The guards began watching him when he turned eight.
At first, it was subtle.
Lingering footsteps outside the cell. Pauses that lasted a little too long. Whispers that cut off the moment his head tilted in their direction. The boy noticed immediately—not because he was afraid, but because he had been raised to notice everything.
"Something's changed," he said quietly one evening.
Lucien looked up from where he sat, back against the wall, breath shallow. "What do you mean?"
"Their steps," the boy replied. "They hesitate now."
Elenora stiffened.
Neither parent asked how he knew.
They already understood what kind of child they had raised.
The first time a guard spoke directly to him, it was not with anger.
It was with amusement.
"Well, look at that," a man's voice drawled beyond the bars. "The little stray's still breathing."
The boy sat cross-legged near the wall, fingers folded neatly in his lap the way his father had taught him. His hair—dull grey under the rune-light—hung loosely around his face. His eyes, the same lifeless shade, lifted slowly to meet the bars.
Grey hair. Grey eyes.
Ordinary.
Unremarkable.
That was the point.
His mother had sealed his bloodline the night he was born, when they were still running, when the cult's hunters were close enough that Elenora could feel their intent crawling over her skin. She had burned half her remaining mana to do it—locking his heritage beneath layers of suppression and misdirection.
A royal bloodline hidden beneath silence.
What should have been white hair and royal purple eyes—the unmistakable mark of a union between duke and princess—had been buried.
For now.
Elenora's own black hair and deep purple eyes had once marked her as royalty at a glance. Lucien's white hair and clear blue eyes carried the proud legacy of the Valemont blade.
Their son bore neither.
Only grey.
A nobody.
A stray.
"Doesn't even look at us properly," another guard snorted. "Creepy little thing."
The boy said nothing.
Lucien's hands curled into fists.
Elenora reached for him instinctively, her fingers trembling. "Don't," she whispered. "Please."
Lucien exhaled slowly and forced his hands open.
They all knew the truth.
He could no longer protect them.
The beating started three days later.
It was not announced. There was no warning, no declaration of punishment or crime. The cell door opened with a shrill metallic scream that echoed far too loudly in the confined space.
The boy rose immediately.
Not in panic.
In preparation.
"Out," a guard ordered, yanking him forward by the arm.
The grip was brutal—fingers digging into muscle, nails biting into skin. The boy did not cry out. His feet stumbled against the uneven stone as he was dragged into the corridor beyond the cell.
"Stop!" Elenora cried, struggling to rise. "Please—he's just a child!"
The door slammed shut behind them.
Lucien did not hear the first blow.
He felt it.
A dull impact that resonated through the stone, followed by the sharp crack of bone meeting metal. Then another. And another.
The boy hit the ground hard.
The guards laughed.
"Look at him," one said. "Doesn't even scream."
A boot struck his ribs.
Air exploded from his lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain flared white-hot, tearing through his small body with vicious precision. He curled instinctively, arms protecting his head, just as his father had taught him.
Minimize damage. Protect vitals.
Another kick landed against his back.
Something cracked.
He bit down hard enough to taste blood.
"Say something," a guard sneered. "Beg. That's what strays do."
The boy did not beg.
He endured.
When they finally dragged him back to the cell, his body was limp, blood smeared across stone and fabric. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
Elenora screamed.
Lucien caught him as he fell, hands shaking violently as he cradled his son's broken body.
"I'm sorry," Lucien whispered, voice breaking. "I'm so sorry."
The boy's eyes fluttered open.
"I'm… fine," he whispered, though every breath burned.
Elenora pressed her forehead to his, tears streaming freely. "You don't have to be strong," she sobbed. "Not for us."
But he already was.
The abuse did not stop.
It escalated.
The guards began calling him Stray openly. Sometimes Dog. Sometimes worse. They dragged him out at irregular intervals, making sure his parents never knew when it would happen.
They learned quickly what hurt most.
They learned that breaking bones healed.
So they moved on.
Cold water poured over him while he was bound to iron hooks, leaving him shivering violently beneath the suppression runes. Blades drawn close enough to cut skin without killing. Mana-infused rods pressed against nerves, sending lightning-like agony through his limbs.
He learned to count.
Pain had patterns.
So did people.
Some guards hit harder. Others preferred fear. One enjoyed watching his eyes—waiting for them to break.
They never did.
"What's wrong with you?" one guard snarled after a particularly brutal session. "You don't look at us like you should."
The boy lifted his gaze slowly, blood trailing from his lip.
"I see you," he said quietly.
The guard recoiled, unsettled.
Back in the cell, his parents did everything they could.
Elenora used what little alchemical knowledge she could apply without ingredients—pressure techniques, controlled breathing, whispered mana patterns to dull pain.
Lucien taught him how to fall so blows landed where damage would be less permanent. How to tense muscle at the right moment. How to let the body go limp to avoid tearing.
These were not lessons a child should learn.
But they were lessons he mastered.
One night, as Elenora cleaned blood from his hair with shaking hands, she whispered something she had never told him before.
"When you were born," she said softly, "I sealed your bloodline."
The boy looked at her.
"You were never meant to look like this," she continued, voice breaking. "Your hair should be white. Your eyes… purple. Royal purple."
Lucien nodded. "Both of us are in you. Stronger than either alone."
"Will it come back?" the boy asked.
"Yes," Elenora said firmly. "When the seal breaks. When you are ready."
He touched his grey hair thoughtfully.
"Good," he said. "Grey is… safer."
Lucien closed his eyes.
By the time the boy turned nine, the guards had stopped expecting screams.
They had stopped expecting tears.
They had even stopped expecting resistance.
What unsettled them was worse.
The way he watched.
The way he learned.
The way he remembered.
Every strike.
Every face.
Every voice.
Somewhere deep within him, beneath sealed blood and crushed mana, something ancient and furious began to stir.
Not rage.
Resolve.
And far above the cell, fate shifted once more—uneasy at the thought of what cruelty was forging in the dark.