The training room was quiet, only the soft hum of rune-lamps filling the silence. Damien sat cross-legged on the smooth floor, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and measured. Evraine sat beside him, her posture relaxed yet her gaze fixed on him with quiet concern. She did not need to ask what he was doing; she could feel it in the way his aura shifted, the subtle ripple of his emotions pressing against the air.
Damien was diving into his memories.
And this time, he was reaching for the very beginning.
When the images began to surface, they came not as blurred fragments but as sharp, living scenes. He saw a young man—handsome, radiant with life—bending over him with trembling arms. The man's hair was black, his eyes the same deep obsidian shade, though a touch lighter than Damien's. His expression was overflowing with joy as he carefully lifted the newborn from the midwife's hands.
"My son," the man whispered, his voice breaking as he looked down at the fragile infant. His lips curved into a grin so wide it seemed he could hardly contain the flood of emotion. His arms shook, not from weakness, but from the weight of the moment.
That man was Raymond Dreadmore. Damien's father.
He turned immediately, eyes shining, toward the bed where a pale woman lay. Her body was frail from the blood lost during childbirth, her face exhausted yet incomparably beautiful. Her hair was as black as midnight, her eyes dark like polished obsidian—the same darkness Damien had inherited.
"Ciara," Raymond said, his voice almost boyish in its happiness. "Look at him. He has my face, doesn't he?"
His grin was foolish, overflowing with pride, and for a moment it softened the heavy atmosphere in the room.
The woman—Ciara Dreadmore, Damien's mother—rolled her eyes at him, but her lips curved in a faint smile. "Give me my baby," she murmured, her voice weak yet steady.
Raymond carefully placed the child in her arms. Ciara looked down at her son, and the fatigue etched into her face melted away. Her gaze became tender, radiant with warmth as she traced her fingers along his tiny cheek.
"This little one has my eyes," she said softly. "And my hair too."
Damien, watching from the perspective of memory, felt a pang in his chest so sharp he could hardly breathe.
The baby in her arms began to cry, his fragile body trembling. Ciara hushed him immediately, cradling him closer to her chest. She rocked him gently, her touch full of love, her voice as soft as the wind.
"Little Blackie," she whispered. "Don't cry. Mommy is here. Mommy will always be here for you."
Her words carried warmth so rich it seemed to seep into Damien even now, across the gulf of years. He stared at the memory with a calm face, but tears began to stream silently down his cheeks. He had never known this. Never felt it. Yet here it was, laid bare before him, the truth of what had been.
Beside him, Evraine noticed. She reached out and took his trembling hand in both of hers, her white eyes reflecting his pain.
Damien blinked, snapping out of the memory for a brief moment. He raised a shaking hand to his cheek, feeling the wetness of his tears. His lips twisted in a half-laugh, half-sob.
"Heh… why am I crying?" he whispered, his voice unsteady.
He wiped his eyes roughly, his body trembling, and then closed them again, forcing himself to return to the memories.
And they came flooding back.
He saw how his mother always called him by that name—Little Blackie. How her eyes glowed with affection every time she held him. He saw his father, Raymond, looking at him with pride that never dimmed. For a month, their days were filled with simple joy. He was loved. Completely.
Then came the day of the celebration.
The Dreadmore family of Dravonne had decided to hold a grand gathering to announce his birth. Both his father's branch and his mother's lineage joined hands to host it. Invitations went out to all seven Dreadmore families, and the great halls of the castle filled with life. Tables overflowed with food and drink. Warriors, nobles, elders, and saints gathered, toasting to the newborn heir. The walls echoed with laughter. The air was alive with joy.
But joy did not last.
It began with something small—someone realizing that their energy was unstable. Then another, and another. Panic spread as more and more Dreadmores felt their strength slipping away. Even saints among them began to falter, their control weakening.
The poison had already sunk its claws into them all.
Alarm swept the hall. The strongest saints gathered, trying to analyze the problem, but they came to the same grim conclusion. They had been poisoned, and whoever had planned this had struck with terrifying precision.
Raymond's expression hardened instantly. Without hesitation, he gathered Ciara and the infant Damien in his arms. At his side was another man—tall, striking, with hair like silver-blonde silk. The two of them moved quickly, guiding Ciara and the child through the corridors of the castle.
They reached the safest chamber, a fortified room hidden within the castle's heart. Raymond placed his wife and son inside, and the silver-haired man shut the heavy doors from the outside, sealing them in.
Ciara sat in silence, her face calm but her eyes sharp with calculation. She immediately tried to weave teleportation spells, her fingers dancing through the air, but every attempt collapsed. Someone had locked down the castle. No one could escape.
With a wave of her hand, Ciara activated a scrying spell. The air before her shimmered like glass, revealing the battlefield outside. Damien, watching through memory, felt his stomach twist as he saw the image clearly.
Masked figures poured into the castle. Each wore a white mask painted with a bloody smile. The sight seared itself into his mind, the details etched into his memory as if by fire.
The Dreadmores fought bravely, but poisoned and outnumbered, their thousands were slaughtered like cattle. For every enemy that fell, three Dreadmores were cut down. Blood painted the halls. Screams tore through the air. Saints clashed above, their power shaking the heavens, but even they faltered under the poison's weight.
And amidst the chaos, Damien saw his father.
Raymond Dreadmore was a storm. His aura roared as he clashed with four enemy saints at once. His blade danced like lightning, cutting down two before their bodies had even hit the ground. Side by side with him fought the silver-haired man, their coordination flawless, holding back wave after wave of destruction.
For a moment, Damien felt pride swell in his chest. His father was unstoppable.
But pride turned to ice when betrayal struck.
One of the enemy saints exchanged a glance with the silver-haired man. And in that instant, the man—Raymond's most trusted ally—drove his sword straight through Raymond's back.
The blade tore through flesh and bone, piercing his heart.
The world seemed to stop.
Ciara's eyes widened in horror as she watched, her body trembling. A scream built in her throat, but it never left her lips. All she could do was watch as the man she loved, the father of her child, staggered under the weight of treachery.
And Damien, reliving it all, felt his heart shatter.