The house was silent.
Too silent.
The kind of silence that swallowed footsteps—
That felt like the walls themselves were holding their breath.
And in the middle of that hush—
Laughter.
Soft.
Faint.
Fragile.
As if the sound itself wasn't meant to survive.
Rior twirled a wooden sword near the window, nearly shattering the glass.
"Come on, little beast! At least blink if you're impressed!"
His grin stretched wide, too wide.
But his shoulders were tight—just slightly.
Pretending to play.
Pretending to breathe.
Sirus stood near the doorway, arms folded.
Eyes sharp, scanning the corners like a soldier mapping for traps.
He didn't trust this house.
Neither of them did.
They knew it too well.
But still—they stayed.
For him.
Their little brother.
---
Elarion sat on the floor.
Three months old. Small. Still.
A honey pastry rested in his palm, untouched.
The sugar melted slowly between his fingers, unnoticed.
Sirus crouched beside him, voice low and precise.
"You don't have to eat if you don't want to," he said. "Just… stay here. Exist."
Rior dropped beside them, panting a little too hard, ruffling Elarion's pale hair with a forced laugh.
"We bought out half the market for you, you know. The city's best sweets. You've got to react at least once, little prince of frost."
The child blinked.
No words. No movement.
Just two mismatched eyes—one red, one blue—staring back with something far too old.
Are you serious?
The words were never spoken.
But the silence said them for him.
Still, they didn't stop.
They smiled through exhaustion. Through fear.
They had learned how to pretend.
They were trying to hold onto what warmth was left.
---
There was pain in both of them.
Not the kind that bleeds.
The kind that stains.
The kind passed down in noble houses where love is a weakness and cruelty a tradition.
But still—they smiled.
For the boy who had returned from death and didn't laugh.
They didn't know the truth.
All they knew was:
Their little brother was different.
He didn't cry.
Didn't even flinch.
But that never mattered.
To them, he was still theirs.
Rior stood again. "We'll be back after training. Don't burn the place down, alright?"
Sirus lingered. His fingers brushed Elarion's hair—not quite affectionately, more like anchoring something that might vanish if he let go.
Then the door closed behind them.
---
Silence returned.
Different now.
Heavier.
---
Elarion climbed onto the bed.
Slowly.
Too slowly for a child.
Like something… remembering how to wear flesh.
He reached under the mattress.
Nothing. Of course.
But in his mind—everything was there.
Hooks. Chains. Blades.
Instruments not meant for mortal hands.
Etched into his bones.
Into his soul.
He reached into that emptiness—
And twirled nothing.
But he felt it.
The weight.
The shape.
I miss it, he thought.
The sheets were too warm.
I thought I wouldn't. I really did.
A pause.
But I guess we never escape what makes us.
---
Then—
He turned to the pillow.
And there it was.
The mask.
Black. Cracked. Damp.
No one had placed it there.
But it existed.
Hell leaves gifts.
He lifted it gently—like something sacred.
The edges were jagged. Sharp enough to draw blood.
He spun it between his thumbs.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
---
His eyes began to glow in the dusk—
Not with light.
But something worse.
Awareness.
Hunger.
One red.
One blue.
Eyes that had stared into monsters long enough to become one.
Eyes that no longer sought safety—
Only weakness.
---
The mask twirled to a stop.
And in its reflection—his face.
Childlike. Unscarred.
But behind that—
Rot. Precision. Madness.
Held together by a leash.
---
Does he mind?
No.
Pain. Memory. Loss.
All irrelevant.
Only choice remains.
---
His lips parted.
A whisper. Almost nothing.
> "I chose to live."
"Not for the world."
"Just for me. And the things I find interesting."
Nobody else would understand his words.
But he did.
And then—
He smiled.
Not sweetly.
Not innocently.
But like something you should've never turned your back on.
---
A wolf.
In the skin of a boy.
---