"Some are born to rule. Others to crawl. And you, Ashen... you're not even fit to crawl." — Duke Veyron Valemyr
Dawn never rose for Ashen.
The sun shone for nobles, for the blessed, for heirs.
For him, there was only the clammy darkness of a cellar, infested with rats, mold, and humiliation.
He woke with a jolt. Not because of a dream—he hadn't had those in a long time. It was a kick in the ribs that tore him from sleep.
— Get up, filth.
The voice was deep and bitter. A servant's. Not even a noble. Just a lackey the duke allowed to beat his own son.
Ashen sat up with difficulty. A tooth fell from his mouth. He picked it up in silence, like an automaton. He had learned not to scream. Not to cry. Every tear summoned another blow.
— The dining hall is filthy, you cockroach. Want the guests to throw up when they see you again?
Ashen didn't answer. His legs were weak. He hadn't eaten in two days. But it didn't matter. No one cared whether he survived.
Through the corridors of House Valemyr, the boy walked in silence, barefoot on the cold stone floors. Eyes followed him—full of scorn, hatred, and sometimes worse: amused disgust.
Kael, his half-brother, appeared at a corner. He had just finished sword training, shirtless, glistening with sweat, wearing his usual predatory grin.
— Well, well. Look what the rats dragged in.
— ...
Ashen tried to slip by without a word, but Kael blocked his path.
— Not greeting your brother, bastard?
— ...
Kael grabbed the back of his neck and slammed him against the wall.
— Say "Lord Kael," or I'll rip out your tongue.
— M-my... Lord Kael... Ashen mumbled, blood in his mouth.
— There. That's better. Here. Catch this.
He tossed a bucket of latrine waste at his feet. The filthy water splashed his face.
— Clean that with your tongue. The floor's cleaner than you.
And he walked away laughing.
Ashen fell to his knees. He trembled. He no longer knew what hurt more: the violence... or the indifference.
Later, in the kitchens, Ashen tried to beg for a scrap of bread. He hadn't eaten in three days.
— Please... just a little... even moldy crust...
The cook, a massive woman with a grease-stained apron, struck him with a hot ladle.
— You think you're entitled to food prepared for real Valemyrs?! she shouted. Go eat your own filth, you runt!
Ashen recoiled, clutching his burned cheek.
— You really want to eat? sneered a kitchen apprentice.
He pulled out a gnawed bone, caked with mud.
— Here. For you. Like a good dog.
They laughed. All of them. Even those who pretended not to look.
Ashen took the bone. He couldn't afford to refuse.
That evening, he was summoned to the grand hall. Duke Veyron Valemyr sat upon his black throne. A rigid, cold silhouette. Eyes of steel. No father could have been more distant.
— Come forth, birth mistake.
Ashen knelt. He didn't dare raise his head.
— I've pondered for a long time. Should I send you to the temple as a cellar rat? Or sell you to the salt mines?
Silence fell, heavy as stone.
— But I've found something better. You'll undergo the Blood Trial, alongside my true children. That way... when the stone rejects your existence, the whole kingdom will know you're a reject. And you'll be discarded like the garbage you are.
A dry laugh echoed in the hall. Ashen shivered. Around him, Kael, Lira, even Elaira—all wore predatory grins.
— But why wait? said Kael, drawing a dagger. We could already see how much blood he can lose without dying.
— Enough, Veyron said. I want him alive for the ritual. After that...
He didn't finish his sentence. He didn't need to.
Ashen was dragged back to his "room": a cage in the stables, shared with a sick dog. He collapsed, face in the soiled straw.
His thoughts were ruins.
But deep in the abyss, a cold fire was born. Not love. Not hope.
Hatred.
"If they want a monster..."
"...then I'll give them one."