It was one of those long, dark winter nights when he turned four, when frost wove webs over the glass and gripped the castle like a steel claw at the northernmost tip of the Chain Realm.
Aetherion opened his eyes to the darkness. His chest rose and fell rapidly.
His stomach was hungry. But this wasn't a simple stomach pang; it was the deep need of a body trying to grow, pushing its limits.
This body develops too slowly, he thought, squeezing his weak wrists in the dark. My mind is ready, but my arms are not yet strong enough to lift those heavy swords. To defeat those soldiers, my muscles must harden, my bones must thicken. The thin soups of the North are not enough to feed a warrior.
He gritted his teeth.
It was midnight. The castle was buried in deep silence, only the melancholic whistle of the wind on the ramparts could be heard.
Aetherion quietly got out of bed. He was barefoot. The stone floor radiated a razor-sharp cold. The soles of his feet ached with every step, but he accepted this pain as a whip keeping him awake.
As he moved through the dark corridor, his flame-orange hair shone like a dim ember in the moonlight.
He pushed the heavy oak door of the pantry ajar without making it creak, as he had memorized its hinges.
Inside was like a cold storage, smelling of salt, dried herbs, and metal. However, the shelves were sorrowfully empty for a castle pantry. Flour sacks had dwindled, vegetable crates saw the bottom. Most hooks hanging from the ceiling swung like bare iron skeletons.
This is not theft, he told himself, moving with silent steps. I am merely taking what I need.
In the corner, he found that rare leg of veal waiting to be salted. He cut a large, bloody piece with the servants' knife. The meat was cold and heavy; the castle's most precious treasure.
He moved to the fireplace room.
In the massive stone fireplace, the fire was about to die; only a pale redness remained, gasping for breath among the ashes.
Aetherion sat in front of the fireplace. He skewered the meat on the long iron tongs next to him and brought it close to the embers to warm it.
However, the heat was insufficient. The embers had lost their ferocity; even the surface of the meat wasn't warming up.
He frowned with impatience. He extended his hand, a little further than where he held the tongs, towards the embers.
Burn, he thought, with an involuntary impulse.
At that moment, a puny tongue of flame dying among the ashes made a strange movement. Instead of being extinguished by the wind coming down the chimney, it revived for a moment and reached out slightly towards Aetherion's fingers. As if it felt the heat in his hand.
The movement was so subtle it happened in the blink of an eye. The flame didn't touch Aetherion's skin, but its heat hit his fingertips more intensely than it should have for a moment.
Aetherion paused. He pulled the tongs back slightly.
He narrowed his grey eyes. Was it the wind from the chimney? Or were his eyes playing tricks on him from exhaustion?
"It's the wind," he mumbled, not dwelling on it.
With the effect of the heat, the outside of the meat was slightly seared. This was enough.
He pulled the meat from the fire. The inside was still bloody and raw.
He bit into it.
The taste of metallic blood and protein filling his mouth instantly closed that black hole in his stomach. He swallowed with a savage appetite, almost without chewing. With every bite, he felt his muscles tighten, that chronic lethargy giving way to pure energy.
When he swallowed the last morsel, he wiped the blood on his lips with the back of his hand and grinned with a satisfied expression.
This meat... thought Aetherion, wiping the redness from his lips. Will give me the power I need.
But he had to do this secretly. His mother... that delicate woman would be scared if she saw her son eating meat in the dark of midnight with such savage appetite. No need to worry her in vain.
He left the tongs in their place and quietly left the room.
In the depths of the corridor, there was a silhouette hidden in the shadows.
Zero.
The Commander, awakened by that faint clatter from the pantry, had silently followed his son. He watched from the doorway.
What he saw unsettled him, but the reason wasn't exactly his son's savage appetite.
His eyes remained fixed on the dying fireplace.
Just now... did that flame flicker when the boy reached out his hand? Or did a reverse wind blow from the chimney? The distance was far, the light dim. He couldn't be sure.
Zero rubbed his eyes.
Insomnia, he dismissed it, taking refuge in logic.
Still, a disturbing crumb of doubt fell into the center of his chest.
As he disappeared into the shadows returning to his room, he pushed this doubt to the darkest corner of his mind.