Footsteps brushed the leaves behind him.
Thomas stiffened at once.
He sprang to his feet, ignoring the pain in his leg, and turned sharply. His back pressed against the tree, eyes fixed on the figure stepping out of the shadows. His hands curled into fists, ready to run or fight—he wasn't sure which.
It was the same man.
The one who had pulled him away from the house.
Thomas said nothing. He only watched, breathing slow now, controlled. He had learned this the hard way—trust came last, if at all.
The man stopped a few steps away. He looked tired. Not wounded, but worn, as if carrying too much for too long. When he saw the fear still sharp in Thomas's eyes, he let out a quiet sigh.
"You're still ready to bolt," the man said. His voice was calm, low. "That's fair."
Thomas didn't lower his guard. "Don't come closer."
The man raised both hands slightly, not in surrender, but to show he meant no harm. "I won't."
Silence stretched between them. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
"My name is Darian," the man said at last. "And I am not your enemy."
Thomas gave a short, humorless laugh. "That's what enemies say."
Darian didn't argue. He only nodded once. "You're right."
That answer unsettled Thomas more than denial would have.
Darian studied him for a moment, then spoke again, carefully this time, as if choosing each word. "Those men tonight—they were not human. They were searching for you. And they will keep searching."
Thomas's jaw tightened. "I don't know why."
"I do."
That got his attention.
Darian drew in a breath. "You were not born on this world."
The words sounded strange. Unreal.
Thomas frowned. "You're wrong."
"I'm not." Darian's voice stayed steady. "You were born on Veyloria. A kingdom across the stars."
Thomas shook his head. "That doesn't make sense."
"It won't," Darian said gently. "Not yet."
He continued before Thomas could interrupt.
"You had a father. His name was Kaelen Veyran. He was king. A just one."
Darian's eyes darkened. "Your mother, Queen Elyra, still lives. She is imprisoned. Hidden away."
Thomas's chest felt tight. "Stop."
"You have a twin sister," Darian went on. "Her name is Liora. She survived, just as you did."
The world tilted slightly.
Darian explained how Kaelen's brother, Draxis, had turned against him. How he had joined hands with Khrath, the ruthless leader of Kaelthar. How they had planned the massacre together. How the royal family had been hunted in their own palace.
Darian spoke of fire. Of betrayal. Of blood spilled in halls meant for peace.
He told Thomas how he and Lyra—Liora's guardian—had fled, carrying the children through chaos and fear, across worlds, to Earth. How they had hidden them, separated them, to keep them alive.
"I stayed close," Darian said quietly. "Watching you grow up."
Thomas felt numb.
The words piled up, heavy and confusing. Kings. Planets. Guardians. None of it felt real, yet something deep inside him twisted painfully, as if recognizing a truth his mind could not grasp.
"I don't understand any of this," Thomas said at last.
"I know," Darian replied. "You will. In time."
He stepped back and gestured to the dark forest beyond. "This place is no longer safe. Draxis knows you live. We need to move. Somewhere hidden. Somewhere we can prepare."
Thomas's hands shook. He clenched them hard.
"No," he said.
Darian blinked. "No?"
"I'm not leaving," Thomas said firmly. "This is my home."
Darian's brow creased. "Thomas—"
"I belong here," Thomas cut in. "I'm not some prince or weapon. I'm just—me."
They argued then. Not loudly, but fiercely. Darian spoke of danger, of duty, of survival. Thomas spoke of choice, of stubborn hope, of refusing to be dragged into a war he did not understand.
At last, Thomas turned away.
"I didn't ask for any of this," he said. "And I won't run just because you say so."
He took a step.
Darian did not stop him.
But he spoke one last time.
"They will never accept you," Darian said quietly. "Not fully. To them, you will always be different."
Thomas froze.
For a heartbeat, doubt crept in. Old memories stirred—whispers, stares, the way people looked at him like he didn't quite fit.
Then he straightened.
"Maybe," he said. "But this is still my world."
He walked away.
Darian watched his back disappear into the trees. He stood there for several long moments, face unreadable, before turning his gaze skyward.
Then, with a single powerful leap, he vanished into the sky.
Thomas slowed as Liberty Street came into view.
He heard it before he saw it.
Sirens wailed from every direction, loud and sharp, cutting through the night air. Blue and red lights flashed against the houses, turning familiar walls into strange colors. Voices overlapped—angry, scared, confused. Somewhere, a woman was crying. Cameras clicked again and again, fast and impatient.
He stopped at the corner and stared.
This was his street.
Or at least, it used to be.
Parts of it were broken now. Windows shattered. A fence lay flat on the ground. Smoke drifted lazily from one house, rising into the dark sky. Yellow tape blocked off half the road, fluttering softly as people pushed close to it.
Police cars lined the street. Officers moved back and forth, speaking into radios, hands tense at their sides. Reporters stood near the tape, holding microphones, whispering urgently into cameras.
Thomas pulled his hood lower and took a careful step forward.
He tried to walk the way he always did—quiet, unnoticed, just another shadow passing through. He kept his head down and moved along the edge of the crowd, hoping no one would look too closely.
He was almost past them.
"Wait."
The word cut through the noise.
Thomas froze.
Someone turned. Then another. A finger lifted and pointed straight at him.
"That's him."
The air shifted. Conversations stopped halfway. Faces turned in his direction, one by one, like waves rolling toward him.
"That boy," someone said.
"He was here earlier."
"I saw him running."
"He wasn't scared at all."
Thomas lifted his head slowly.
He saw fear in their eyes. Not curiosity. Not concern. Fear.
A police officer stepped forward, his voice firm. "Don't move."
Thomas didn't move.
Another officer joined him, hand hovering near his belt. "Hands where we can see them."
Thomas raised his hands, confusion tightening his chest. His heart thudded hard, but his face stayed calm. He had learned long ago that reacting only made things worse.
That calm did not help him now.
A reporter leaned toward her camera. "We may have a suspect," she said quietly, though everyone nearby could hear. "Witnesses claim the boy was seen with one of the attackers."
Camera flashes exploded in his face. White light burned his eyes.
"Hey!" someone shouted. "Say something!"
Thomas opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
What was he supposed to say?
That he didn't understand any of this?
That he had been running for his life?
Silence fell again, heavier than before.
"I told you there was something wrong with him," a man muttered.
"He's always been strange," another said.
"God knows what he really is."
Thomas felt something twist deep inside him.
He looked around, searching faces he knew. The neighbor who used to greet him in the mornings stood near the tape. Their eyes met for a second—then the man looked away.
A woman pulled her child closer when Thomas glanced in their direction. The child stared at him with wide eyes, then buried their face in their mother's coat.
He was no longer a person.
He was a problem.
His adoptive parents were not there. That realization hit him harder than he expected. He didn't know if that was better or worse.
A senior officer spoke into his radio, then turned back to Thomas. "You're a person of interest," he said. Not accusing. Not kind. Just official.
Those words settled over Thomas like a sentence...