Caelum awoke with a sharp inhale, the kind that dragged air into lungs already tight with tension. His eyes stared at the ceiling for a long, empty moment, and then, as though guided by an instinct older than his conscious thought, he slipped from his bed, dropped to his knees, and reached beneath.
The wood scraped against his fingers as he dragged out a long, heavy box. The hinges creaked, familiar, practiced. Inside lay the small glass bottle he knew too well, clear liquid glinting faintly within. Without hesitation, he uncorked it, shook it once, and a single pale pill tumbled into his palm.
For as long as he remembered, this had been his ritual. He would swallow it without a thought. His mother's words echoed: "Don't ever miss a day, Caelum."
He raised it to his lips. And then… he froze.
The pill hovered between his fingers and his mouth, trembling ever so slightly. For the first time, a thought intruded where there should have been only obedience.
Why?
Why only him? Why did Elias never take a pill? Why not Seren? Why did none of the other children receive such a ritual? When he had asked them once, in careful words, they looked at him with honest confusion. That expression had burned itself into his memory, it meant he was the only one.
He stared at the pill longer, his mind a storm. His chest rose and fell quickly, and for a moment he felt as though he had stumbled to the edge of a great cliff.
It's just one day, he reasoned. If it's a sickness, what difference will a single day make?
His jaw tightened. He dropped the pill back into the bottle, corked it, and shoved the box under his bed again. His hands were cold, but his heart pounded with a strange, terrifying liberation.
The moment he stood, everything felt different.
The air seemed sharper, fresher, almost invasive as it filled his lungs. Colors in the room carried a depth he had never noticed the blue of his robe more vibrant, the faint cracks on the wooden desk more defined. Even the silence was heavier, pressing at his ears as though it wanted him to notice it.
Am I hallucinating? he thought. Or has this always been here?
Shaking the unease from his shoulders, he slipped into his light blue robe, tying the sash at his waist. The mirror reflected a face that startled him. Pale, ghostlike skin stretched over sharp bones. Dark circles bruised the space beneath his eyes. He looked sick, cursed yet, strangely, not ugly. His features carried a certain cold elegance, framed by long strands of black hair flowing down to his shoulders. His skin seemed darker than usual, absorbing the light instead of reflecting it.
He looked away quickly.
"Just today," he whispered, almost as though to convince himself.
His steps carried him toward the Kenton River, where he usually trained at dawn. But halfway down the path, a thought tugged at him, a craving, not of flesh this time, but of comfort. His mother's quarters.
Even when he wasn't allowed to see her, the thick smell of herbs and medicine that surrounded her door gave him strength. It reminded him why he endured. Why he fought. Why he obeyed.
Today, he wanted that comfort more than ever.
But when he approached the familiar courtyard, he froze.
The smell was gone.
His nose twitched as he breathed in. No pungent herbs. No acrid smoke from ground powders. No bitter aroma of potions simmering. Just ordinary air. The kind that filled Elias's home, or Seren's, or even his own room.
His stomach dropped.
He stepped closer, and his eyes confirmed what his heart already screamed...no herbs grew in the soil. The planters, once overflowing with vibrant green stalks, were bare. Even the faint traces of ash or spilt tonic had been scrubbed clean.
"...What is this?" he whispered.
For a moment, hope flickered in his chest. Could she be cured?Could it be that all the sickness, all the endless medicine, had finally been defeated? But then—why remove everything? Why not leave the wards?
His thoughts raced. Is this because I didn't take the pill? Am I hallucinating? Or… is this reality?
Before he could sort the storm in his mind, voices reached him through the door.
His mother's voice.
But not the frail, weary tone he knew. It was vibrant, confident, flowing like music. An elven lady in her prime.
His heart skipped. He pressed himself to the wall, breath shallow, ears straining.
"He has been taking the pill regularly," Brinet said, her voice calm but laced with something… cold. "Soon, with the Awakening so near, we will get what we need."
The Patriarch's voice followed, deep and steady, though edged with unease. "Good. The timing is perfect. With the demon-wraiths making moves and the Temple of Justice reappearing after millions of years… it's no coincidence. The boy's existence is tied to it. I can feel it."
Caelum's blood turned to ice.
Brinet continued, "It is a risk, yes. If what is written in that book is true, then during the first stages of Awakening, his soul will be wide open—assimilating bloodline and race. Vulnerable."
"That is when we act," the Patriarch answered.
A long silence stretched. Caelum's chest rose and fell as he clung to every word.
"We can bind him," Brinet said at last, her tone hesitant, as though she herself feared the weight of her words. "We can seal a contract directly into his soul. He will not be able to resist."
"And if it fails?"
"If it fails…" Brinet's voice softened, calculating. "We can still bend him. Even without the contract, he is young. He trusts me. Want's to protect me and all. A few strings pulled, a few lies told, and he will obey. Perhaps not as clean, but… mosquito's meat is still meat. Considering his future"
The Patriarch gave a low hum. "Hmph. A gamble, then. But if it succeeds—"
"—We win everything." Brinet finished for him. "A weapon, a key, perhaps even more. He will be ours."
Their words stabbed through Caelum's chest like knives. His legs trembled. His mother's voice...so familiar, so cherished now sounded monstrous.
He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the door down. But terror chained him to the spot.
Are they talking about me?
His mind screamed denial. No. Maybe another child. Maybe… maybe I misheard. Even if the thought sounds ridiculous, he could only hope. But his heart whispered the truth he couldn't accept: It's you.
He stepped back too quickly, brushing against a small incense holder by the wall. It toppled, clattering against the floor.
Inside, the voices stopped.
"Who's there?" the Patriarch's voice thundered.
But Caelum was already running.
He ran until his chest burned, until tears blurred his vision, until the only sound in his ears was the pounding of his own heart.
He reached the Kenton River and collapsed to his knees, the cold water soaking his hands as he leaned forward and let the tears fall freely. His body shook, wracked with sobs he hadn't released in years.
Everything...the urges, the sickness, the endless training, the faint hope of Awakening, everything had been for her. For his mother. To save her.
And now…
She was never sick. She was never weak. She was using me.
The thoughts spiraled, vicious, merciless. He dug his fingers into the soil, nails breaking, blood staining the earth.
Was I ever her son? Or just a tool?
He cried until his throat was raw, until the river swallowed the sound.
Finally, in the haze of exhaustion, he whispered: "Seren… Elias…"
His vision blurred, but one thought anchored him. They will tell me it isn't true. They will remind me I'm wrong. I'll believe them. I have to believe them. They would not lie to me.
He staggered to his feet, the world spinning. His steps carried him toward their quarters, along the hidden path he had walked countless times.
But deep in his heart, as he brushed a hand across his tear-streaked face, one thought chilled him more than any betrayal.
This might be the last time I look at them with these eyes.