"Are you okay?" the boy asked, holding out his hand.
Nyxen knelt in the dirt, ribs aching where fists had landed, the laughter of his classmates still ringing in his ears. Alphas—older, bigger, convinced dominance gave them the right to crush anything weaker.
And then he appeared.
Nine, maybe ten. Small for his age. But he walked straight into the circle of jeers like he owned it. Like he didn't care who was watching. And suddenly, the older boys faltered. None of them dared touch him.
The boy stood there as if he commanded gravity itself.
Nyxen stared at the hand offered to him. No one had ever stepped in. No one had ever reached for him. Especially not a child.
Dark hair. Striking blue eyes. That pristine Alpha academy uniform—the same as the ones who had beaten him down. Yet somehow, completely different.
"I'm not going to hurt you," the boy said, voice steady, calm. "I may look like them, but I'm not. I hate bullies. Dominance isn't a free pass."
He grasped Nyxen's hand and pulled him up with surprising strength, brushing dirt from his sleeve like it was nothing.
"You shouldn't let anyone hurt you just because they're Alphas."
The words hit harder than the fists.
Nyxen couldn't look away. He'd never admired anyone before. Never felt this strange spark in his chest—like something cracked open, letting light in. For the first time, he could hear his own heart. Because of him.
And everyone knew who he was. How could they not? The boy wasn't just from a top Alpha family. He was the S-Class Alpha. The one people whispered about. Admired. Feared.
"Why'd you help me?" Nyxen asked, tasting blood, voice rough.
The boy shrugged. "You looked like you needed it." Then, tilting his head, eyes narrowing: "Or maybe you didn't want help. Because I'm younger? Smaller?"
His smile slipped.
Nyxen's chest tightened. He hated it—the way his smile faltered, the edge in his voice. He wanted that light back. He wanted to protect it.
"N-no, it's not that—"
"It's fine." The boy cut him off, too quickly. His voice held quiet steel. "Most people don't want help from me. Too young. Too small. Easy to dismiss. But accepting help doesn't make you weak. And being younger doesn't make me less."
He tried to smile again, but it didn't reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that carried hurt behind it.
And Nyxen knew, in that instant, he would never forget him.
"I didn't mean—" the older boy began, but the kid was already stepping back.
"I gotta go. Stuff to do," he said, brushing dirt from his sleeves. "But listen—next time they come at you? If you can't fight back, don't think running makes you a coward. You don't deserve every punch they throw. If you can't beat them, dodge them."
He grinned then—quick, mischievous, like he knew a secret the world hadn't caught up to yet.
"Oh," he added, digging into his pocket. "Here. Better wipe the blood off your mouth."
He caught the older boy's hand and pressed something into his palm. A handkerchief—soft, clean, a violet stitched in the corner.
"Why give me this?" the boy asked, staring at the delicate embroidery.
"Because you need it more than I do," the kid said simply, smiling again before turning toward the school gates—like he hadn't just flipped the whole day upside down.
The older boy stood frozen, hand clenched around the cloth. He hadn't meant to come this way. He'd been wandering, no direction, wondering if maybe death would be easier. But even that hadn't wanted him. Then the Alphas appeared—older, stronger, their pride stung by his stare. They swung. He let them. Pain was nothing new. He almost welcomed it.
Until that boy stepped in.
He hadn't just pulled him out of a beating. He'd given him something else—something he thought he'd lost. A reason to breathe. A reason to stay.
For the first time in forever, he felt his own heart beating. And in his mind, it meant only one thing: his life began the moment he saw him.
He didn't call out. Didn't ask the boy to stay. He only watched him vanish into the crowd, step by step, until the school gates swallowed him whole. Then he looked down at the handkerchief in his hand. Clean. Soft. The violet was catching the light like it meant something.
He couldn't use it. Couldn't smear it with blood. If he did, the moment might vanish. The boy might vanish.
So he held it tight, pressed to his chest. And for the first time, he didn't want to die.
From the moment Nyxen became aware of himself—of what he was and the world he'd been born into—he knew nothing but pain.
To his family, he wasn't a son but a product. A specimen handed over to researchers. A curiosity. Something to prod, to study, to exploit. His rare classification made him profitable, and so they sold him off piece by piece—his body, his dignity, his will. They treated him like an animal. Worse—like an object that could be discarded and replaced.
He grew numb beneath it all. The suffering dulled his spirit until he forgot his heart even beat.
But then—he appeared.
That boy. Small, defiant, untouchable. His presence cut through the fog like fire through ice. He became the only scent Nyxen craved, the one tether strong enough to pull him back from the abyss. The reason he wanted to keep breathing. The reason he wanted to live.
And so, Nyxen made a vow.
He swore he would find that boy again. He would build a kingdom vast enough to be worthy of him. He would wield his power not for conquest, but as a shield. Because the world was cruel, and if it ever turned its claws on him, Nyxen would be the one to bear the wounds.
For the first time, he had a reason. A vow to bind him. A heart that beat because of him—and for him alone.