The Eryndor family was one of the most prominent families in Varin, known for being pure-blooded humans.
Their lineage was celebrated, respected, and envied across the land. They were considered near-perfect, a standard of nobility and elegance that many aspired to but few could emulate.
Yet all of that so-called perfection shattered the moment Wystan was born.
His father had mated with a different creature, a choice that would have an impact through the family for years.
The result was poor little Wystan, a boy whose very existence seemed to be a source of shame and scorn.
If the creature had been human, like his father, the boy's life would have been far simpler, far more dignified. The Eryndors might have accepted him without question.
But fate had other plans.
The creature was an Eridian, and Wystan was born half-human, half-Eridian, a mistake, a misstep in the eyes of the family that should never have occurred.
From the moment of his first breath, Wystan was marked.
Long ago, the Eridians had arrived on the human planet. Initially, humans and Eridians lived in harmony, their differences respected and boundaries maintained.
The Eridians brought magic, wisdom, and longevity, blending their lives cautiously with humanity. But as centuries passed, humans multiplied, spreading across the land relentlessly, while Eridians could not keep pace.
The population of Eridians dwindled; many perished, and only a few formed bonds with humans, attempting to preserve their heritage through mixed bloodlines.
As their numbers diminished, human perception shifted. The remaining Eridians were no longer seen as valuable allies or mystical beings, they were low-blooded, a contaminant among pure humans.
They were expelled from magical schools, scorned in public, and hunted by prejudice in ways that made life almost unbearable. Earth itself became a cage for them, a world that rejected their very existence.
Even now, centuries later, only a handful of full-blooded Eridians remained. Wystan's mother was one of them, a rare lineage that carried both pride and a burden impossible to escape.
Wystan's stepmother, Marla, could not bring herself to accept that her husband had a son who was half-blood.
To her, he was a living insult, a reminder of a choice she could neither control nor reverse. She ensured that Wystan never felt the warmth or safety a family should provide.
To her, family was not love, it was power, a hierarchy of fear and control. Wystan quickly learned that home could be a place of nightmares, that blood did not guarantee belonging.
No one truly cared for Wystan. The family avoided him, not out of cruelty alone, but out of fear. Fear of Marla's temper, her wrath, her merciless judgment.
Those who did care dared not show it openly; their concern was whispered, hidden behind false smiles and silent gestures. Wystan learned early that attention could be dangerous.
Affection was a secret he could never wear openly.
Marilus fluttered his eyes open, squinting painfully at the harsh ray of sunlight slicing through the window. The morning was bright, almost cruelly so, a stark contrast to the darkness that was on his mind.
The world outside was vibrant, yet inside him, the storm of yesterday's horrors had not abated.
Although Wystan's body had been cared for, sleep had been a stranger. Nightmares had plagued him relentlessly, each more vivid than the last.
Shadows of the forbidden forest, grotesque shapes, and horrors that defied explanation twisted through his mind, refusing rest.
"Oh, Old Creature… why did you send me here, even after you warned me not to interfere? Do you expect me to simply sit and endure their torment? Why must my life be so complicated, so utterly unbearable? I spent over five thousand years in hell, and this… this is the reward?" Marilus lamented, wiping away tears that were not even real.
Of course, the Almighty would not answer. Even if He were not preoccupied with the burdend of the universe, He would not lend an ear to someone like Marilus, who had once tried to destroy the world He created, one who had flirted with annihilation for reasons none could understand.
"Just speak to me, Old Creature! Show yourself in dreams, give me illusions, some sign that I am not alone!" Marilus continued, his voice rising with desperation as he struggled to lift himself from the bed.
A piercing pain shot through his head, blurring his vision and clouding his thoughts, making him feel as though he were caught in a waking nightmare.
Though he had slept for hours, the body felt depleted, weakened by a lifetime of neglect and hardship, as if every essential for life had been withheld from birth.
As Marilus struggled to stand, his gaze swept over the room. Yesterday, he had gone straight to bed after a warm bath, too exhausted to notice the details.
Now, fully awake, he could see the room in its entirety, a strange elegance that seemed almost cruel given Wystan's treatment by the family.
The furnishings were tasteful, the space clean and well-appointed, too nice for a boy who had been considered worthless. It was almost… insulting in its contrast to the scorn he had faced.
"Seems they didn't want him sleeping in a miserable hovel after all," Marilus muttered under his breath, approaching the mirror with curiosity and amusement.
He studied Wystan's reflection, a smirk forming on his lips.
The boy staring back had fair, pale skin, chapped lips, and small, sharp eyes that hinted at intelligence and resilience.
Now that he was clean and properly dressed, he looked like royalty, a young man born for the spotlight, his presence commanding attention even without conscious effort. He was striking, undeniably handsome, so much so that Marilus had to question reality itself.
"Oh, poor soul," he whispered softly. "Half-human, half-Eridian… how could anyone treat someone like you this way? Poor Wystan." He exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, shaking his head. "I do not understand why the Almighty entrusted me with your body, but do not worry. I will not allow them to bully you. And… I am sorry. I must continue using your name, no matter what."
After examining himself in the mirror, Marilus resolved to adapt, to grow into the role, to fortify the body and spirit he now occupied.
Wystan's frame was fragile, his core spirit was also faint and elusive, nearly imperceptible. It would take care, time, and determination to strengthen it, to transform it from a paper-thin into something tangible and formidable.
He changed into garments from the wardrobe, only to find most of them far too large. It was not his room, but at least he could clothe himself.
Just as he scrambled for something wearable, the door slammed violently, followed by a roar of fury.
"You son of a... how dare you spend the night in my room! None of you stopped him! An illegitimate half-breed in my bed? Wystan, you are dead!" The voice thundered, shaking the walls, and the door rattled under the force of repeated kicks.
Marilus rubbed his forehead in exasperation, immediately recognizing the voice, Lucas, Wystan's stepbrother, his personal nightmare given form.
Fatigue had led him astray; he had stumbled into Lucas's room, mistaking it for his own after the bath, falling into a trap disguised as comfort.
Lucas was only slightly older than Wystan, a few months perhaps, but his massive frame made the age difference nearly imperceptible.
"Your life is a living hell, boy," Marilus muttered under his breath, preparing to confront the storm at the door.
The instant he opened it, Lucas's foot shot forward, sending him sprawling back onto the bed. Pain flared through his body, and tears pricked his eyes as he clutched his stomach.
"You bastard! How dare you!" Lucas bellowed, his voice echoing through the house.
The impact weakened Marilus further, and he felt Wystan's fragile core spirit trembling, nearly dissolving under the assault.
"Stop kicking!" he groaned, his voice filled with pain.
But Lucas, consumed by rage, would not listen or stop. He hoisted Wystan's light body with ease. "Apologize, as you always do, and maybe I'll consider sparing you the worst beating of your life."
Despite the agony, Marilus had already resolved that no one would ever bully Wystan again. Studying Lucas's thick, unforgiving features, he raised his leg and drove it into Lucas's groin. The older boy released his grip immediately. "Take this, loser!"
"You bastard!" Lucas shrieked, clutching himself, tears stinging his eyes.
Before Lucas could recover, Marilus fled. Fighting him directly now would risk Wystan's fragile spirit.
As he ran, Marilus cursed under his breath. Wystan's body was so delicate it could not withstand even the slightest attack, it was as if it had been crafted entirely of paper.
He vowed that strengthening Wystan's core spirit would be his first and most urgent mission. A small smirk crossed his lips as he halted, his eyes sparkling with something dangerous.
"Old Creature," he whispered, "you may not approve of my methods, but I act only because you entrusted me with this body. You will not mind if I take control, will you?"