The wind on the spire of the Gale Tower never stopped howling. It was both a lullaby and a war cry for the Aerion family, rulers of the Anemoria Confederation. For eight-year-old Viren, it was the sound of loneliness.
He stood on the tower's top training platform, the wooden sword in his hand feeling heavy and cold. Across from him, his father, General Kaelen Aerion, stood as tall and still as a granite statue. His hard face was chiseled by dozens of battles, and his emerald eyes—the same eyes as Viren's—showed not the warmth of a father, but the cold assessment of a commander.
"Again," General Kaelen commanded, his voice as flat and sharp as the wind itself.
Viren charged forward, putting all his strength into a swing. But his father didn't even need to parry. He simply stepped aside, letting Viren's momentum carry him stumbling forward. A leg shot out, and Viren fell sprawling onto the hard, cold stone. Pain shot through his knee and his pride.
"Your stance is weak," General Kaelen said, without offering a hand to help. "You rely on anger, not technique. Anger makes you blind. The enemy will use that to kill you. Get up."
Viren gritted his teeth, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. Crying was weakness. Weakness was not tolerated. He got up, his legs trembling from exhaustion and shame. This was their interaction. Not hugs or bedtime stories, but relentless lessons in combat, strategy, and survival.
When the torturous training session ended, Viren limped through the cold marble corridors of their residence. As he turned a corner, he saw two maids—new faces who had only been working for a few months—whispering. They fell silent the moment they saw him, bowing respectfully with thin smiles that felt wrong. But Viren had caught a fragment of their conversation.
"...doesn't even see him as a child," one of them, a woman named Lyra, whispered. "Just another tool for their ambition. I heard the General say that the Aerion heir must be the sharpest blade in Anemoria, not a spoiled boy."
"And the Lady," the other replied, "she's worse. She complained that the time the Young Master spends painting is a betrayal to the family. They will never love him. They will only use him."
Viren quickened his pace, his heart pounding, pretending he hadn't heard. But the words stuck in his mind like poisoned daggers. It wasn't a whisper of pity; it felt like a verdict, a confirmation of his deepest fears. It was the truth. It was his world.
If his father was the storm that forged his body, his mother, Lady Aerion, was the ice that froze his soul. He rarely saw her in the training arena. Her domain was the strategy room, a large chamber with a giant map table dominating the floor.
That afternoon, he was summoned there. His mother stood before a complex strategy board, pieces representing battalions and flying knights scattered across it.
"Your move," the Lady said without turning. Her dark green hair was impeccably styled, a stark contrast to Viren's perpetually messy locks.
Viren studied the board, then hesitantly moved a cavalry piece to attack the enemy's flank.
"Wrong," his mother said instantly. "You sacrificed cavalry for a momentary gain. You are not seeing three steps ahead. The enemy's mages will retaliate from that hill, cutting off your retreat, and your forces will be surrounded. You just killed five hundred men because of your impatience."
She never said, "Good job," or "Almost." Every interaction was a merciless analysis of his failures. Viren never felt good enough. He never felt like a son; he was a student constantly failing an impossible test.
The culmination of it all happened when he was twelve. In a sparring session against one of his father's personal guards, Viren overextended himself. He saw an opening, took a risk, and as a result, his opponent's practice sword slipped past his defense and struck his arm with a hard crack. The bone fractured.
The sharp pain made him cry out and fall to his knees, clutching his arm. For a moment, just a moment, he hoped. He hoped to see a flicker of concern in the eyes of his parents, who were watching from the sidelines.
His father strode forward, looking down at his dangling arm. "Pain is the best teacher," General Kaelen said. "Today's lesson: never take a risk you cannot afford the consequences of. Take him to the healer."
His mother didn't even move from her spot. "Your carelessness on the battlefield won't just break your arm, Viren. It will shatter an entire military campaign and get thousands killed for nothing. Remember that."
There was no "Are you okay?". No comforting touch. Only a lesson. Always a lesson.
That night, after the healer had finished setting his arm in a brace, Viren lay in his bed in the darkness. He didn't cry. His tears had long since dried up. Instead, something cold and hard began to form in his heart. An inescapable conclusion, reinforced by the whispers in the corridors.
They didn't love him.
They didn't want a son. They wanted an heir. A symbol of power. A perfect weapon. If he couldn't be that, then he was worthless.
From that day on, Viren changed. He stopped trying to seek their approval. He stopped painting or reading poetry in secret. He discarded all the "weak" parts of himself. He trained with a ferocity that made veterans shudder. He studied strategy late into the night, his eyes red from lack of sleep. He became cold, efficient, and deadly. He became the weapon they wanted.
And his hatred for them grew in the silence, as fertile as moss on a cold stone. He hated them for taking his childhood. He hated them for making him believe he wasn't good enough. And what he hated most of all was that, deep down, he still craved their love—a love he was convinced he would never receive.