POV: ???
I don't remember much about my father. He was never there, and my mother rarely spoke of him. But I never cared. My mother's love was more than enough to fill that empty space.
She was everything to me — she could tell when I was sad, knew exactly how to make me laugh, and always seemed to know what I needed before I even spoke. She was so beautiful too — long, wavy snow-white hair, eyes as red as rubies, and a smile warm enough to chase away any darkness. At least… any darkness that touched me.
But that light didn't last.One day, it vanished.
My mother was killed — and with her went every bit of warmth I had left. This world is cruel. Merciless. And I hate being so powerless against it. But what could I do? I was only five. Now I'm six — almost seven — and an orphan. They dragged me here after they found me wandering the streets, half-starved and crying for her.
This "orphanage" is a rotting excuse for shelter. The so-called carers don't care. They hit us when they're angry. Sometimes they hit us for fun. I don't even try to understand why anymore. Maybe that's just what cruelty looks like in its purest form.
Time doesn't mean much here. Days blur together. Maybe weeks have passed? Months? A year? I don't know.Sometimes, I lie awake and wish my father would come find me — take me away from this place, hold me, tell me everything's going to be okay. I imagine him strong and kind, maybe even as beautiful as Mother was. But that's just a fantasy. If he even exists, he probably doesn't know I'm alive.
I pull myself from my thoughts and glance around the "common room." The cracked walls, the splintered floorboards, the smell of dust and rot — all as familiar as my own skin. The few coins this place gets are pocketed by the staff. The children, like me, are just ghosts left to decay.
My gaze drifts to the broken window — my favorite spot. I like sitting here, pretending the world outside is different. Sometimes, I daydream about a "super-dad" who'll burst through the door and save me.That was sarcasm, by the way. No one's coming.
I catch my reflection in the glass and hate what I see. My once bright, golden hair is dull and tangled. My red eyes — my mother's eyes — have lost their light. My skin, once pale and soft, is now covered in bruises and cuts. The rags I wear can barely be called clothes.
Then — noise.
Something's happening outside. Normally, the city's chaos is background noise, but this is different. There's a crowd. People are whispering, excited. I lean closer, careful not to be seen. If the carers catch me, they'll "discipline" me again.
I catch snippets of conversation from the street below."Oh my goodness, it's really him! What's he doing in a place like this?""That's the One Blessed by Light," another voice whispers. "Why would he come to a backwater city like ours?"
The One Blessed by Light?
Before I can wonder further, the carers rush toward the front doors — actually running for once. They never move that fast unless there's money involved.
Through the window, I hear someone gasp."He's going to the old orphanage? Why? What could someone like him possibly want from there?"
A noble, maybe? That would explain the panic. But it's none of my business. Nobles are all the same — cruel, cold, untouchable. I shrink into the back corner of the room, making myself small and unseen.
Moments later, the old man who runs this place — bald, sharp-nosed, fake-smiling — bursts in, bowing and scraping before someone just outside the door. I can't make out their words, but I've never seen him act so respectful. Whoever this visitor is, he's no ordinary noble.
Then the man steps into the room.
Silence falls. Even the air feels heavy.
He's tall — impossibly tall — with long, golden hair that glows like sunlight. His eyes, golden too, seem to look through everything and everyone. Power hums around him, restrained but undeniable. His presence fills the room until the walls feel smaller, the air thinner. His posture is perfect, movements deliberate — every inch of him screams control, grace, power.
And I can't look away.
Fear prickles at my skin, but beneath it… something else. A pull. Something deep and instinctive, like recognition.
Why is he here?
Then his gaze finds me — sharp and golden and knowing. My breath catches. The old man keeps babbling beside him, but the stranger doesn't hear. He just walks toward me, slow and steady.
Step. Step. Step.
He stops in front of me.
Gulp.