to grow under their shadow. They weren't just powerful in name, either. They had force to back it up.
Two of the strongest Arts Users in the kingdom came from them: the Rising Sun and his son, the Yellow Sun.
Matthew had read their names in books before. Everyone had. Tales of impossible feats, of entire battlefields lit with golden fire, of cities saved—or destroyed—depending on who told the story. They were treated like heroes. Icons.
But in truth… they were the ones who ruled over this place.
They were the ones who let it become what it was.
All the fear. All the silence. All the bruises.
All under their watch.
Asvin had explained it to him just a few days ago. The Fierce Lion—Lord John Cavias—had been trying. Trying to build a new orphanage. Trying to take control of this one. Trying to protect the children. But the Poblico Family blocked him at every turn. Paperwork. Authority. Influence. No matter what he tried, they shut him down.
Matthew's nails bit into his palms as he clenched his hands tighter.
That's why Lucy wasn't protected.
That's why Max, Tod, and the rest still lived under the shadow of fear.
Because the people who were supposed to protect them had chosen not to.
Because the ones with power… only cared for their own.
Matthew sat there, quiet, but the fire inside him burned hot and wild.
He was blessed by the One Power.
He wasn't sure what he could do yet.
But if the Poblico Family stood in the way of safety for kids like Lucy… then one day, he would stand in their way too.
Matthew's shoulders slumped as the weight of it all pressed down on him—harder now than ever before. The Fireball he had conjured for Max, the proud promise to become the Red Sage, the dream of destroying the Black Tower—they all suddenly felt small compared to the storm he now faced.
Not because the dream itself was weak.
But because the world was so… unfair.
He sighed, long and deep, as he looked down at his hands—small, soft, barely strong enough to lift a bucket of water, let alone carry the burden of choosing who would suffer and who would be saved.
Even if Asvin agreed to help… what could he really do? The heir to the Cavias Family was strong, yes, and kind in a way Matthew admired deeply, but even he couldn't take control of this place. The Poblico Family would make sure of that. They would block him at every turn.
And even if Asvin somehow managed to save Max, Tod, and Lucy—what about the others?
Dozens of children.
Scared.
Alone.
Bruised in places no one could see.
Forgotten by the world.
Would he be the one to decide who gets rescued… and who stays behind?
Was that his right?
Matthew clenched his teeth, his eyes stinging. It was wrong. Deeply wrong. He knew it even if no one said it out loud. He hated it.
But what else could he do?
He was just seven years old. Just a kid in a room too nice for an orphanage. Just a boy whose world had fallen apart two days ago.
He wanted to help all of them. Every single one.
But right now, he didn't have the strength. Or the power. Or the influence.
Not yet.
His breathing slowed. His thoughts quieted. And slowly, he remembered the fire. The Fireball. The blue threads that danced at his fingertips. The promise to Max. The dream of becoming the Red Sage.
Maybe… maybe he couldn't save everyone yet.
But maybe he could grow strong enough one day to change everything.
If he had to start with Max, Tod, and Lucy—then fine. He would. He would protect them first. Not because they were special. Not because they were chosen. But because they were close. Because he could.
And then one day… he would do the same for the rest.
All of them.
No matter how long it took.
...
The rest of the day drifted by like a leaf on a quiet stream—unremarkable on the surface, but with undercurrents that tugged at Matthew's thoughts the entire time.
Lucy didn't come near him again. She only glanced at him once—briefly, quietly—then turned away. And even though she said nothing, Matthew felt the weight of her question still clinging to him, like a thread tied around his chest.
He hadn't answered her.
Not because he didn't want to.
But because he couldn't—not yet.
He didn't know if Asvin would listen. Or if the Cavias Family could stretch their protection to cover another. He didn't even know what it meant to be protected in this place—not really. But even so, he had made a silent promise. He would try. If he could do nothing else… he would try.
At least for Max.
At least for Tod.
At least for Lucy.
Three people.
That was all he dared hope for right now.
The rest of the day was spent much the same as the last. Matthew made another attempt to teach Max and Tod how to see the One Power, but it was just as fruitless. No matter how he described it—the floating blue threads, the stillness, the feeling of something ancient whispering at the edge of perception—they couldn't see it.
Not even a flicker.
Max grew frustrated quickly and started throwing pebbles at a nearby tree while grumbling about "stupid spider webs that doesn't want to be seen." Tod was a little more patient, but even he eventually gave up and went to lie in the grass, squinting at the clouds instead.
Matthew didn't blame them. It was hard. But it also made him wonder—why had it come so easily to him? Why could he see it when others couldn't?
Was it just talent? Was it because the One Power liked him, as the Truth Seeker had said?
He wasn't sure.
And so, the sun sank over Coupitia, painting the orphanage in golden light, then softening into the deep purples of twilight. Supper came and went, and soon the halls grew quiet, the laughter and shouting of children replaced with hushed whispers, snores, and creaking beds.
And with that, a new day arrived.
A new chance. A new choice.
And perhaps, a step closer to something greater.
...
Matthew woke up like he usually did, rubbing the sleep from his eyes before getting dressed and heading out of his room. He waited his turn in line at the shared bathroom, washed his face in the cold water that always made him flinch, then made his way to the dining hall. The clatter of trays and the murmur of early morning chatter filled the wide room.
At their usual table near the corner, Max and the others were already sitting, halfway through their breakfast. When they saw him, Max grinned and waved him over. Tod gave a nod, mouth full of bread, and one of the other boys scooted over to make room.
Matthew grabbed a tray, received the standard meal—bread, a slice of cheese, and something that barely passed as soup—then walked over and sat with them.
"Finally woke up, huh?" Max teased.
"I was up before you, actually," Matthew replied, smirking.
They laughed. It wasn't loud or wild, just soft, genuine laughter. The kind that warmed the chest and loosened the knots in your stomach. They talked about little things—who snored the loudest, which adventurer they liked most, and what they dreamed of eating if possible in the future.
Matthew looked around the table, listening to them joke and argue over nonsense, and felt something shift inside him. He was becoming one of them—not just a guest, not just the new kid—but truly part of the group.
And he liked it.
No... he loved it.
That warmth, that connection, that sense of belonging—it wrapped around his small heart like a blanket. It didn't make the pain disappear, didn't bring his parents back or stop the nightmares, but it dulled the ache. It gave him something he hadn't realized he needed so desperately:
A family.
Even if it was a broken one. Even if it was made up of kids like him—lost, scarred, surviving. It was still real. It was still his.
...
Time passed, and Matthew found himself in the backyard alongside the children younger than ten. As usual, those older were inside, attending their reading and writing lessons for the day. The sun was warm but not harsh, and the grass beneath his feet was soft from the early morning dew. Matthew stood a little off to the side, focused and determined, trying to make the performance of Fireball even faster than before—shorter chant, quicker ignition, tighter control.
He'd just managed to conjure a flame between his fingers when a voice called out behind him.
"Matthew."
He turned quickly, startled, the flame vanishing as his concentration broke. It was Robert.
The man stood there in his usual stiff, disinterested way, arms behind his back, his face showing a fake smile. Despite the uncomfortable feeling that always clung to Matthew when the man was around, he managed a polite smile. "Good morning, Mister Robert."
Robert said nothing for a moment, then lifted a hand and pointed toward the main building of the orphanage. "Come. The Cavias Family is here. They're asking for you."
Matthew blinked.
Even though he had expected it—had even hoped for it—he still felt the shock. His heart skipped a beat. The world around him seemed to blur slightly as those words echoed in his mind.
The Cavias Family… they were really here.
...
Matthew followed Robert through the narrow halls of the orphanage, his footsteps quiet but steady. The man walked a step ahead of him, back straight and hands clasped neatly behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, attempting a smile—one that didn't quite reach his eyes. Matthew caught it instantly. It was the same kind of smile the adults here always wore. Thin. Cold. False.
Still, Matthew kept his own expression polite, hiding the way his shoulders tensed with every step.
Robert cleared his throat, then spoke in a tone that tried too hard to be casual. "You've been doing well, haven't you? I made sure of it. Made sure you were safe, fed, comfortable. You've had no complaints, right?" He looked back again, and this time, his smile stretched wider—like he was fishing for something. "Maybe… you could mention that to Young Lord Asvin when you see him? Just a few words would do. It'd really help me out."
Matthew blinked, then tilted his head slightly. "Would that get you in trouble if I didn't?"
Robert's forced grin twitched. "No, no, of course not, nothing like that," he said with a small chuckle. "But it'd be appreciated. I'd even get you some candy next time I'm in the market."
Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, "Can Max and the others get some too?"
Robert's mouth twitched at the corners, a flicker of hesitation flashing in his eyes before he forced another smile. "Naturally. Everyone in your little group, sure."
Matthew gave a small nod, satisfied. "Okay then. I'll tell Big Bro Vin."
That earned a brief pause from Robert, then a genuine, if subdued, "Thank you."
Of course, Matthew thought silently, it's only real when it's about a noble.
They kept walking, Robert's steps faster now, more alert, as if he didn't want to keep his guests waiting. Matthew followed quietly, his eyes drifting across the corridor around them. It wasn't familiar—this whole side of the orphanage wasn't.
And now that he was here, it was hard not to notice the contrast.
The walls were clean. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and flowers instead of dust and mildew. The floorboards didn't creak with every step, and the windows weren't cracked or yellowed with age. Even the ceiling above them looked stronger—brighter. This was a different world from the one he lived in just across the hall.
Matthew realized something then: the orphanage was split down the middle like two different lives. On the left—the side he lived in—there were the children's rooms, the crowded, filthy dining hall, the bathroom lines, the backyard full of cracked stones and weeds. And here, on the right side, where the adults stayed, where visitors came, where nobles walked and decisions were made—it was like a whole other building. A nicer building. A cleaner one.
And now, Robert was leading him straight to the best-kept room of them all.
They stopped before a large wooden door framed with carvings, nothing like the plain doors on his side. Its edges were smooth and carefully treated, and someone had clearly polished the brass handle that morning. The faint glimmer of sunlight from the high windows above cast a soft gleam on it.
Matthew stared for a moment, then glanced down the hallway they came from—back toward the left side, back toward peeling paint and broken walls, toward kids who had to take turns brushing their teeth because there weren't enough sinks.
Then he looked ahead.
The Cavias Family was waiting.
Robert gave two soft knocks against the door, then called out in a courteous tone, "Young Master Matthew has arrived," before carefully turning the handle and pushing the door open.
He stepped inside, and Matthew followed behind him—quiet, unsure, but curious.
The room that greeted him was… something else.
It was like he'd left the orphanage entirely. The moment he stepped through the threshold, he felt it. The air was cleaner, cooler. The floor beneath his shoes was covered in a thick green carpet that looked soft enough to sleep on. The walls were painted a soft olive tone, framed with thin golden trim. Sunlight streamed in through high, arched windows that didn't have a single crack or speck of dust on them.
It didn't feel like a room in the orphanage at all—it felt like he had wandered into a noble's mansion. Luxurious. Quiet. Safe.
And then he saw them.
Figures filled the room—six in total.
Two women stood together off to the side, speaking softly. Across from them stood a young man, perhaps a few years older than Tod, tall and composed with a calm expression. And near the center of the room, a little distance from the others, were three young girls, each around Matthew's age.
They looked his way the moment the door opened.
Matthew stopped just inside the doorway, not sure what to say or do, his eyes flickering across the room as everyone turned to him.
This... was the Cavias Family.
Two of the young girls reacted the moment they saw him.
The youngest, a four-year-old with shining golden hair and wide blue eyes—the unmistakable marks of the Cavias Family—gasped in pure joy. Her white dress fluttered as she bounced excitedly on her heels and then squealed his name with a burst of delight.
"Matt!"
Without a second thought, she darted toward him like a blur of white and gold, laughter trailing behind her. Her older sister, not more than five, followed right after. Terria wore a soft green dress that matched her calm, gentle smile. Though not quite as wild in her energy, her joy was clear in her eyes, and in the way she hurried to catch up with Sonia.
Matthew stood frozen, eyes wide, heart catching up to the moment.
And then they reached him.
Sonia collided with him first, wrapping her little arms around his waist, her face pressed against his stomach in a tight, loving hug. Terria followed a heartbeat later, wrapping her arms around him as well. They clung to him like siblings reunited after too long.
Matthew blinked—once, twice—and then the warmth bloomed in his chest.
His arms came up slowly, then wrapped around the two girls with the kind of care he barely knew he had in him. He smiled—soft at first, then wider, more real.
He was home. At least, for a moment… it felt like it.
And then, unexpectedly—shockingly, even—one of the two women in the room rose from her seat.
Not the older one who radiated noble composure, but the younger, barely into her twenties by the look of her. Her posture had been poised a moment ago, every inch the refined eldest daughter of the Cavias Family. But now?
Now she moved with almost childlike abandon.
Theresia Cavias.
She didn't hesitate. She crossed the room in swift, graceful strides, and then dropped down beside them, arms wrapping around all three children in one sweeping embrace. Matthew blinked in surprise again as he felt her arms around him, felt her warmth press against him and the girls at once.
"Matt..." she whispered, voice a little tight, a little trembling, as if she'd been holding back more than just words.
Her grace, her elegance—everything one expected of a noble lady—melted away in that moment. There was no audience to perform for. Robert had already vanished quietly and closed the door behind him. No adults from the orphanage were present. It was just them.
And so no one saw Theresia Cavias with her eyes closed and face pressed gently into her siblings and this little boy who meant so much to them all. No one saw the eldest child of the Cavias Family shed decorum like a second skin, if only for a few heartbeats, and hold them all like they were the most precious thing in the world.
Matthew, still caught in the embrace, didn't speak. He didn't need to.
For the first time since everything changed, he truly felt safe.
It didn't end there.
As soon as Theresia gently let go, her warm embrace slowly unraveling, and Sonia and Terria loosened their hold on him—though not without reluctant little sighs—another presence swept in.
The second woman in the room.
Older, graceful in a way that seemed effortless, with the commanding aura of someone long used to respect, and the tender, knowing eyes of a mother who had raised more than one child with love and pride.
Rania Cavias.
Matthew barely had time to react before she pulled him into her arms, gathering him close as though she were afraid he might vanish if she didn't hold on tight enough.
Her arms were firmer, stronger than he expected, and the way she held him—so close, so completely—felt different from even Sonia and Terria's hug. It was heavy with emotion, almost overwhelming in its intensity.
She didn't say much at first. Just held him. Held him like a mother who had found a missing child.
Then, softly, close to his ear, she whispered: "I've missed you, sweetheart… so much. I've thought about you every day. And I'm so glad you're here. So glad you're safe."
Matthew felt his arms slowly lift to wrap around her too, small and unsure at first, but then firmer, holding her back. His eyes prickled with heat, though he didn't cry. Not this time.
For a moment, there was nothing else—no orphanage, no Black Tower, no responsibilities, no weight. Just warmth.
Just family.
Next, a voice cut through the warm silence, calm but trying very hard not to sound flustered.
"Hmph. You sure took your time showing up."
Matthew turned his head, still partially in Rania's arms, to see the third young girl stepping forward at last. She looked about his age.
Her golden hair was tied neatly into a ponytail, and she wore a tidy red dress that contrasted sharply with her composed, almost too serious expression.
Rosin Cavias.
Unlike Sonia's bubbly joy or Terria's soft excitement, Rosin carried herself like someone trying to appear older than she was—chin slightly raised, arms crossed in front of her chest, and eyes that clearly betrayed how glad she was to see him, even if her words didn't.
"You probably forgot all about us, didn't you?" she said, her voice laced with a mix of mock annoyance and something gentler just beneath. "Not that I care or anything. It's not like I was waiting or anything like Sonia was."
Matthew blinked, then tilted his head slightly, confused—but a little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Rosin huffed.
"Anyway," she added, looking away quickly, "you'd better not disappear again. We—we only came because Mother insisted. That's all."
Rania, still kneeling beside him, gave Rosin a knowing smile. Theresia chuckled softly from her seat.
Matthew didn't say anything at first. He just looked at Rosin with a gentle smile and said, "I missed you too."
Her eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed red instantly.
"I—! I didn't say I missed you, dummy!"
But the way she turned away, trying to hide her face, made it more obvious than any words could.
The final figure in the room chuckled softly, a deep, relaxed sound that cut through Rosin's flustered muttering. Standing tall near one of the elegant green-painted walls was the young man in striking imperial-styled red clothing, his bearing regal without trying. A red sword hung at his hip, the scabbard polished and gleaming, but his posture was casual—shoulders slightly leaned as he watched the exchange with amusement dancing in his blue eyes.
Asvin Cavias.
With an easy grin, he stepped forward and reached out, ruffling Rosin's hair without mercy.
"There it is," he teased, "the 'I-didn't-miss-you-at-all' voice. Real convincing, Rosie."
Rosin yelped, trying to bat his hand away as her ponytail wobbled wildly.
"Asvin! Stop that! You're ruining my hair! You always do this!" she snapped, clearly more embarrassed than truly angry. "And don't call me Rosie in front of him!"
Matthew chuckled quietly, standing where he was as Sonia and Terria giggled beside him. He watched Rosin argue with her older brother, and despite the fire in her tone, there was no mistaking how much she adored him.
But as Asvin glanced toward Matthew, their eyes met—and for a split second, something passed between them. A look. Understanding. Matthew didn't need to say anything. He knew Asvin would make time. Later, when they were alone.
There was something he had to ask. Something important.
Asvin smiled warmly at the young boy and gave a small wave, his voice filled with easy affection. "Matt! How've you been, little guy? I've been looking forward to seeing you. They treating you well in here?"
Matthew's face lit up, the nervous weight in his chest easing just a little as he returned the smile. "I'm doing good, Big Bro Vin," he said brightly, his voice steady but soft. "Really good, actually. I even made some friends and all."
Before Asvin could reply, a few voices jumped in around him.
Sonia, still clinging lightly to his arm, gasped with wide, innocent eyes. "You made new friends?" she asked, as if it were the most impossible thing in the world. "But… we're your best friends, aren't we?"
Terria giggled and poked her younger sister on the head. "Dummy, people can have more than one set of friends. That's a good thing, right, Matt?"
Rosin scoffed lightly from where she stood, crossing her arms but not quite able to hide the interest in her tone. "Hmph. Took you long enough. I figured you'd be all shy and hopeless instead."
She looked away quickly, cheeks just a bit pink. "...But I guess… it's fine. As long as they're not weirdos."
Matthew laughed at all three of them, heart warming at how familiar and comforting they were. "They're nice. A little weird, maybe. But in a fun way."
Asvin chuckled, folding his arms and watching the scene unfold with that same proud, older-brother air. "Sounds like you've been busy, Matt. I'm glad."
Matthew had been tense when he first stepped into the room, his small shoulders stiff, his hands slightly clenched at his sides. It had only been a few days since he last saw them, but to him, it had felt like years. Somewhere in his heart, a quiet fear had grown—what if they didn't feel warm anymore? What if, now that he was in the orphanage, things had changed?
But the moment Sonia and Terria wrapped their arms around him… the moment Theresia pulled them all into one big hug, and Rania held him so tightly with whispered words of love… all of that fear melted away.
They still felt like a family. Maybe even more than before.
Time passed gently in that room, filled with laughter and soft chatter as Matthew told them about the past few days—about the orphanage, the food, the kids, and especially about Max and Tod.
Theresia and Rania leaned in with wide smiles and shining eyes, clearly taken by the story of his new friends. "That is so adorable," Theresia said, hands pressed together. "I want to meet them now. A tough girl and a big brother type? How precious!"
"They sound like wonderful children," Rania added, her tone full of genuine warmth. "And I'm so proud of you for making friends so quickly, Matthew."
But when he mentioned trying to teach them how to see the One Power, Rosin blinked in surprise.
"You're... teaching them?" she said, trying to keep her tone even but failing just a bit—her voice pitched slightly higher at the end. She crossed her arms tightly, eyes narrowing just a little too much to be casual.
"Figures," she muttered under her breath, then added more loudly, "Of course you'd do something like that. You've known Fireball for what—a whole month now, huh? Guess that makes you an expert or something."
She didn't look at him as she spoke, but instead stared off toward the corner of the room with a pouty frown. "Anyway, good for them, I guess," she said, still not facing him, her tone dry and laced with something unspoken—something that hung in the air even though she didn't say it outright.
The flicker of envy in her eyes was brief, almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Matthew didn't comment on Rosin's reaction, and no one else did either. Instead, the conversation moved on naturally, and he spoke about other things—life at the orphanage, funny moments with Max and Tod, the food, and the backyard games. Time passed gently, and soon enough, it had been over an hour since the Cavias Family had arrived.
Sonia and Terria both pouted when it was time to leave, clinging to Matthew like he might disappear again. But when Rania knelt beside them and promised gently, "Matthew will visit us next time, at home," their expressions brightened.
"We'll play It," Sonia said excitedly.
"And hide and seek!" Terria added, her blue eyes sparkling. "And lots of other fun things too!"
Matthew nodded with a warm smile, already looking forward to it.
Matthew then approached Asvin quietly as the others were preparing their things to leave. He tugged gently at the young man's sleeve and looked up at him.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
Asvin nodded without hesitation, but Matthew clarified, his voice a bit more hushed, "Alone, I mean."
Asvin raised an eyebrow at that, the curiosity plain in his expression, but he gave a small nod. "Alright."
He turned to the rest of the family and said, "We'll be back in a bit."
None of them objected—Rania was helping Terria with her coat, Sonia was still chatting excitedly with Theresia, and Rosin only gave Matthew a sidelong glance before looking away with a small "hmph."
With that, Asvin gently opened the door, and the two stepped out of the room together.
...
Outside the room, Asvin turned to Robert, his tone calm but carrying the weight of authority. "Find us an empty room. I'd like to speak with Matthew alone."
Robert, visibly stiffening under the pressure of the young heir's presence, nodded quickly. "O-of course, Young Lord. Right away."
He led them down a short hallway, past more polished doors and richly decorated walls—far more elegant than anything on the children's side of the orphanage. Before long, he opened a door to a small but lavish room, furnished with dark wood chairs, a low table, and a large window that bathed the space in soft daylight.
"This should do," Robert said, before quickly stepping out and closing the door behind him, leaving the two alone.
Asvin turned to Matthew, his expression softening. "Alright, Matt. What's on your mind?"
The young boy stiffened, small fingers twitching at his sides, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a while, silence lingered between them, but Asvin didn't speak. He simply watched, calm and patient, giving the boy time.
Seconds stretched, heavy and uncertain, until Matthew finally raised his head and spoke—quietly at first, then with more strength. He told Asvin about Lucy. About Max. About Tod. He described how they had been kind to him, how they treated him like one of their own, and how he wanted them to be protected too.
Just like him.
Asvin's expression shifted, the easy confidence in his features giving way to something more complicated. He didn't respond immediately. His lips pressed together slightly. His blue eyes, always steady, now wavered—not with fear, but with the weight of what Matthew had just asked.
Hesitation crept into his gaze.
This was the moment Asvin had both anticipated and feared.
He had known it would come—of course he had. Even after spending less than a single day with Matthew, it was clear to him: the boy wasn't the type to accept safety while others suffered. Sooner or later, Matthew would ask for more than just his own protection.
And now he had.
Asvin's jaw tensed ever so slightly as the weight of it all settled. He wanted to help, but the road ahead was blocked by a mountain: the Poblico Family. The most powerful noble house in Decartium. Stronger than his own. Untouchable. Unforgiving.
They ruled this orphanage like it was their personal kingdom. And they wouldn't surrender their possessions without resistance. Asvin had no doubt—they would push back if he challenged them.
But maybe… maybe there was a way.
A few children. A handful. He could manage that, couldn't he? He could pressure Robert, twist the man's cowardice into compliance. And the Poblicos—he doubted they'd light the match of war over three or four nameless orphans.
If that's all it took to keep Matthew's heart intact… then perhaps it was a line he could afford to cross.
But that was the limit—just a few kids.
And Asvin hated it.
There was a bitterness that sat heavy in his chest. Wasn't it unjust? That he, by sheer accident of birth, had the power to decide who would be spared… and who would be left behind? That he could pluck three children from misery while dozens of others remained shackled in it?
It felt wrong.
But worse still, he knew what would happen if word got out. If the children learned the truth—that it wasn't Asvin who had chosen them, but Matthew.
They would turn on him.
No matter how kind Matthew was. No matter how much he laughed with them or shared his food or taught them to see the One Power. None of it would matter if they discovered he'd chosen. That he'd had the power to pull them out of the dark… and didn't.
And in their eyes, that would make him worse than the adults who tormented them.
Because those adults were monsters—they expected nothing from them. But Matthew? He was one of them. He could have saved them. And instead… he saved his friends.
Just his friends.
Asvin let out a long, weighted sigh—the kind that carried more than breath, the kind that sagged with the weight of impossible choices.
This was the wall he had known he would eventually crash into.
There was no other path. No miracle solution. Only limits, only boundaries drawn in blood and politics. All he could do… was save a few.
Push further, and the tenuous line between his family and the Poblico would snap—and if that happened… war. Real war. Noble blood staining streets. Orphanages burned not from neglect, but from retaliation.
He stared at the young boy sitting across from him, silent, solemn, patient in his quiet hope.
Asvin's voice broke the silence like glass, softer than usual, but every word deliberate. "I'll try, Matthew. But listen to me…"
He paused, then said it—clean and clear, a bitter truth.
"I can only help these three. I can't help anyone else. I wish I could. I truly do… but I can't."
The young boy didn't answer at first. He just sat there, eyes lowered, shoulders heavy. Then he nodded once—small, resigned.
"I understand," he said quietly.
Asvin leaned forward slightly, his voice softer now. "And… please, don't tell Max, Tod, or Lucy that you helped them. Alright?"
Matthew blinked, confused. "Why not?"
Asvin met his gaze. "I don't think they'll appreciate it, Matt."
"But… but I'm saving them, aren't I?"
"You are. Absolutely," Asvin confirmed, his tone gentle but firm. "But from the way you talked about Max and Tod… they care. A lot. About the other kids in this orphanage."
He paused, letting the weight of that settle before he continued.
"If they find out that you chose to spare them, instead of the others… they might hate you for it. Not because they're ungrateful, but because they'd want everyone to be safe. And they'd ask you to change it. To protect the others instead of them. You know they would."
Matthew looked down again, lips pressed into a thin line.
"So please," Asvin finished, "don't tell them. Okay?"
...
In the dim corner of the orphanage's adult wing, where the faded light of filtered weakly through old, dust-smeared glass, two figures stood—one casting a long shadow, the other barely daring to breathe.
Asvin Cavias, the Heir of the Crimson Lion, stood with the casual grace of nobility forged in steel and fire. His red imperial coat shimmered softly in the light, his sword resting at his hip like an unspoken threat. Cold blue eyes—eyes that mirrored both kindness and power—were fixed on the man across from him.
Robert, the middle-aged overseer of the orphanage, stood stiffly, a polite but nervous smile tugging at his lips. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, not daring to clasp together, not daring to move.
Asvin broke the silence first, his tone calm but razor-sharp.
"From now on," he said, "I want Max, Tod, and Lucy to be treated just like Matthew."
He stepped forward slightly, and though his voice didn't rise, the weight behind it made the air heavier.
"No one touches them. No one makes them feel lesser. Not a word, not a glare, not a bruise."
He paused, letting the statement settle like the calm before a storm.
"And if they do…" His voice lowered, colder now. "Well, you already know what will happen in retaliation."
Robert took a step back, cautious and wary, eyes avoiding Asvin's gaze as if it might burn him. There was a flicker of hesitation in his expression—fear, yes, but also calculation.
"Tod and Lucy… that's fine," he said carefully, voice thin and unsure. "As long as it's just them. The Poblico Family… they wouldn't mind a few more being left alone, not if it keeps things quiet between us."
Asvin raised an eyebrow, sharp and questioning, his presence suddenly heavier.
"These will be the last," he said calmly. "I know the Poblico have their limits. I won't ask for more."
At that, Robert exhaled, slow and tense—relief barely masking the unease still rooted in his posture.
Asvin's eyes narrowed ever so slightly when he noticed the omission. His tone remained calm, almost casual, as he asked, "And what about Max?"
Robert froze.
The man's expression soured, twisted into something tight and uncomfortable. His gaze flitted to the side as he hesitated, choosing his next words with caution—as if one wrong syllable could cost him more than just favor.
"That'll be… difficult," he said at last, voice low. "She's… very important to the orphanage's business… and to the Poblico Family as well." He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to.
Asvin didn't blink. He simply stared at the man for a long moment, the silence stretching thin and tense.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't a warm smile.
"Tell me, Robert," Asvin began, voice still soft, still cordial, "have you heard of the Black Lion of House Cavias?"
Robert's blood drained. He nodded, stiffly, his face paling.
"Feared assassin," he muttered, almost a whisper. "The best spy the kingdom has… no one crosses him."
Asvin's smile lingered.
"You wouldn't want him to visit you in the middle of the night, would you now, Robert?"
Robert's breath hitched, a chill crawling down his spine. "A-And… umm… why would he do that, Young Lord?"
Asvin chuckled, the sound light but carrying weight. "I don't know, maybe he cares deeply for young Max… Who am I to know, right?"
Silence stretched.
Robert stared at him, unmoving. The fear in his eyes was no longer subtle—it was carved plainly into every line of his face. After a few long seconds, he finally nodded, slowly.
"Alright, Young Lord… I'll do my best to make sure Max is treated just like young Matthew and the other two. I promise you that."
Asvin let out a soft laugh, bright and unbothered. "Good. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Robert didn't say a word.
Asvin shifted the tone with casual ease. "Anyways… how's the search for the tutor going, Robert? Matt didn't mention anyone showing up to train him yet."
Robert swallowed hard. "I… I'm doing my best, Young Lord. I mean it. I'm trying to find a great teacher, just like you asked. That's why it's taking a bit longer, that's all."
Asvin's gaze lingered for a second longer than was comfortable. Then he gave a slow nod. "Good. That's why I like dealing with you, Robert. You're reliable."
He paused. Just for a beat.
"And it would be in your interest to continue being so."
Robert didn't argue. He didn't blink. He simply nodded, fear still etched deep across his face.
...
The Cavias family stood at the orphanage gates, the warmth of their visit fading all too quickly. One by one, tearful goodbyes were exchanged. Sonia clung to Matthew for just a second longer than she should have, and Terria sniffled as she promised they'd play again soon. Theresia gave him a soft kiss on the crown of his head, and Rania wrapped him in one last warm embrace.
Then came Asvin.
The young noble smiled and knelt slightly to ruffle Matthew's blonde hair. "You don't need to worry about them anymore," he said gently. "Robert will take care of Lucy, Tod, and Max—just like I promised."
Matthew looked up at him with clear, sincere blue eyes and nodded, a small but grateful smile tugging at his lips. "Thank you, Big Bro Vin… really."
Asvin chuckled, rising to his feet. "Don't thank me yet, Red Sage," he teased, before turning with the grace only a Cavias noble could carry.
With that, the red Cavias carriage rolled through the rusted orphanage gates and began to vanish down the stone road.
And just like that, they were gone.
Matthew stood still, eyes on the distance long after the carriage had disappeared. The silence that followed wasn't cold this time—it wasn't the lonely silence he'd known before. When he finally turned back, he saw them: Max, arms crossed with that familiar smirk on her face; Tod beside her, waving; and the rest of their little group, waiting for him to come back inside.
He wasn't alone anymore.
Not really.
He had found another family.
And this time, he was going to protect it.
—End of Chapter.