Far from the noble estates and grand cities of the Empire, a small village rested at the edge of vast, rolling green fields. Crop plots and pastures stretched as far as the eye could see. Though modest in size, the settlement was densely populated, its timber-framed houses clustered closely together along narrow dirt roads. Encircling the village stood a tall stone wall—a rugged fortress built to keep wild beasts and external threats at bay.
It was a simple, bustling place where neighbors greeted each other by name, but inside a quiet house near the inner wall, time moved at a very different pace.
In a dimly lit room, Cassian lay motionless beneath a thin blanket.
Sixteen years had gone by, yet his body looked as if it had barely grown past childhood. He was painfully thin and pale, his frame so fragile that every rib showed beneath his skin. For Cassian, the simplest tasks were exhausting ordeals. Sitting up required a deliberate rally of strength; lifting a cup of water made his thin fingers tremble uncontrollably. Even speaking a few full sentences left him breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling in shallow, labored gasps.
He stared quietly at the wooden beams of the ceiling, listening to the distant chatter of villagers outside.
It has been sixteen years... I've been like this for sixteen years.
His thoughts were slow, heavy with a quiet fatigue. Every day was identical to the last. Walking was a struggle. Eating was exhausting. Even breathing felt like dragging air through lead pipes. He didn't feel bitter, nor did he rage against his body. He was simply tired.
When will I die? he wondered silently.
The thought brought no tears or fear, only a strange sense of calm. Perhaps death wasn't something to dread, but a peaceful end to a body that did nothing but suffer.
A soft footstep broke the silence.
His grandmother entered the room carrying a small wooden bowl. Her hair was silver, her face lined with deep wrinkles, but her hands were steady as she sat on the edge of his bed. Without a word, she dipped a clean cloth into warm water and gently wiped his forehead.
She prepared his bitter herbal medicines every morning, adjusted his blankets throughout the cold nights, and made sure he ate even when he had no appetite. She never complained, nor did she ever look at him with pity. Whenever their eyes met, she offered him a warm, tender smile—a quiet look that silently insisted he would be whole one day.
She blew gently on a spoonful of warm broth and held it to his lips. Cassian swallowed it slowly, his throat dry.
That silent devotion was the only reason he had made it this far. Every time he wanted to let go, her quiet smile pulled him back for one more day.
The front door opened with a creak, followed by the heavy thud of boots.
Cassian's grandfather walked in, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. He was an old man, but years of hard labor had kept his frame broad and sturdy. In one hand, he carried a well-worn woodcutting axe; in the other, a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. He smelled of pine wood, damp earth, and sweat.
"I brought some fresh grain and dried meat from the market," the old man said, setting his axe carefully by the door. He turned to his wife with a gentle nod. "Make some soft porridge for the boy."
He stepped into Cassian's room, pulling up a low stool beside the bed. His large, calloused hand rested lightly on Cassian's shoulder, careful not to press too hard against his weak bones. He looked down at his grandson's dark eyes—the same pitch-black eyes that had caused so much hatred sixteen years ago. Here, they were looked upon only with warmth.
"Don't worry," his grandfather said softly, his deep voice grounded and steady. "You'll get better. It... it just takes time."
They were simple words, spoken without grand promises or dramatic flair. Yet, coming from the man who had carried him away from a drawn sword and given him a home, they carried immense weight.
Cassian looked at his grandfather's tired eyes, then at his grandmother, who was carefully fanning the hearth to cook his meal.
Something inside his chest tightened. For sixteen years, he had treated his existence as a countdown, passively waiting for his feeble body to give out. He had wanted the pain to stop. He had wanted to die.
But as he looked at the two people who had poured their lives into keeping his fragile thread of existence intact, a faint spark ignited deep within his chest.
He didn't want to leave them. He didn't want his story to end in this quiet bed, watching the world pass by through a small window.
I want to live.
The thought took root, growing stronger with every slow heartbeat. He wanted to feel the cool wind on his face outside the village walls. He wanted to walk without stumbling, to run until his lungs burned from effort rather than weakness, and to carry his own weight. He wanted to be healed.
For the first time in sixteen years, Cassian Esderva stopped waiting for death—and chose to fight for his life.
Night fell quietly over the village, but the rest Cassian had hoped for never came.
It began as a low, indistinct murmur in his sleep. Trembling voices pleading for help. The sharp, frantic beat of running footsteps against dirt. Then came a distant, roaring crackle—a sound like dry branches snapping in a gale.
Cassian stirred, his eyelids heavy. A dream? he thought, his weak mind struggling to surface from sleep.
But the noise only grew louder, cutting through the stillness of the night. A sharp, metallic scent drifted through the gaps in the window frame, thick and suffocating. Smoke.
Before he could process the smell, the muffled voices of his grandparents echoed from the front room. Panic—raw and uncharacteristic—laced their words. Cassian forced his eyes open and turned his head toward the small window beside his bed.
The dark sky was gone. In its place was a horrific, dancing orange glare. Massive plumes of thick black smoke billowed into the night as roaring flames swallowed the neighboring roofs. The fiery glow spilled through the glass, painting the small bedroom in shades of crimson and gold.
The door burst open.
His grandfather stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, his face pale against the flickering firelight. There was no hesitation in his eyes.
"We have to leave. Now," the old man said, his voice taut with urgency.
He moved to the bed, carefully sliding his broad arms beneath Cassian's frail frame. Even in a rush, he hoisted the boy onto his back with practiced gentleness, ensuring he didn't crush his weak ribs. Cassian's thin arms barely had the strength to loop around his grandfather's neck; he had to rely entirely on the old man's firm hold to stay upright.
They hurried out of the bedroom into the main hall. Outside, the world had descended into madness.
The quiet dirt roads were now choked with fleeing villagers. The air was heavy with heat and ash, biting at Cassian's throat every time he tried to breathe. Sparks rained down like dying stars as timber beams collapsed, sending showers of embers into the dark. Screams echoed from every direction—parents calling for children, neighbors shouting in confusion.
Clinging to his grandfather's back, Cassian stared at the destruction in absolute shock.
What happened? Why is every house being consumed by fire? Why...?
His grandfather pushed through the drifting smoke, his boots crushing fallen debris. Suddenly, the old man gritted his teeth, a low, furious growl escaping his throat.
"That brat..." he muttered bitterly, his grip on Cassian tightening slightly. "He's gone too far this time."
Cassian caught the words, but before he could ask what they meant, his grandfather turned toward the doorway and shouted over the roar of the flames. "Dear! Get out here! We can't stay near the main road!"
His grandmother hurried out of the burning house, clutching a small bundle of medicine to her chest. She gave a firm nod, her face grim, and fell into step right beside them.
They tried to cut through a narrow alley leading toward the outer stone wall, but the path was chaotic. Panicked villagers jostled against one another, blindly shoving past anyone in their way.
In the crush, a young man violently elbowed his way forward, colliding hard with Cassian's grandmother. She lost her footing and fell onto the dirt road, her bundle scattering across the ground.
"Grandmother!" Cassian gasped, his breath catching in his throat.
The man who had pushed her paused, turning around as if to offer a hand. But the moment his eyes landed on her face—and then shifted to the pale, black-eyed boy riding on the old man's back—his expression twisted from surprise to pure venom.
"You..." the man spat, backing away as if he had touched a corpse. "It's them! It's the Esderva family!"
His sharp shout cut through the surrounding noise. Nearby villagers froze, turning their heads through the haze of smoke.
"They brought this upon us!" the man screamed, pointing a trembling, dirt-stained finger at them. "Ever since they took in that cursed child, bad luck has followed! Now the sky burns! They're the ones who cursed our village!"
Fear is a contagious poison, and in a burning village, it spreads faster than the flames.
The surrounding crowd stared at Cassian. These were people his grandfather had helped build houses for. Women his grandmother had shared herbal remedies with during harsh winters. Yet tonight, bathed in the blood-red light of the inferno, their eyes held no recognition—only blind, hysterical terror.
"He's right... that boy was born wrong!" a woman shrieked, clutching her child.
"They've been hiding a monster under our nose!" another voice shouted. "Throw them to the flames!"
Whispers surged into a collective roar of hatred. The panic that had driven them to flee was suddenly redirected at a single, helpless target.
His grandfather said nothing. He didn't waste breath arguing with a mob driven mad by fear. Instead, he stepped forward, shielding his wife with his sturdy frame, and helped her to her feet.
"Hold on to me, old woman," the grandfather said softly, his voice impossibly steady amidst the rage surrounding them. "Don't look at them."
"Murderers! Get out!" a farmer yelled, grabbing a heavy piece of charred wood from the rubble and hurling it straight at the old man's head.
His grandfather's instincts, honed by years of hard labor, saved him. He ducked his head just in time, the burning wood whistling past his ear and shattering against the stone wall behind them.
Seeing the attack, a burly blacksmith at the front of the mob raised a heavy iron hammer. "Don't let them leave! Kill the cursed ones before they destroy what's left!"
"Run!" the grandfather barked.
Turning his back on the town they had called home for sixteen years, the old man burst into a sprint, carrying Cassian while pulling his wife by the hand. They ducked into a dark, narrow alleyway, leaving the main road behind.
Behind them, the shouts of the angry mob echoed relentlessly, mixed with the thunderous roar of collapsing buildings.
Resting his heavy head against his grandfather's shoulder, Cassian watched the burning village recede. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, not from the stinging smoke, but from a deep, aching pain in his chest.
He saw his grandmother's trembling hands. He felt his grandfather's ragged, desperate breaths as the old man pushed his aging body to its absolute limit just to keep him safe. For sixteen years, Cassian had stayed inside his quiet room, shielded from the world. He had never known that the very people his grandparents smiled at every morning harbored such deep, monstrous hatred for his existence.
They were being hunted. Not by wild beasts or invaders, but by the very neighbors they had cherished.
Is it really because of me? Cassian thought, his chest tightening so much he could barely breathe. Am I the curse?
His grandfather didn't stop. He pushed through the darkness, breaking through the outer wooden gate and plunging straight into the dense, dark forest beyond the village walls.
Behind them, the sky glowed a violent, unnatural crimson. The screams of the mob grew fainter, but they were far from safe. Torchlights began to flicker at the tree line as the pursuers gave chase into the woods.
Cassian clung tightly to his grandfather's neck, staring into the dark forest ahead. The village was gone. Their home was in ashes. And as the dark shadows of the woods swallowed them whole, one terrifying truth lingered in his mind—the nightmare had only just begun.