It was early morning when Matthew jolted awake to the sound of shouting echoing through the hallways. Panic gripped him instantly, sharp and cold, as memories of the Black Fire surged back without mercy. His heart pounded like a war drum, and he instinctively pulled the blanket over his small body, as if it could shield him from the chaos outside.
Through the fabric's weave, his eyes caught sight of the blue threads—threads invisible to most, yet shining clear as starlight to him. The One Power. It shimmered faintly in the still air, waiting. Calling. His thoughts raced. Should he use it? Should he perform the Fireball Art?
It was the only weapon he had. His only shield in a world where strength ruled and he had none. He wasn't a Fighter. He was just a boy—seven years old, small, fragile, powerless in every way but one. But the Fireball... the Fireball Art changed everything. That single act of raw, burning power could turn the tide, shift the balance. Even an adult would hesitate—think twice—before daring to face a child who could burn them to ashes.
And yet, Max's words from the day before echoed sharply in his mind. He clenched his eyes shut and shook his head, trying to push them away—but she was right. He couldn't use the Fireball. Not now.
Why?
Because deep down, he wasn't sure he could actually go through with it—burning someone alive. If they truly came for his life, maybe then... maybe. But most of the time, they weren't trying to kill him. Not really. And that made all the difference.
Besides, the real monsters—the Black Tower Arts Users—they weren't the ones banging on doors or shouting down hallways. If they ever came, he wouldn't even see them. They would end him before he could even raise a hand.
Matthew inhaled slowly, then exhaled with trembling control. He turned his eyes toward the closed door, listening. The shouting had stopped. Silence settled in its place, heavy and uncertain. He couldn't be sure what had happened, but from the sound of it, an adult had been yelling at someone younger—probably a teen, someone in their early to mid-teens.
Someone like Max.
What's going on? Matthew wondered, his thoughts whispering through the quiet.
He crawled toward the window and peeked out. The sky was painted in pale hues of lavender and gold—the sun had only just begun to rise. It really was still early. Too early for shouting. Too early for fear.
But then... what had happened?
The young blonde boy turned his gaze back to the closed door, eyes wide and unblinking. A chill crept through him, and he didn't make a sound. He just sat there, wrapped in his blanket like a cocoon of false safety, listening to the silence that followed the storm.
Minutes crawled by. Then half an hour. Still, he didn't lie back down. Sleep felt too far away—too dangerous. The fear was still there, sitting with him in the quiet, refusing to let him go.
He kept his eyes locked on the door, unblinking. Then—knock knock—a soft, almost hesitant tapping broke the silence.
Matthew froze.
His voice caught in his throat. He wanted to speak, to ask who it was, but the fear clenched too tightly around him. He couldn't force out a single word.
The doorknob turned. The door creaked open.
Someone stepped inside—a middle-aged man, tall and pale beneath the dim light. Robert.
The moment he saw the boy, Robert stopped. His eyes widened—not with sympathy, but with dread. Not for Matthew's trembling form or tear-bright eyes, but for what this moment could become.
Because if Matthew spoke—if he told the wrong person, especially him—then Robert's entire world could unravel in an instant. If word reached the Cavias heir, his position, his job, his safety... all gone in a breath. Or worse.
His life.
He was just a small man trying to survive in a world that didn't care for small men. And this city, Coupitia City, belonged to House Cavias. There was no room for mistakes under their shadow.
Robert gulped, then forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Good morning, Matthew," he said gently. "Didn't realize you were up this early."
He took slow, careful steps into the room, each one measured—calm, deliberate—as if he were approaching a wild animal, frightened and ready to bolt.
Matthew didn't speak. Not at first. His small hands clutched the edge of his blanket tighter, and he gave a faint, wary nod in reply.
Robert's smile strained further. "Is everything alright, little Matt? Did something happen? Are you okay?" he asked, his voice dipped in a syrupy concern that didn't quite ring true.
It was a mask—too smooth, too polished. And Matthew saw right through it.
He knew Robert didn't truly care. Not about him. The man's concern had nothing to do with a scared child and everything to do with the threat that stood behind him—the shadow of Asvin Cavias.
"I… I heard shouting," Matthew finally murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "And it scared me. That's all, Mister Robert."
Robert crouched down slowly, lowering himself to Matthew's level with the same care someone might use when handling glass—fragile, unpredictable. His smile remained in place, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the effort it took to hold it there.
"Oh, that?" he said lightly, waving a hand toward the door as if brushing the fear from the air. "That shouting wasn't anything serious, Matthew. Nothing for you to worry about."
His voice took on a rehearsed calm, smooth but hollow. "It was just… a very bad kid," he continued, nodding to himself, as if reinforcing the story in his own mind. "Someone who did something really wrong. So wrong, the adults had to step in. That's all it was. Sometimes kids like that—they need to be taught a lesson."
Robert reached out, placing a hand gently on the blanket near Matthew's shoulder, careful not to actually touch him. "But you don't have to be scared, alright? I'll make sure nothing happens to you. You're safe here. I promise."
He said the words slowly, deliberately, the way one might try to soothe a frightened animal. But beneath the surface of his reassurance was a brittle tension, like a thread pulled too tight.
And Matthew could feel it—could hear the lie in every carefully chosen word.
Matthew stared at Robert's hand on the blanket, unmoving. The man's words were soft, his tone carefully controlled—but Matthew wasn't fooled. The lie was too smooth, too practiced. He could feel it, like a draft beneath a closed door.
A "very bad kid"? Adults shouting like that over just a misbehaving teenager? No. That wasn't what fear sounded like. That was what danger sounded like.
Still, he gave a small nod, more out of habit than belief. Agreeing, pretending to be reassured—it was easier than asking questions. Easier than watching Robert's fake smile crack.
Robert let out a quiet breath of relief, mistaking the nod for trust. "That's a brave boy," he said, with the warmth of someone trying too hard. "And hey, if anything ever does scare you again, you just let me know, alright? I'll take care of it."
He stood back up, brushing invisible dust from his pants, his eyes flicking once to the door behind him. "Now try to get a little more rest if you can. The day's still young."
He turned to leave, pausing in the doorway. "And don't worry about what you heard. That boy won't be bothering anyone again."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Matthew sat frozen in place, his breath shallow. He didn't feel safer. If anything, he felt smaller—like the room had grown colder the moment Robert left.
He stared at the door for a long time, wondering what Robert had really meant by that boy won't be bothering anyone again.
Matthew's gaze lingered on the door long after it closed.
Why did he come in the first place?
For a moment, he'd assumed Robert had entered to wake him up, like adults sometimes did when it was time to get dressed and head to the dining hall. But then—Robert told him to go back to sleep. To rest. So it wasn't time for breakfast yet.
Then… why?
Matthew might have been young—just seven—but he wasn't stupid. He'd read more books than most adults in the orphanage. He knew how people acted when they were hiding something. His mother used to say that truth has weight, and lies are light until they crumble under pressure. His father taught him to watch what people did, not just what they said.
And Robert?
He came in with a lie already loaded on his tongue.
So if he hadn't come to wake Matthew… then maybe he came for another reason entirely. Maybe he had been checking in. Making sure the boy hadn't heard too much. Making sure Matthew wasn't going to say something to the wrong person.
Matthew bit his lip. He pulled the blanket tighter, pressing it to his chest like it could still his thoughts.
That had to mean something bad had really happened. Something worse than just yelling. Something that needed covering up.
He remembered Robert's last words—"That boy won't be bothering anyone again."
What did that mean? Was the teenager hurt? Taken away? Worse?
Matthew's chest tightened. He thought of his mother's voice, the soft way she used to calm him, and the warm safety of his father's arms. But those memories were sharp now, edged like broken glass.
He shook his head. It hurt too much to think of them.
But even through the ache, his mind kept circling back to the same question.
Why did Robert really come?
The answer chilled him.
Because something bad had happened.
Something bad enough that they were already worried about witnesses—even seven-year-olds.
...
Somehow—despite the fear, despite the questions—Matthew had eventually drifted back to sleep. His small body, worn out from tension and dread, had given in. And for the most part, he slept soundly. The darkness brought no dreams, and for a few hours, the weight pressing on his chest lifted.
It was the warmth of the sun that stirred him next, light pouring through the window in soft golden rays. The room felt different now, less heavy. But what truly pulled him back to the waking world were the hands—gentle, shaking his shoulder.
Matthew's eyes fluttered open.
Robert stood over him, smiling again. That same too-smooth smile as before, but less strained now, more casual—like none of the morning's tension had ever happened.
"Good morning, Matthew," he said warmly, almost cheerfully. "Time for breakfast."
Then, without waiting for a reply, Robert turned and left, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Matthew sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes. The light outside told him the day was already well underway—the sun high, the air warmer. For a moment, it all felt almost normal.
But the memory of Robert's earlier visit lingered, cold at the edge of his thoughts. And something about the way the man smiled, the way he left without another word, made Matthew feel like whatever had happened that morning hadn't truly passed.
It had just gone quiet.
The young boy stirred slowly, dragging himself out from beneath his blanket. The warmth of sleep still clung to him, but his body moved on habit. He stepped quietly into the hallway, rubbing the last traces of rest from his eyes as he made his way toward the bathroom.
The door was already open, and inside, the sound of running water and muffled voices filled the tiled room. A handful of boys were already there—some splashing water on their faces, others slipping into closed stalls to go about their morning routine.
Matthew paused and joined the end of the line, waiting his turn in silence.
He glanced around. No one looked at him. They never did. The boys didn't speak to him, didn't joke or shove or whisper like they did with each other. It wasn't hostility—it was distance. A quiet wall they had all agreed to build. Matthew was different. Special. Untouchable. And they acted accordingly, ignoring him as if it were some unspoken rule.
He didn't blame them. He hadn't exactly tried to talk to anyone either.
This place still didn't feel like home.
When his turn finally came, he stepped forward and washed his hands, then splashed cold water on his face. The shock of it brought him fully awake, chasing away the last remnants of sleep and fog.
He dried off with a thin towel, then stepped back into the hallway, turning toward the dining hall.
His footsteps echoed softly on the floor, mingling with those of the other boys moving in the same direction. But still, no one walked beside him. No one met his eyes.
And Matthew, in his quiet way, preferred it that way. For now.
He still wasn't comfortable here.
Not yet.
...
As Matthew walked the quiet hallway alone, the sound of footsteps grew behind him—faster, lighter than the others. He didn't turn at first, assuming it was just another boy hurrying to breakfast.
But then a familiar voice called out.
"Hey, your highness," came the joking tone.
Matthew glanced back just in time to see a taller boy falling into step beside him. Tod—yes, that was his name. He'd met him just yesterday, one of the boys who always seemed to orbit around Max, laughing, teasing, but never cruel. Fourteen, if Matthew remembered right. Practically a grown-up in comparison.
Tod grinned down at him and gave his shoulder a friendly pat. "Didn't know we had royalty walking these halls," he said with a smirk, nodding at the other boys who continued to ignore Matthew. "Guess that's why everyone's giving you the royal treatment—stepping aside, keeping their distance. You must be special."
Matthew blinked—then laughed, softly at first, but genuinely. The tension in his chest eased just a little. He knew Tod was only teasing, but there was kindness behind the joke. A warmth that made him feel, for once, not entirely apart from everything.
"I guess I should wear a crown next time," Matthew replied, his voice still a little quiet, but touched with amusement.
Tod chuckled. "Oh, don't give Max any ideas. She'll actually make you one. Out of kitchen scraps, probably."
Matthew laughed again, more easily now. He didn't feel like royalty, not really—but for a brief moment, with someone walking beside him and treating him like a person instead of a symbol, he didn't feel like an outsider either.
And that was something.
As they walked side by side, Tod glanced down at him again, his tone light but sincere. "So, how'd you sleep, little prince?"
Matthew hesitated for just a moment.
The memory of the shouting earlier that morning flashed across his mind—the fear, the way he'd hidden beneath his blanket, the quiet dread after Robert left. But something in him resisted bringing it up. It felt… heavy. Too heavy for this brief moment of normalcy.
He offered a small smile instead. "I slept really nicely, actually."
Tod nodded, clearly pleased. "That's what I like to hear." He nudged Matthew gently with his elbow. "Maybe this place isn't so bad after all, huh?"
Matthew gave a small laugh.
Tod kept talking as they walked—cracking jokes about the food, the way one of the older boys snored loud enough to shake the walls, and how Max once threw a spoon at him because he stole her bread roll. His teasing wasn't mean—it was warm, like a big brother trying to keep things light.
By the time they reached the wide double doors of the dining hall, the smell of warm porridge, toasted bread, and something vaguely sweet filled the air.
Inside, the room buzzed with the low murmur of dozens of voices. Long wooden tables were already packed with children—talking, eating, laughing. Bowls clinked. Cups shifted. It was chaotic but familiar.
Tod held the door for him. "After you, your grace," he said with a crooked grin.
Matthew grinned and stepped inside.
...
With trays in hand, the two made their way through the bustling dining hall. Matthew balanced his food carefully—some warm porridge, a piece of bread, and a cup of watered-down juice—while Tod, without breaking stride, nudged him with his elbow again.
"Alright, royal highness," Tod said, tilting his head toward the far end of the room. "Stick close. I'm on official guard duty now. Can't have anyone kidnapping the king of Coupitia before breakfast."
Matthew laughed, the sound soft but real. "I didn't know I needed a guard."
"Are you kidding?" Tod replied with mock seriousness. "You're special. Scary powerful. Mysterious. That makes you a prime target. Assassins could be anywhere." He looked left and right, eyes narrowed dramatically, then added in a stage whisper, "Even disguised as cafeteria workers."
Matthew giggled, playing along as he followed Tod between the rows of tables. "Alright then, Sir Tod. Where's Max? And the other 'royals'?"
Tod straightened up, puffing out his chest like a knight accepting a noble quest. "Ah yes, the queen and her fellow princes await. It is my sacred duty as the Royal Escort to deliver His Majesty into their care."
Grinning, Matthew shook his head. "You're weird."
"Thank you," Tod replied proudly.
They wove their way toward the back of the hall, where the noise was a little softer, the crowd a little thinner. There, seated around a slightly scuffed wooden table, were a handful of boys—a little older than Matthew, laughing and eating—and one girl with messy blonde hair and a scar that carved across her left cheek like a badge of defiance.
Max.
She didn't look up right away, focused on her bread like it might vanish if she blinked. But her presence anchored the table. The others seemed to revolve around her without even realizing it.
Tod motioned dramatically. "And here we are. Royalty reunited."
He dropped onto the bench beside one of the boys and patted the seat next to Max, nodding at Matthew.
Matthew climbed up carefully, the tray warm against his small hands.
As Matthew settled onto the bench beside Max, a few of the boys around the table looked up from their trays.
"Morning, your majesty," one said with a crooked grin, nudging another boy who chuckled into his cup.
"Sleep well in your royal chambers?" another teased, grinning through a mouthful of bread.
Matthew smiled, playing along. "Very well, thank you," he said in a mock-posh tone, lifting his cup like a toast. "Though the servants were a bit loud this morning."
The table laughed, the tension that usually followed Matthew's presence dissolving in the moment. The air around him felt lighter—like he was finally beginning to step into a space where he wasn't just the quiet boy with strange power, but someone with people.
Then Max turned toward him.
She had that look she always seemed to wear—casual, almost bored, but with eyes that missed nothing. A faint smile pulled at her lips, tugging just enough to soften her usual sharpness.
"Good morning, Matt," she said.
He turned to her, smile lingering. "Good morning, Max."
Just two words exchanged between them—but they landed softly, like something solid and real in the midst of shifting ground.
And for a few quiet seconds, with the low hum of the dining hall around him and warm food in front of him, Matthew felt almost… normal.
Almost safe.
As everyone dug into their breakfast—muffled chatter, clinking bowls, the scrape of spoons—Max suddenly turned toward Matthew again, an inquisitive look in her eyes.
"You know," she said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread, "you seem… older. Not just quiet-older, but smart-older. Can you read and write?"
The question caught the attention of the rest of the table.
Matthew blinked, a little surprised, then sat up straighter. He gave a small nod, pride slipping into his expression. "Yeah," he said, trying not to sound too proud—but failing just a little. "I can."
Around him, the boys burst into a chorus of exaggerated gasps.
"Whoa!"
"No way—seriously?"
"Reading and writing? At seven?"
One boy dramatically placed a hand over his heart. "Your majesty continues to astound us."
Matthew laughed along with them, heat touching his cheeks. But inside, he was proud. Even some adults couldn't read and write—not well, anyway. And here he was, a commoner boy, already ahead of where most kids started.
A few years ago, a new system had been put in place across the cities—an initiative by the Crown to educate the general populace. Orphanages especially were targeted, with mandatory reading and writing instruction beginning at age ten. And it had worked, at least a little. Illiteracy, once staggeringly high among common folk, had started to drop.
But for a boy like Matthew—reading before the age of seven? That was rare.
Max raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Huh. Not bad. Maybe we'll make you our royal scribe instead."
Another boy snorted. "Nah, he's too dangerous for that. Give him a pen and he'll burn the paper."
More laughter.
Matthew just smiled, leaning a little closer to his tray. He didn't always like the attention, but right now—with this group, with these voices—it didn't feel so heavy.
It felt like belonging.
The laughter around the table began to settle as the moment passed. Max, who had been smirking along with the others, let her grin fade slowly. That sharp-eyed look returned—one that meant she was thinking again, deeper this time.
Then, without much warning, she asked, "What do you know about the Black Emperor?"
It wasn't a question of if he knew—because everyone did. Every child, every orphan, every soul alive had heard the name.
The table quieted slightly.
Matthew blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. He looked at her carefully. Max wasn't joking anymore.
"I mean," he said slowly, "I don't like him. No one does. I'm glad he's gone."
Max didn't interrupt, just watched.
"He was a tyrant," Matthew continued. "He ruled the world for a thousand years with… with blood and fear and war. And then he was finally stopped."
He paused, as if reciting the history from the back of his mind—stories he'd read in old, dusty books or heard whispered by the more educated adults he'd met.
"Defeated at the Battle of Hope," he said. "By the Squad of Dawn. They were the only ones strong enough to challenge him. All of them died too, though."
He hesitated for just a beat.
"And his younger brother," he added. "The Lord of Darkness. He died too."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy—but it was still. Like even the air paused to honor the weight of what had been said.
One of the boys mumbled, "What a scary name… the Black Emperor. Makes your skin crawl just hearing it."
Matthew, meanwhile, stared down at his half-finished porridge. The stories of the Squad of Dawn always stirred something in him—sadness, pride, fear. They were heroes, but heroes that vanished in the same breath as the monster they defeated. Like light snuffed out with the darkness.
He didn't notice he was gripping his spoon just a little tighter than before.
Another replied, "Yeah, but he's dead. Ain't like he's crawling out of the grave."
Max shook her head with a smile. "Well, he kind of is."
The air around the table shifted. Every boy turned toward her, stunned, the sounds of breakfast fading beneath a rising tension.
Matthew was the first to find his voice. "What?" he asked, brow furrowed in confusion. What did she mean—he would crawl out of the grave? The Black Emperor was gone. Dead.
But Max had just said the opposite.
And she didn't flinch. She didn't laugh. She didn't brush it off like a joke.
She doubled down.
"The Black Emperor never died to begin with," she said.
Her words dropped like a stone in water. The table went utterly still. The boys fell silent, every trace of amusement gone from their faces.
Matthew's lips parted, a question forming—but something stopped him. A sense, a feeling.
Max would explain. He didn't need to ask.
And he was right.
She did.
Max leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping on the table as she spoke—not loud, but clear enough that every boy at the table heard her.
"It's just a rumor he died," she said. "The truth is something nobody liked to talk about. Because people didn't like it."
The others watched her, silent now, barely breathing.
"Everyone wanted to believe he was gone," Max continued. "After the big war, after the sacrifice of the Squad of Dawn, after the Battle of Hope—the battle to end all battles—they needed to think it was over. That it had cost everything, that it worked."
Her gaze swept the table.
"But it didn't."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
"He wasn't destroyed. He fled. Disappeared before the final strike. There were reports at the time—witnesses, fragments of truth—people who tried to spread the word."
She shook her head.
"But no one wanted to hear it. Who would? Who wants to believe that after a thousand years of being ruled by that monster, after everything… he was still out there?"
A cold, creeping silence fell over the table.
"Lukar Storman," Max said next, her tone shifting—more measured now. "You've probably heard of him. A modern historian. He only writes what can be proven. No fantasies, no legends. Just facts."
She paused.
"And this is one of them."
No one said a word.
Not yet.
Matthew sat frozen, his thoughts racing behind wide, uncertain eyes. The stories he'd read—the ones that brought comfort, that told of heroes and endings—suddenly felt thin. Like a blanket that no longer kept the cold away.
Because what if Max was right?
What if the ending they'd all believed in… was a lie?
Matthew shook his head slowly, a tight knot forming in his chest.
That couldn't be true.
Because if it was… that meant the Black Emperor was still out there.
His stomach twisted at the thought. No one knew exactly how long ago the Battle of Hope had happened—records were scattered, time twisted through generations—but most scholars agreed: it had been thousands of years ago.
And yet…
The Black Emperor wasn't human. He was a Draco—one of the ancient races. They appeared human on the outside, but could transform into dragon-like forms. They were creatures of myth, and they lived for… no one knew how long. Maybe forever.
Which meant the Black Emperor…
He might still be alive.
Around the table, the other boys shook their heads, disbelief painted across their faces.
"No way," one of them muttered.
"Can't be," said another. "That's just… no."
It wasn't just doubt—it was refusal. Refusal to accept a world where the greatest evil ever known might still walk somewhere under the same sky.
But Max?
Max only chuckled.
It was a dry, knowing sound—the laugh of someone who had already wrestled with the truth and come out the other side.
"You sound just like the people who ignored the reports back then," she said, lifting her spoon with a shrug. "You're not rejecting it because it's not true… you're rejecting it because you don't like it."
And there was nothing more to say after that.
Only the quiet scrape of spoons in bowls. And the lingering shadow of a possibility none of them wanted to believe in.
...
Later that day, Matthew found himself in the orphanage's backyard.
The sun hung high in the sky, casting golden light over the worn brick walls and patches of green that dotted the yard. All around him, younger kids—those under ten—ran and played, their laughter rising into the air like birdsong. The clatter of feet and the hum of conversation filled the space with life.
Max and the older boys were gone. They were past ten now, which meant they had to attend classes—reading, writing, counting, and other subjects Matthew hadn't yet been introduced to. The older the child, the more they were taught.
But Matthew was only seven.
He didn't have to go.
And while he could've asked Robert to let him sit in—especially since he already knew how to read and write—he hadn't. Not today.
Besides, something else was coming.
Soon, he was to be taught by an Arts Teacher—a real one, trained in the use of the One Power. Not everyone got one. But Matthew was different, and everyone knew it.
So for now, he remained in the yard, seated quietly on the edge of a worn stone planter while the children around him played. The breeze brushed his hair gently as clouds moved lazily overhead.
As he sat, Matthew watched the other children playing across the yard. Their laughter rang out as they chased one another or kicked around a worn leather ball—but none of them came near him.
It was as if he didn't exist.
Or worse—as if he were real royalty, not just the joke Max and the boys had teased him about earlier. A king apart. Untouchable.
He didn't care much. Not right now.
After all, this was only his first day in the orphanage. He knew things would change, that he'd make more friends eventually. Time had a way of softening edges.
But for now… he just wanted to be alone.
The Black Fire had taken everything from him—his mother, his father, his home. That loss still pulsed inside him like an open wound.
So instead of chasing after laughter, Matthew sat in silence, his thoughts turning inward.
He wanted to learn the Arts. Not just for knowledge—but for strength. Strength to rise above his fear. Strength to fight back.
And one day… to take revenge on the Black Tower.
To eradicate them.
Completely.
Utterly.
From existence.
Matthew sighed.
For all his desire to learn, the truth was… he wasn't entirely sure how.
It had been nearly a month since that strange old man had passed through his village—a man with wild eyes and robes stitched with sigils Matthew didn't recognize. He had stopped, looked at Matthew for a long time, then told him he was special. That he was blessed by the invisible blue threads of the One Power.
Before vanishing into the world without a trace, the man had taught him a single Art—Fireball.
Since then, Matthew had trained every single day, practicing until his fingers were sore and his breath ragged. At first, it took him over a minute and a half just to summon the energy, to shape the threads, to ignite the fire in his palm.
Now, he could do it in under a minute.
That was progress.
Small, but real.
He'd also learned how to control the size of the Fireball by feeding it more of the One Power. That, too, was something.
But that was all.
One Art. One trick. A single weapon in a world full of warriors and monsters.
He didn't know how to learn new Arts. He didn't understand the depths of the One Power—how to control it, how to master it.
He needed a teacher.
And Asvin... He had paid for one.
Matthew just had to wait a few more days. Then, finally, someone would come. Someone who knew the truth behind the Power. Someone who could show him the way.
Until then, all he could do was sit beneath the sun, watch the other children play, and keep that fire burning quietly in his chest.
He found himself wondering…
How did the first Arts Users do it?
In this time and age, he had books. He had experienced teachers. Researchers of the Arts who had studied the One Power for generations. Now, knowledge was something you could inherit—passed down like a family name, printed on paper, taught in lessons.
But back then?
Back in the earliest days?
They had no books. No teachers. No guides.
So how did they do it?
How did they look at the invisible blue threads of the One Power and know how to shape them into fire? Into air lances? Into waves of water?
It must've taken entire lifetimes. It must've felt impossible.
And yet… they had done it.
They had reached into the unseen, into the wild and formless power that surrounded all living things, and carved order from it.
That, Matthew thought, as he stared off into the sky, That was something to admire.
Something truly worthy of respect.
As he sat there, still lost in thought, something tugged at the edge of his awareness.
He noticed a young girl looking at him.
She appeared to be about his age—or maybe a little younger. If he had to guess, five or six. Her blonde hair framed a small, round face, and her wide blue eyes kept flickering in his direction.
She'd glance at him… then quickly look away. A few seconds later, her gaze would return. Then flick away again.
It wasn't accidental.
Matthew furrowed his brow slightly, confused.
Why was she looking at him like that?
Then, a memory clicked into place.
Yesterday, during dinner in the dining hall—she had been staring at him then too. The same quiet, curious look.
Why?
He couldn't think of anything he'd done to catch her attention. He didn't even know her name.
Matthew shifted slightly, his fingers brushing the edge of the stone planter he sat on. He wondered if he should approach her. Ask why she kept looking at him.
But for now… he simply watched her back, just as curious.
...
Time passed, and before long, the bell for lunch echoed through the orphanage halls.
Matthew found his way back to the dining hall, taking his usual seat beside Max and the other boys. Trays clattered. Voices buzzed. The scent of bread and stew filled the air.
As they ate, the boys began to groan.
"Studying sucks," one of them muttered.
"Yeah, it's so boring," another added, poking at his food like it had wronged him.
Max rolled her eyes and shook her head, clearly unimpressed. "You're all stupid," she said flatly, tearing a piece of bread in half. "Studying is the best thing ever."
The boys laughed, but Max continued without flinching.
"Because of it, I've learned so much since coming here—about the world, about places I've never even heard of before, about famous people and big wars and history and all of it. I can count now, and read and write. And honestly? That's the best thing that's happened to me since I got here, four months ago."
Her voice was steady, passionate. Sincere.
Matthew nodded, smiling a little.
"I agree," he said softly. "Studying is great."
One of the boys opened his mouth, curiosity bubbling up.
"So, Matthew, how did you even—?"
But he didn't finish.
Before the words could fully leave his mouth, Max shot him a sharp glare.
A warning.
The boy clamped his mouth shut instantly, shrinking a little under her gaze. The table fell quiet. The clatter and chatter from the rest of the dining hall seemed distant now.
Matthew looked down at his plate.
He hesitated.
Then, softly, his voice broke through the silence.
"It was… both my parents," he said. "But mostly my mother."
He paused, eyes distant as memories flickered across his mind like shadows on a wall.
"She had so many books it was crazy," he added with a faint, sad smile. "They were her father's—my grandfather's. I never met him."
He swallowed.
"She never introduced me to her side of the family. I don't know why."
His fingers traced a slow circle on the edge of his tray.
"My dad didn't have many people on his side either. Both of his parents… they were already gone."
The silence around the table grew heavier, but no one dared break it. Not out of awkwardness, but respect.
Even the boy who had asked said nothing, his earlier curiosity dimmed by something more solemn.
Matthew didn't say anything more.
The quiet held for a long moment before Tod, the oldest of the boys, leaned forward slightly.
"You alright?" he asked gently, his voice stripped of its usual teasing tone.
Matthew nodded slowly. "I'm okay," he replied, though his voice was soft.
And then, without anyone pushing him, without questions or prompting, he continued on his own.
"I lost both of my parents… two days ago," he said. "The Black Tower attacked our village."
The words settled over the group like a heavy fog.
Some of the boys stiffened in surprise, a few exchanged glances, eyes wide with unspoken questions. They wanted to ask more—how it happened, what he saw, how he got out—but they didn't.
Not now.
The kid had just lost his family.
No one could bring themselves to press him further.
If anything, they were stunned by how steady his voice was… by how he wasn't crying right then and there. A few of them wondered silently if maybe it hadn't hit him yet—he was only seven, after all.
But then again… for someone his age, Matthew was different. He held himself with a kind of quiet strength, a maturity none of them could quite understand.
And so they let the silence stretch again, this time with respect—offering comfort in the only way a table full of orphans knew how:
By saying nothing, and staying.
Max seemed the least surprised of them all.
It was almost as if she had expected it.
The adults had been talking yesterday—whispers between rooms, hushed tones behind closed doors—about another attack. A nasty one. The Black Tower Arts Users, infamous and feared, had struck again. Multiple villages hit at once. It had happened two days ago.
And now she knew for certain—one of those villages had been Matthew's.
She wanted to ask him more. What had it been like? How had he escaped? What exactly had happened?But she didn't.
Instead, she reached across the table and gently patted his shoulder. No words. Just that.
Matthew didn't flinch.
The other boys looked down at their plates. The once playful chatter had completely faded, replaced by a heavy quiet.
And so they ate—this time, in silence.
...
Later that day, they all sat together in the orphanage's backyard, watching the younger children dart across the grass, laughter ringing through the air. The boys were caught up in a game of tag, their joy infectious.
Tod, the oldest—and by far the fastest—was playfully taunting the slowest of their group, who was currently it, weaving just out of reach with exaggerated movements and mock cries. The others laughed and cheered, feet thudding against the dirt, clothes rustling with every movement.
Max smiled at the sight, and so did Matthew. The energy was light, a rare moment of peace.
But they didn't join the game—not because they weren't welcome, but because now… it was time.
Time for Matthew to teach Max how to see the One Power—the invisible, radiant blue threads that bound everything together. Threads that most people lived their whole lives never noticing.
It was these threads that allowed Fighters to cleave stone like it was paper, to sprint faster than any cheetah could ever hope to match.
And it was through the One Power that Arts Users could shape fire into swirling orbs, and summon waves from dry air.
Matthew took a quiet breath.
Today, he wouldn't be the student. Today, he would be the teacher.
Matthew scooted a little closer to Max, his small hands resting in his lap. "Don't force it," he said, voice gentle but focused, like he was repeating something someone once told him. "You just… let it come."
Max raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt.
"It's like," Matthew looked up at the sky for a second, searching for the right words, "blue threads. Like, um, strings. But floating everywhere. In the air. Like… if the air could be seen."
Max tilted her head and looked around dramatically. "You mean we're living in a giant spiderweb? Maybe I should start wearing armor."
Matthew snorted out a laugh, then quickly tried to hide it behind his hand. "No!" he said with a grin. "Not that kind of web. It's—ugh, you're not taking this seriously."
"I am," Max said, smirking. "I'm imagining some spiderwebs right now."
Matthew gave her a look, trying to be stern, though the corners of his mouth still twitched. "Okay, okay—listen. You have to breathe. In and out, like this—" he inhaled loudly, held it, then slowly let it out. "Take your time. Some people take months, some take seconds. It's different for everyone."
Max nodded once, her expression softening just a bit.
"It's not just looking," Matthew added, more quietly. "You have to feel it. Like… in the air. Around you. With your eyes closed, maybe. You have to imagine it's there, and… kind of believe it is."
Max let out a slow sigh, then gave him a sly smile. "What if I imagine it's made of candy instead? Blue candy strings floating around. That might work better."
Matthew groaned. "Maaax…"
Max laughed, her voice light and teasing as she saw the annoyed look on Matthew's face. "Okay, okay! I'm sorry," she said, raising both hands in surrender, her grin wide. "I'll take it seriously now. Promise."
Matthew crossed his arms and gave her a long look, squinting like he wasn't sure if he believed her. She pressed a hand to her chest. "For real. Serious Max."
After a moment, he sighed and nodded. "Alright. Try it."
Max sat up straighter and took a deep breath. Then another. She closed her eyes, letting her hands rest gently on her knees. Her lips moved just a little as she mouthed the breathing rhythm to herself—in… and out… in… and out…
She focused, trying not to think too hard, trying to feel instead. She imagined the blue threads Matthew had described, floating and dancing around her in the air like silk ribbons. She reached out—with her hands—trying to touch the air, to catch even the tiniest thread.
Nothing.
Still breathing slowly, she kept at it, concentrating harder, her little brows furrowing just a bit. Then, after a while, she opened her eyes.
Still nothing.
Max let out a small sigh, shoulders slumping just slightly. "Huh… guess it didn't work."
Matthew smiled gently. "Don't worry. It just takes a while."
A few of the younger kids nearby paused in their games when they noticed Max sitting still with her eyes closed, her face unusually focused. Whispers passed between them, quiet and uncertain, as they watched her with curious glances. Even Tod and the other boys, still mid-game, slowed to a stop. Tod leaned over with his hands on his knees, eyebrows raised, clearly interested but choosing not to interrupt.
Max, oblivious to the attention, eventually opened her eyes with a sigh. Still nothing.
Matthew tilted his head, watching her for a second before speaking. "It's probably 'cause you're not relaxed."
Max glanced at him, brows raised. "I am relaxed."
He shook his head gently. "Not enough."
She looked away, lips pressing into a line. She didn't argue, but the slight flick of irritation in her expression said enough.
Matthew, not wanting to push more, sat down beside her and let a few moments pass before asking casually, "Hey… what were you gonna say yesterday? About the food?"
Max blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. Then she let out a small chuckle, her mood softening. "Oh, that? I just wanted to say the food tasted way better than usual."
Matthew tilted his head. "Really?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I think it's 'cause of you, probably. You're, you know… important."
Matthew's eyes widened slightly in surprise. But as he thought about it, it made sense. The timing lined up. He gave a small shrug. "Huh. That's… weird. But kinda cool, I guess."
Max grinned, elbowing him lightly. "Royal treatment, Your Majesty."
Matthew snorted. "Shut up."
Max chuckled, and so did Matthew, the tension between them easing for a moment. Then he looked at her, a little more serious again. "Wanna try one more time?"
She gave a nod and closed her eyes, taking in a breath. Slowly, she began to imagine it again—the invisible blue strings floating in the air, soft like silk and everywhere. She reached for them once more.
And… nothing.
She opened her eyes. Still nothing. No blue threads. No shimmer in the air. Just the same old backyard and the kids still glancing at them from time to time.
Max slumped, letting out a groan. "Ugh."
Matthew let out a breath too, almost matching her sigh. "I thought maybe making you laugh would help," he admitted, his voice carrying a tinge of disappointment. "But it didn't."
Max blinked, turning toward him. "Wait, that's why you asked about the food?"
He nodded.
She raised an eyebrow, half-surprised, half-impressed. "Are you really just seven?"
Matthew shrugged with a small grin. "Yup. But not for long. I'll be eight soon."
"Oh yeah?" Max tilted her head. "How soon's soon?"
"In, like… two months," he said, holding up two fingers. "So… not too soon."
Max looked even more surprised now, eyebrows lifting. "Wait, what day?"
Matthew tilted his head slightly, thinking for a moment. "Uh… the 21st," he said.
At that, Max's expression shifted. There was a flicker of something—maybe disappointment?—before she nodded slowly, still visibly surprised.
Matthew noticed it right away and blinked. "What? Why that face?"
She gave a half-shrug, brushing some of her messy blonde hair behind her ear. "I'm turning thirteen that month too. But on the 3rd, not the 21st."
Matthew's eyes widened. "Whoa! That's, like… in just a few days!"
She grinned. "Yup."
He stared at her for a second, then dramatically leaned back a little like he was blown away. "You're gonna be thirteen?! That's almost double my age!"
"It is double your age," Max said with a smirk.
Matthew groaned and flopped back on the grass. "Ugh, I feel like a baby now…"
Max laughed at that, nudging his arm lightly. "Well, you kind of are. But a smart baby."
He peeked up at her with a squint. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
She gave him a teasing grin. "You decide."
The training went on a bit longer, but eventually, Max gave up with an exaggerated groan, muttering something about how "closing your eyes and pretending to see air noodles" was the most boring thing she'd ever done. With that, she darted off to join Tod and the others in their game of It. Matthew sat still for a few seconds, half smiling, then got up and ran after them too.
Despite being the youngest, he held his own better than anyone expected. Sure, his legs weren't as long or fast as the older kids, but what he lacked in size, he made up for in cleverness. He ducked behind bushes, slipped between older kids mid-chase, and even faked getting tagged once, only to dodge and shout "not yet!" with a laugh before darting off again. Max shouted at him for cheating, but she was grinning the whole time.
They played like that for a long while, the sun dipping lower and the shadows stretching long across the yard. Laughter and footsteps echoed off the orphanage walls, until finally, the adults began to call out, telling the kids to come inside.
That's when Matthew noticed it again—the way the caretakers looked at him. Their faces wore warm smiles, but their eyes were cautious, guarded. The way they spoke gently around him, almost too gently, like they were choosing every word. Like he was fragile. Or important.
It was strange.
He didn't know how to feel about it. Was it really because of Asvin? Because of the House of Cavias? Just how feared were they inside Coupitia City?
He glanced toward the adults again as they urged the children inside. One of them gave him a nod, soft and polite—too polite. Tod noticed it and nudged him with a smirk.
"Royalty treatment again," he whispered, barely containing his grin.
Max caught it too and rolled her eyes with a teasing scoff. "Careful, Your Majesty. Don't trip on your invisible crown."
Matthew groaned and muttered, "I'll throw it at both of you," but he smiled all the same.
Dinner passed without much fuss—warm stew, some bread, and quiet conversations scattered through the hall. Afterward, with bellies full and the sky outside growing darker, Matthew hesitated a little before turning to Max and the others.
"Hey… you guys wanna come to my room? Just to talk for a bit?"
Tod shrugged, a grin already tugging at his lips. "Sure, why not."
The others shook their head, saying they were too tired and sleepy to talk.
Max, just like Tod, nodded, though she raised an eyebrow. "We're not really supposed to hang around in each other's rooms after dark. You should probably ask Robert first."
Matthew blinked. "Really?"
"Really," she said, serious for once. "Rules are rules."
So, without much choice, Matthew made his way to find Robert, who was just finishing up speaking with one of the kitchen staff in the hallway. When Matthew asked, the man didn't hesitate—not even for a moment. His answer was immediate, his smile kind.
"Of course, Matthew. Just keep the door open and don't stay up too late."
That surprised him. Not just the yes—but how quick it came. Like Robert had been expecting it… or couldn't imagine refusing him.
He mumbled a thank you, then returned to Max and Tod with a slightly confused look. "He said yes."
Max rolled her eyes. "Of course he did. Royalty rules again."
Tod laughed under his breath.
Matthew just shook his head, but deep down, he couldn't deny it felt odd—how easily things happened for him now.
—End of Chapter.