He was born beneath a bloodred sun,and even as the world spat in his face,two people held him close.
His mother, with trembling hands, cradled him against her heart, whispering,
"You are my shining star."
His father, rough and calloused from years of labour, pressed a kiss to his tiny forehead and murmured,
"You are our dream. Our hope."
It did not matter to them that his skin was darker than night, that his hair curled wild and fierce, that his eyes were bottomless black oceans.To them, he was perfect.
Their perfect son.
But the world did not see what they saw.
The villagers called him "stink-blood.""Demon-child.""Curse from the black lands."
They hated what they did not understand.
The boy learned early what fear looked like — not on his own face, but in the tightness of his mother's jaw as she clutched him closer, shielding his body with her own.In the raw desperation of his father's hands, pushing him behind their meager home whenever angry mobs roamed near.
No matter how many times the world beat them down, his parents wrapped him in their arms and whispered:
"You're not a monster.""You're our miracle."
And the boy, barely old enough to walk, clung to those words like lifelines.
The cruelty grew worse.
Every night, when the fires were lit and the villagers gathered, they dragged his parents into the square.They made a show of it.
Tying his mother to a post.Smashing his father's knees to the ground.
They would beat them, burn them, whip them — all while forcing the boy to watch.The goal was clear:
Break him.
Destroy the love that shielded him.
One night, they pressed hot irons into his mother's back.She screamed — a terrible, broken sound.But even through the agony, she found his gaze across the crowd.And she smiled.
A bloody, pain-wracked smile.
"Don't look away, my son," she gasped."Be brave. You're stronger than them."
Another night, they shattered his father's fingers with hammers.One by one.
Each crack sent a shudder through the boy's chest — but his father, teeth gritted in agony, managed to croak:
"I am proud of you. Always proud."
Their love was not weak.It was ferocious.
They endured the unendurable because they refused to let hatred steal their child's heart.
When the villagers spat,when they called him "monster,"his mother would lift him high and shout,
"THIS is my beautiful son!Look at how strong he is!Look at how he shines!"
Even when her body was bruised and bleeding.Even when her bones broke.
But love alone could not protect him forever.
By the time he was five, the boy had seen more suffering than most men would in a lifetime.His dreams were soaked in blood and fire.
Still — he never stopped reaching for his mother's hand.Still — he never stopped listening for his father's voice.
The night they took her from him was the night the sky wept fire.
They tied her high on the post.This time, they carried oil, not whips.This time, they did not intend to let her live.
The boy screamed, tried to run to her — but cruel hands seized him.
She looked down at him through the smoke.
Her body broken.Her voice a rasp.But her eyes — oh, her eyes — were burning stars.
"Live, my son," she whispered."Grow stronger.One day, break the chains."
The flames swallowed her whole.But not her words.
Not her love.
It burned brighter than the fire.
His father fell beside him, the life fleeing his body from too many wounds.But with the last shreds of his strength, he pulled the boy close and choked out:
"You are not cursed, my son.You are our salvation."
And then he was gone.
The boy knelt alone in the ashes.
No tears.
No screams.
Just a burning in his chest.A seed planted in agony, fed with blood, destined to bloom into something terrible and magnificent.
Thus began the legend of a boy born in chains —and destined to shatter them all.