Death did not come with drama.
There was no scream, no heroic last stand, no final words whispered into the night. It arrived quietly, like an apology that no one bothered to finish.
The boy lay on the cold linoleum floor of a hospital hallway, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The smell of antiseptic stung his nose. Somewhere nearby, machines beeped steadily—indifferent to the fact that one of the lives they were meant to protect was slipping away without resistance.
He was thirteen years old.
Too young to understand why the world had always felt slightly tilted against him. Old enough to know that it always would be.
He had no parents waiting at his bedside. No siblings crying into their sleeves. No teacher praying for a miracle. The nurse who had passed him earlier had paused for half a second, frowned, and continued on her way. Another name on a clipboard. Another statistic to be processed.
That was how his life had been.
Born unwanted. Raised forgotten. Existing quietly so as not to inconvenience anyone.
His lungs burned. Each breath felt thinner than the last, like the air itself was growing tired of sustaining him. He stared at the ceiling, watching a crack in one of the tiles—a thin, jagged line that reminded him of lightning frozen in place.
So this is it, he thought.
He didn't feel fear.
That surprised him.
He had expected panic. Regret. Desperation. Instead, there was only a dull, distant curiosity. Was this really all his life amounted to? Thirteen years of trying not to starve, not to freeze, not to disappear entirely?
He had wanted more. Not power. Not fame.
Just… warmth.
Something steady.
The lights flickered again.
Then the world went dark.
He did not wake up.
He realized he was awake.
There was no body beneath him. No breath to draw. No heartbeat pounding in his ears. He floated in an endless void, awareness untethered from flesh, thought existing without weight or direction.
Before him, something enormous turned.
A wheel.
It dwarfed stars that did not exist and stretched beyond distances that could not be measured. Its surface was divided into countless segments, each etched with symbols that burned faintly—worlds, bloodlines, destinies, curses, blessings, ruin.
It spun slowly, inexorably, as if it had always been turning and always would.
A voice echoed—not aloud, but within him.
It was not kind.It was not cruel.
It simply was.
"You have reached an endpoint."
The boy did not answer. He did not know how.
"Existence has recorded your termination."
Images flickered across the wheel. Lives. Deaths. Triumphs. Failures. He saw kings crowned and beggars buried. He saw heroes remembered and villains erased. He saw children born into love and others abandoned to silence.
None of them were him.
"By irregularity, compensation is permitted."
Something tightened inside him.
"One spin."
The wheel slowed.
For the first time, the boy felt something close to emotion.
Not hope.
Not yet.
"No refusal."
The wheel began to turn faster.
Symbols blurred. Gold bled into crimson. Light fractured into shadow. Entire lives passed in the space between heartbeats he no longer had.
He wondered—briefly—if this was mercy or cruelty disguised as chance.
The wheel slowed.
Slower.
Slower still.
Then it stopped.
The symbol before him burned brighter than the rest.
Blood.
Chains.
Nobility fractured by betrayal.
A child born into ruin.
The voice spoke one final time.
"Live."
The void collapsed.
Darkness returned—but this time, it was warm.
Princess Elenora of Lysandre had always believed betrayal was loud.
She had imagined screaming accusations, steel drawn in candlelit halls, dramatic declarations of treachery before blood stained marble floors.
She was wrong.
Betrayal was quiet.
It came with a gentle knock at the door. A familiar smile. A voice she trusted telling her everything would be all right.
By the time she realized the truth, the estate was already burning.
Smoke clawed at her lungs as she ran, one hand pressed against her swollen belly, the other gripped tightly by the man beside her.
Lucien Valemont did not look back.
Second son of a duke. Knight of the eastern marches. A man who had faced monsters without flinching.
Tonight, his jaw was clenched so tightly that blood trickled from where his teeth bit into his lip.
"Faster," he urged, voice low and controlled. "They'll notice soon."
Elenora nodded, though every step sent pain lancing through her legs. She was eight months pregnant. Her mana was unstable. Panic churned inside her like a storm.
Behind them, the sound of steel echoed—screams cut short, spells detonating, the unmistakable clash of trained soldiers.
Our soldiers, she realized with a sick twist in her chest.
They burst through the outer gate just as flames consumed the west wing. Rain began to fall, hissing against fire, turning ash into black slurry beneath their feet.
"Who?" Elenora whispered as they fled into the forest.
Lucien did not answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was hollow.
"…The caretaker."
Her breath caught.
No. That was impossible.
The man had raised Lucien since childhood. He had been there when Lucien first lifted a sword. When Lucien's mother died. When Lucien swore loyalty to the crown.
"He smiled," Lucien said quietly. "As he gave the order."
They ran until their legs gave out.
Days blurred together. Forests. Ruins. Abandoned roads. They avoided towns, avoided people, avoided hope.
The cult's reach was vast.
They knew now—it always had been.
Weeks later, Elenora collapsed inside the remnants of an old chapel, stone walls cracked and overgrown with moss. Mana flared violently around her as pain seized her body.
Lucien caught her as she fell.
"It's time," she gasped.
The storm outside worsened as if the world itself reacted to her scream.
Lucien held her, whispering words he did not believe would help, as blood stained the ancient stone floor.
When the child was born, there was no cry.
Lucien's heart stopped.
Then—slowly—the baby opened his eyes.
They were too calm.
Too aware.
Elenora laughed weakly through tears. "He's watching us," she whispered. "Like he understands."
Lucien wrapped his cloak around them both.
For one brief, fragile moment, the world felt bearable again.
They were found three months later.
There was no battle.
Only exhaustion.
Cultists emerged from the shadows like ghosts, spells already formed, blades drawn with professional efficiency. Lucien fought. Even injured, even starving, he fought like a demon.
It was not enough.
They dragged them underground.
The cell was carved deep beneath stone and sigil—old magic layered atop newer runes, designed to suppress mana, weaken flesh, and break spirit.
Lucien was first.
They shattered his mana core methodically, precisely, like craftsmen dismantling a weapon. He screamed once. Then never again.
Elenora was next.
They crippled her gently, almost reverently, as if aware of who she had once been. The moment her core collapsed, her hair turned dull, her presence dimming like a dying star.
Their son was left untouched.
"He's nothing," one cultist said. "Born here. Weak blood."
They were wrong.
Years passed.
The boy grew between stone walls and iron bars. He learned letters scratched into the floor. Sword forms traced in the air by a father who could no longer lift steel. Alchemy formulas whispered by a mother whose hands shook but whose mind remained sharp.
He learned silence.
He learned patience.
He learned how to watch without being seen.
When he turned fifteen, his parents died quietly—bodies too weak to continue, souls burned out by sacrifice.
The boy did not cry.
Above them, the world prepared for his return.
And somewhere, destiny shifted—uneasy.