📖 Rise Beyond Shadows
Chapter 2 – Whispers of Doubt
The rain stopped by morning, but the whispers never did.
Inside the orphanage, the halls smelled faintly of wet clothes and stale bread. Children shuffled around in patched-up slippers, their laughter echoing against the cracked walls. To most, it was just another day. To Aiden, it was a battlefield of words.
He had learned young that the world had two kinds of voices: the ones that encouraged, and the ones that cut. And in this place, the latter outnumbered the first ten to one.
When he tripped over a loose board during chores, the boys snickered.
"Clumsy again."
"Bet he'll never be trusted with anything important."
When he stayed up late, practicing with a stick like it was a sword, the older girls whispered.
"Always pretending."
"Doesn't he know it's useless?"
When he pushed himself harder during morning drills, the caretakers muttered where they thought he couldn't hear.
"He'll burn out."
"Overcompensating, that's all."
"He'll never change."
Each word was another stone on his back, but he refused to bend. Instead, he gathered them, building an invisible fortress around his heart. If they doubted him, fine. If they laughed, let them. He would carry every whisper like fuel.
Still, he was only human.
There were nights when he curled up under his thin blanket and pressed his palms over his ears, desperate to block out the echoes. His chest would ache with the weight of it all, and for a heartbeat, the fire inside him flickered low.
But then, as always, the memory returned: the storm, the lightning, the vow. And he would whisper it again into the silence, his lips moving like prayer.
I'll prove them wrong. I'll prove I'm the best.
One evening, as he sat on the windowsill staring at the courtyard below, another voice interrupted his thoughts.
"You're doing it again."
Aiden turned. Lila Rowan stood in the doorway, her arms folded, her braid swinging down her back. She had arrived at the orphanage a year after him, quiet but sharp-eyed. Unlike the others, she never laughed when he trained.
"Doing what?" he asked.
"Repeating it." She stepped closer, tilting her head. "That line. About proving them wrong."
Aiden felt heat rise to his cheeks. He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. "So what if I am?"
Lila shrugged, but her gaze was steady. "You don't have to prove anything to them. They don't matter."
"They do," Aiden shot back, sharper than he meant to. "Every word sticks. Every look. Every laugh. Don't tell me it doesn't matter."
Her expression softened, but she didn't argue. She simply sat beside him on the sill, the two of them staring into the fading twilight. After a long silence, she whispered, "Then prove it. But don't forget—you don't have to do it alone."
Aiden glanced at her, startled. She wasn't mocking him. She wasn't doubting him. For the first time, someone's words didn't sting—they steadied.
He didn't answer, but that night, when the whispers of doubt returned, there was another voice woven among them. A girl's voice, quiet but sure.
You don't have to do it alone.
And somehow, that made the vow burn brighter.