Soft golden rays of sunlight spilled through the gaps of heavy curtains. Dust motes danced lazily in the beams. Ronin groaned, slowly opening his eyes.
He sat up, blinking. "Huh... where am I?"
He slid off the large, unfamiliar bed and pushed against the heavy door with his small shoulder. It budged just enough for him to slip through.
Peering down from the top of a grand staircase, he saw a figure below. A man in dark clothes stood in a shaft of light, smoke — or was it mist? curling gently around his form.
Ronin's eyes widened in curiosity. "Who's that? I need to find out."
He hopped down the stairs like a rabbit, landing softly at the bottom. He padded over and, without a hint of fear, gripped the hem of the man's dark robe.
He tugged. "Hey! You! Listen!"
Hurt looked down from the stove, his crimson eyes set on the tiny figure. "Ah. You're awake. Good. Wait a moment. Breakfast is almost ready."
Ronin puffed his cheeks, his voice rising in a childish demand. "Hey! Answer me! You... you pale-face man! Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"
Hurt paused, a flicker of surprise crossing his pale features. He set the spatula down and knelt, bringing himself to Ronin's eye level. "'Pale-face man'? My name is Hurt Darksteel. Remember it. And secondly..."
He tapped on Ronin's forehead lightly. "I saved you. You should be saying 'thank you', boy."
Ronin's eyes blazed with indignant pride. "I am not a boy! I am the great Ronin Hirata!"
Hurt's mind snapped. He thought, Great. The Arcane Kingdom's ruling clan. Of course.
Ronin's bravado faltered, replaced by a softer more vulnerable question. "Where is my mama?"
Hurt sighed, the sound like dry leaves. "Listen, Ronin. I cannot take you to your parents. For me, that would be... complicated. So, you must hope they find you. And if they do not..."
He met the child's gaze squarely. "...you will stay here with me. "
Ronin was silent for a long moment, processing. Then he nodded, a solemn little diplomat. "I love my mama... but, you're not bad. I can stay. But on one condition!"
He held up a finger. " No green, ugly vegetables."
A low chuckle escaped from Hurt. He scooped him up and carried him to the table. "Bad luck, little prince. I made green broccoli. Especially for you."
Ronin whispered into his shoulder. "You traitor."
Hurt set him in a chair and served him a plate full of broccoli and other green vegetables. Steam rose from a mound of vibrant green broccoli.
Ronin's face twisted into a mask of pure betrayal. He glanced from Hurt, to back his steaming green enemies.
He poked a floret with his fork as if it might bite back. "I really have to eat this?"
Hurt took a deliberate bite from his own plate, and he pointed at the broccoli. "You are a child. You do not get to complain about nutrition. Green vegetables are healthy. "
Ronin slowly lifted a tiny piece to his mouth, took a microscopic bite, and instantly winced. He spat it back onto the plate.
His stomach growled loudly, underscoring the protest. "I can't! It's yucky! I'm hungry! Mama never forces me like this!"
Hurt sighed—a long-suffering sound that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.
He waved a hand over the plate. A faint, shimmering purple haze drifted from his fingertips and settled onto the broccoli, vanishing into the steam.
Hurt gestured towards the plate. "Now, try."
Ronin, trusting but skeptical, took another small bite; His eyes flew wide.
It tasted like his favorite chocolate.
"Wow! Amazing!" He gasped and then began to eat with frantic, delighted speed, clearing the plate in minutes.
The white ceramic shone back, empty.
Hurt wiped a speck of imaginary chocolate from Ronin's chin with a cloth. "Better?"
Ronin softly giggled. "Yes! But... what was that purple smoke? Magic?"
Hurt raised an eyebrow. "A minor necrotic adjustment. I altered the chemical compounds that interact with your taste buds. However, most flavor is actually scent. Humans are rather simple, biologically. "
Ronin stared, uncomprehending but impressed. "I don't know what you said... but, you're really smart."
Then, the inevitable childish curiosity sparked. "Hurt?"
Hurt answered. "Yes."
Ronin asked. "Can you tell me? What is a Necromancer? Why do you exist? Mama said you're... dead. Are you dead?"
Hurt let out another soft chuckle, gazing into the boy's wide, earnest eyes. "That's an excellent question. Listen."
His voice took on an instructional and vigilant tone. " A Necromancer is the one who understands death. We are made when a soul is trapped — not in the torment of Tartarus, nor the bliss of Elysium, but in the silence between. They are judged neither sinful enough for punishment nor virtuous enough for reward. So, a choice is offered: A second life, risen from that balance. That is where our kingdom began."
Ronin processed this, then asked with devastating innocence, "So... do Necromancers have babies? Does an angel bring them babies, too?"
Hurt's stern, sophisticated composure was shattered. He threw his head back and laughed — a rich, genuine sound that filled the quiet room. "What? Ha! Ha! An angel? Gave babies... Ha! Who told you that?"
Ronin scrunched, his face in confusion. "Why are you laughing? Mama said an angel brought me to her."
Hurt's shoulders are still shaking with mirth. "Oh, you are wonderfully innocent. But yes, in a manner of speaking, Necromancers can... reproduce."
Ronin stared, utterly lost. "Repro... what?"
Hurt's expression softened. He reached out and ruffled the boy's hair. "Nothing. You will understand when you grown-up. For now, just be a kid."
***
A bond was forged.
Between a Necromancer who commanded death, and an Arcane child who embodied life.
A bond no one in all of Eldrya could have foreseen.
But the question hung in the warm, sunlit air, delicate as a spider's web:
How long could such an impossible bond last?