Grace Luminareth's steps echoed lightly against the cobblestones as she walked away from the alley. Behind her, the faint sounds of ragged breathing and muted sobs still clung to the shadows, the remnants of the beating she had orchestrated. She did not look back. There was no need to. The boy was nothing—common-born, a scrap of dirt in a world that prized bloodlines above all else.
The market's bustle dimmed around her as she approached a polished carriage stationed at the edge of the street. Its lacquered wood gleamed faintly in the sunlight, bearing the understated crest of her family—Luminareth, one of the lesser noble houses tolerated within Caeloria's lands. Not a grand house, not one with ancient power or endless wealth, but still above the common rabble who scraped and bled in the soil.
Grace's hand brushed against the carriage door. She hesitated for only the briefest second, smoothing her golden hair back into place, composing herself with the dignity expected of her. Then she entered.
Inside, the air was cool and heavy with the faint scent of leather and cedar. Opposite her, seated with unnerving calm, was a man. His hair was short and black, his posture straight, and his eyes… closed. Always closed. Yet his presence filled the small cabin with a weight that made Grace's skin prickle.
He did not greet her immediately. Instead, he let silence stretch long enough for discomfort to crawl at the edge of her composure. Finally, his lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained sealed.
"So," he drawled, his tone rich with condescension, "did you have your fun?"
Grace stiffened. "It wasn't—"
"Don't waste my time with excuses." His voice cut through hers like steel through cloth. Smooth, controlled, but sharp enough to slice. "You spent how long today? Beating on a child. A child. Truly impressive, Lady Grace of Luminareth. The pride of your house."
Her fists clenched in her lap, nails digging into her palms. "He was insolent. He—"
"He was a commoner," the man interrupted again, the faintest trace of disdain curling his words. "Nothing. A piece of dirt. And yet you—noble-born, blessed with education, with status, with a family name—chose to sully your hands teaching him a lesson no one will remember tomorrow. Do you know what that makes you?"
Grace's jaw tightened. "I don't need your judgment."
"You're not worth my judgment," the man replied smoothly, his smile widening a fraction. "You're barely worth the breath it takes to scold you." He leaned back slightly, folding his arms. "But let me remind you: wasting time on the weak doesn't make you strong. It makes you pathetic."
Heat flared in Grace's chest, frustration clawing at her throat. "I won't be spoken to like this—"
"You will," he said flatly, the condescension bleeding into cruelty now. "Because you are nothing more than a disappointment. A useless daughter of a lesser house. A piece of shit so desperate for meaning that you lash out at the only thing beneath you: commoners and children."
Grace flinched, though she masked it with a sharp glare. "Watch your words—"
"Or what?" His smile did not falter. "You'll order your dogs to beat me too? Go on then, Grace. Command them. But remember, even they laugh at you when your back is turned. They know what I know. That you're weak. That you're empty."
Her voice shook despite herself. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," he cut in again, merciless. His words were calm, deliberate, each one placed with the precision of a dagger. "You have no mana. No capacity. You were born without the one gift that defines our station. No matter how fine your dresses, no matter how carefully you posture, you will never wield magic. You will never rise above your house's mediocrity. You are—" He tilted his head slightly, as if savoring the weight of the words. "—the single greatest embarrassment Luminareth has produced in decades."
Grace's throat tightened, her composure threatening to shatter. "Shut up…" she whispered, though the words held no force.
"Useless," he continued, ignoring her. "A big embarrassment to your family. A hollow shell pretending to be noble while wasting time bullying those even lower than yourself. Is this what you call strength? Hiding behind guards, setting up children, playing tyrant in alleys?"
Her hands trembled now, though she curled them tighter in her lap to still the motion. "You—"
He leaned forward, his eyes still closed, but the weight of his presence pressed against her like iron. "You are nothing. Nothing but a coward with golden hair. And the cruelest part? Even the commoners you despise… even they will remember you as pathetic. Not powerful. Not feared. Just pitiful."
Grace turned her face toward the window, refusing to let him see the heat building in her eyes. But his words lingered, each one embedding itself like a thorn beneath her skin. She hated him. She hated his smugness, his calmness, his utter disregard for her dignity. And yet, she could not deny the truth coiled within his cruelty.
She had no mana. No gift. No future.
And the only time she felt powerful was when she stood above someone even weaker.
The man leaned back again, his smile faint but victorious. "One day, Grace, you'll realize that all this flailing, all this pretending, will lead you nowhere. And when that day comes, you'll wish you'd listened. Until then…" He let out a soft chuckle, low and humorless. "Keep playing your little games. Beat up another child. Maybe it will distract you from what you really are."
The carriage lurched forward, wheels grinding against cobblestone. Grace kept her gaze fixed on the window, her reflection blurred in the glass, golden hair framing eyes that burned with humiliation and rage.
She said nothing.
Because there was nothing left to say.
The world was spinning.
The alley reeked of damp stone and rot, but all I could taste was iron. I pressed one trembling hand against the wall, the other curled uselessly against my stomach, where the last kick had landed hardest. My legs quivered with every attempt to stand, and each breath scraped through my chest like fire.
I spat, a streak of red staining the dirt. So much for dignity. For the grand promises I'd made to myself about becoming strong. In the end, I'd been beaten like any other commoner boy, left to rot in the shadows.
Still—I pushed myself upright. One breath, then another. My ribs screamed, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
"Mother… Lila…" I whispered. The words were broken, but they kept me moving.
The alley spat me out into sunlight again. The market was still alive with noise, though the edges blurred in my vision. My feet dragged, every step a battle. Faces turned as I stumbled forward—merchants, farmers, wives carrying baskets. I saw pity in some eyes, guilt in others. A few turned their faces away entirely, pretending not to notice the bloodied child weaving through the crowd.
Cowards. Or maybe they were just like me—too weak to act.
Then, above the noise, I heard her voice.
"Xavier!"
My mother's voice cut through the haze. I lifted my head, and there she was, her figure framed by the bustle of the crowd. Relief washed over her face the moment our eyes met, but it shattered as she noticed the blood smeared across my skin, the way my small body sagged with exhaustion.
"Xavier!" she cried again, rushing toward me. The crowd parted for her, their gazes shifting—pity, guilt, disgust. Some looked angry, but not at those responsible. Angry at me. At the foolish child who hadn't been careful enough.
Her arms wrapped around me before I could fall. She lowered me gently, pressing me to her chest, her hands already glowing with faint green light. Warmth poured into me as her magic seeped through my wounds, knitting torn flesh and sealing fractures.
The pain dulled, vanished even, as though it had never been there. My ribs no longer screamed, my skin no longer burned. For a moment, I felt whole.
But the weakness remained. A weight clung to me, dragging me down. My vision still swam.
Blood loss. Healing magic could close wounds, but it couldn't replace what was already spilled. The body didn't forget so easily.
Mother's hands trembled as she worked, her calm face twisted into something bitter. A look that didn't belong to her—a look of quiet rage and fear.
Lila stood behind her, frozen. Her eyes were wide, her small fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. She didn't move. She didn't speak. She only stared, her expression shadowed, as though guilt and despair had clawed their way into her heart.
When the glow of healing faded, Mother brushed her hand across my cheek. "How do you feel?"
I swallowed, my voice faint. "Better… but lightheaded."
Without hesitation, she rose, still cradling me in her arms, and strode into the nearest shop. The merchant, startled, watched as she exchanged coins for a clay cup filled with milk. She pressed it into my hands.
"Drink," she urged.
The milk was cool and fresh, sliding down my throat and settling heavy in my stomach. I grimaced at the taste—I had never liked milk. But the relief it brought was undeniable. My limbs steadied, my vision sharpened.
Mother's eyes never left me, sharp with worry. "What happened?"
I hesitated. Lying would be pointless. She would see through it. And some part of me… didn't want to lie.
So I told her. About Grace. About the guards. About the alley. My voice faltered at parts, but I forced the words out.
When I finished, silence hung heavy between us.
Her expression hardened into that bitter look again, so ill-suited to her calm features that it made my chest ache. She didn't speak. Not yet. She only stared past me, as though seeing something far away.
Lila still hadn't moved. She stood a few steps away, her gaze locked on me, shadowed and unreadable. Her lips trembled, but no words came.
I tried to lighten the silence, holding the cup out toward her. "You want some? I don't… really like milk. You do."
Her eyes flicked to the cup, then back to my face. For a moment, I thought she might take it. But instead, she turned away, her voice small, almost hollow.
"Can we go home now, Mama?"
Mother blinked, snapping out of her bitter trance. She looked down at me again, her hand brushing through my hair. "Yes," she said softly. "Yes, let's go home."
She didn't ask why Lila ignored me. She didn't notice the shadow in her daughter's expression. Her thoughts were elsewhere, lost in the bitterness of what had just been told.
And so we walked, silent and heavy, through the market streets. Mother's arms around me, her face composed but tight with worry. Lila trailing behind, her steps slow, her gaze locked to the ground.
The crowd parted for us again, some eyes still following, whispers threading through the air.
But none of them mattered.
For now, all I could think of was the vow I had made before.
I would not stay powerless. Not in this life. Not again.
The road home was quieter than usual.
No playful chatter from Lila. No gentle humming from Mother. Just the soft crunch of our footsteps against the dirt path, and the low sigh of wind tugging at the grain fields. The sun hung lower now, gold giving way to orange, painting long shadows across the ground.
Mother carried me the whole way, her arms steady despite the weight. I didn't protest. My legs still wobbled, and though the healing had mended the worst of it, my body felt like a cracked vessel—patched, but fragile.
Lila trailed behind, her small face hidden, her silence heavier than anything the guards had done to me.
When our house finally came into view, I expected relief. The little farmhouse, worn but warm, always held the smell of bread and the safety of routine. But this time, a heaviness lingered even as the door creaked open.
Mother set me down on the bed gently. Her fingers brushed my hair back, her eyes sharp with worry. She didn't speak yet, didn't ask more questions. Instead, she busied herself with the small comforts of home: water poured into a basin, cloth laid out, a careful wiping of dirt and blood from my face.
Her silence said more than words ever could.
Lila sat near the hearth, knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, unmoving. The faint glow of the fire painted her face in shifting gold and shadow, but none of it reached her expression.
Finally, Mother spoke, her voice low and measured. "Xavier. What they did… was unforgivable. No one should suffer that. Especially not you."
I met her gaze. "It's because I'm a commoner, isn't it? That's all they saw."
Her lips tightened, bitterness flashing again across her calm features. "Yes. And it makes me sick."
Silence pressed in again. I could hear the fire crackle, the wind whistle through a crack in the window frame. I glanced at Lila, still unmoving.
"Lila," I said softly, offering the clay cup of leftover milk again. "Here. You should have some."
No response. Not even a glance. She kept staring at the floor, her arms tightening around her knees.
Mother didn't notice. She was still lost in thought, her calm face struggling to contain the storm beneath.
I frowned, my chest tightening. Did Lila blame herself for running off? Did she think this was her fault? I wanted to tell her it wasn't. That I didn't blame her. That I never would. But the words stuck in my throat, heavy and clumsy.
Instead, I took a sip of milk myself, forcing the bitter taste down. Maybe that would make her look at me, even just for a moment. But she didn't.
Mother finally broke the silence. "We'll be more careful from now on. Both of you. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mama," I whispered.
Lila's voice followed after a pause, faint and flat. "…Yes."
Mother's gaze softened slightly, but the bitterness lingered still. She looked older in that moment, weighed down by thoughts she didn't share. Her calm aura, the one that usually steadied our home, felt fractured.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. She prepared a simple meal, though her hands moved mechanically, as though her mind was elsewhere. I ate slowly, my body still sluggish. Lila picked at her food, silent, her shadowed face turned away.
When night fell, Mother tucked me into bed with careful hands. She brushed my hair back again, her expression softening for just a heartbeat. "Rest now, Xavier. Tomorrow will be better."
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe tomorrow would erase the bruises still hidden beneath the healing, the humiliation burned into my chest, the silence that clung to my sister's every breath.
But as the fire dimmed and the house grew still, I stared at the ceiling beams and whispered the truth only I could hear.
No, tomorrow would not be better. Not unless I made it so.
I thought of Grace's smug smile. Of the guards' jeers. Of the boots that had slammed into my stomach, the fists that had painted my world red.
And I thought of the vow I had made before—burning brighter now than ever.
I would not remain weak. I would not remain at their mercy.
This world was built to crush commoners like me beneath the heels of those born with privilege. But I would climb. I would grasp strength with my own hands, no matter how bloody.
One day, I would make them regret every strike, every sneer, every cruel laugh.
One day, the world would learn my name.
Xavier.
Not a child. Not a victim.
But a storm.
And storms do not bow.
Author's Note: Healing magic in this world can close wounds and mend broken bones, but it cannot restore lost blood or energy. That's why Xavier still feels lightheaded after Christina heals him—his body has repaired, but the weakness of blood loss lingers.