Chapter Two
Never speak a harmful truth.
Gazel burned the thought into his mind as he looked back at his sister.
She was smiling at him, warm and gentle. Anyone who knew her would know it was a lie. There was nothing warm about that smile. It was a mask. Always had been.
"Gazel," she said softly, "you were not in on it with Jarren, were you?"
Gazel's eyes flicked to Jarren's limp body. Then back to her.
He smiled.
A clean smile. Honest. Sincere.
"You really don't think I would do something like that?" Gazel said. "After all, you are a goddess among people. Only a fool would dare touch your hairpin. A stupid fool like my brother here."
He nudged Jarren's body with his foot for emphasis.
Then he kept talking.
Praise after praise poured out of his mouth. Whatever came to mind, he said it. He flattered her beauty, her strength, her grace. He even praised her temper, carefully, skillfully.
Inside, he was praying.
To all the gods he knew.
Which was none.
He was not even sure gods existed. If they did, he hoped they were listening.
After what felt like an eternity, though in truth it was only moments, she finally seemed satisfied.
She stepped closer, patted Gazel on the head, and smiled brightly.
Then she turned and left.
Only when she was completely gone did Gazel let out a long breath.
He collapsed onto the ground, landing on his butt.
His heart was pounding hard.
He had seen many people with older sisters. Some were normal. Some were sweet.
Some were annoying but lovable.
If he had to describe his sister in one word, it would be terrifying.
Wicked.
Like a demon wearing the face of a goddess.
Gazel's eyes drifted to the boy still lying on the ground.
Jarren had not moved an inch.
He sighed.
"I guess I have to get him to his room," Gazel muttered.
Dragging Jarren was hell.
He grunted. He cursed. He complained. He insulted Jarren. He insulted himself. In one word, this was all his own fault.
By the time he reached the room, his arms felt like they were tearing apart.
He threw Jarren onto the bed.
Hard.
Jarren did not wake up.
Not even a groan.
Gazel stared at him, veins bulging on his forehead.
"So you can sleep peacefully after all that," he muttered. "I will deal with you later."
Several ideas flashed through his mind. None of them kind.
A crooked smile crept onto his face.
Then he paused.
He frowned and looked across the room toward the next door.
Why was it so quiet?
"Is he asleep?" Gazel wondered.
He shrugged.
Why should I care?
Even as the thought formed, his feet were already moving.
He opened the door.
Their mother was not there.
Instead, a carefully woven wooden cradle sat in the room. Soft cloth lined it, white and clean.
Gazel walked closer.
Then he froze.
Sleeping peacefully inside was a baby, only a few months old.
White hair framed the child's small face. Not pale white. Pure white. Whiter than their father's. Whiter than Jarren's.
Gazel stared at him.
His face hardened.
He did not want to admit it.
But he was jealous.
Painfully jealous.
There were many reasons.
The biggest one was simple. The baby had taken the attention. The love. The pampering. All the things that used to be his.
And that alone annoyed him.
But it was not the only reason.
The baby was beautiful.
No, beautiful was not enough.
All of them were above average in looks, far beyond normal humans. But this child, the one named Trent, was different.
Godly.
Comparing Gazel, or anyone else, to him felt like an insult.
"Why the hell do you have to exist like you own everything," Gazel muttered, staring down at the tiny figure.
The baby stirred.
As if reacting to his voice, the child's eyes slowly opened.
Two icy blue pupils stared back at him, faintly glowing, soft yet unsettling.
Gazel's gaze hardened. He stared coldly, almost daring the little thing to be afraid.
It did not work.
Instead, the baby's face lit up.
Trent smiled.
He lifted his small hands toward Gazel, fingers wiggling clumsily, clearly asking to be picked up or played with.
"…Even your smile is bewitching," Gazel thought darkly.
The hands kept reaching for him.
He scoffed.
"Dream on. As if I would waste my time on you."
Gazel turned away.
He hated it. Hated the feeling creeping into his chest. Being made to feel inferior by a child who was not even a year old. Trent always did that to him. Maybe he did it to everyone. Gazel could not tell.
He walked to the door.
His hand wrapped around the knob.
Then he stopped.
His brows furrowed. He shook his head sharply, clicked his tongue, and sighed.
"Damn it."
He turned back.
Trent was still there, still staring, hands still stretched out, eyes shining.
Gazel stared at him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
"Hey, little fellow," he said quietly. "Tell me the truth. What kind of bewitching charm do you always carry with you?"
Minutes passed.
Gazel found himself talking
.
Stories poured out of him. Random ones. Stupid ones. Some made the baby smile. Some made him frown. Some made him tilt his head in confusion.
Gazel watched every expression.
And without realizing it, he smiled wider.
He liked it.
He really liked watching the kid's face change.
Eventually, he ran out of stories.
Trent did not look away.
His eyes stayed locked on Gazel, curiosity burning brighter than before.
Gazel sighed.
"I am out of stories," he said. "You should sleep already."
Trent just kept staring
.
"…Alright," Gazel muttered. "Then listen."
He leaned closer.
"Let me tell you about our family."
The baby blinked.
"You are a Trystan too," Gazel continued. "Do you not find it strange?"
He frowned slightly.
"I only know us. Me. Big brother. Big sister. Father. You. Mother. That is all the Trystans I know."
His voice lowered.
"Father never talks about relatives. Not once. Hell, he does not even let us interact with other humans. Like we are different."
He looked at Trent.
"Do you think we are different?"
Trent stared at him.
Then smiled.
"You idiot," Gazel muttered. "I asked you a question."
He continued anyway.
He told him what he found strange. What felt wrong. What felt hidden.
Then his voice hardened.
"When you turn six," Gazel said quietly, "Father's training will begin."
His fists clenched.
"And surviving it should be your only priority."
More words followed. Warnings. Complaints. Thoughts he had never spoken aloud.
Eventually, Trent's eyes drooped.
His breathing slowed.
He fell asleep.
Gazel fell silent.
"Sleep well, little brother," he whispered. "I will tell you more stories tomorrow."
He froze.
Then he shook his head hard.
"It is that charm again," he muttered. "I am not falling for it."
He corrected himself immediately.
"Dream on. I am not telling you a single story tomorrow."
He did not know who he was trying to convince. Trent. Or himself.
Gazel turned and walked into the room he shared with Jarren.
The moment he stepped inside, something felt wrong.
A strange sensation crawled over his skin.
He froze.
Took a step forward.
Froze again.
He did not see anything. That was the problem. His body felt heavy, like the air itself was pressing against him, stopping him from moving.
His heart began to pound.
"What is wrong with me?" Gazel thought.
The feeling deepened.
Fear.
Not sharp panic. Not sudden terror.
This was worse.
This was dread.
Despair.
A suffocating sense that something had already gone wrong, and there was nothing he could do about it.
His hands trembled.
His whole body started to shake.
He forced himself forward, step by step, toward the bed.
Jarren was still sleeping. Peaceful. Unaware.
"Jarren," Gazel whispered urgently. "Wake up. Something is wrong… with… me…"
His vision blurred.
Darkness swallowed everything.
To be continued....