The night sky over the Altherion Estate was unusually still. The moon hung pale and cold above the northern wings, casting long, silvery shadows across the cobblestones and towering spires. A chill swept through the halls, rattling the ancient doors and whispering through the cracks of old stone.
In the maternity chamber, the cries of newborns normally filled the room with life. But tonight, only silence followed the last scream of the midwife. The child had come into the world, small and frail, and the air around him seemed to recoil.
He was the youngest son of the Altherion bloodline—a family revered for their lineage, feared for their influence, and whispered about for centuries as unmatched in power. But no one could hide the truth any longer. The Patriarch's gaze fell upon the newborn, and it was not a gaze of affection.
"This child…" the midwife whispered, hesitant. "He… he shows no signs. No aura, no bloodline resonance. Nothing."
The room fell silent. The Patriarch did not blink.
"Bring him here," he ordered, his voice calm but like iron.
The boy was lifted into the Patriarch's hands, swaddled and tiny. The midwife shook, her fingers trembling. The court physician, a man of cold logic, checked the child again.
"No… nothing. The boy is… empty."
The word "empty" echoed in the chamber like a curse. Even the walls seemed to absorb it, twisting it into something heavier, darker.
The Patriarch looked down at the boy. His eyes, sharp and calculating, reflected no emotion. Only assessment. Only judgment.
"This one… is of no consequence," he finally said. "Record it. He will not inherit, he will not serve. He is… nothing."
And with that, the boy was marked. His name would be written in ink, yes, but the word beside it would be the truth of his existence: "Empty."
The midwife's hands trembled as she swaddled him again. Even she felt it—the faint stir of something unnatural beneath the skin, though she could not name it. Something like a pulse, a whisper of life that did not belong to this world, quivering under the boy's frail chest.
But no one dared acknowledge it.
The boy's first months passed in obscurity. Servants carried him, fed him, and cleaned him, but none lingered. Even his own family treated him as a shadow, a presence only when necessary. He learned early that attention was pain, that love was a lie, and that survival depended on silence.
He watched the other children—their strength, their laughter, the glow of their inherited bloodlines—and he wanted it. He wanted it with all the desperation of someone abandoned. But every attempt ended in failure. He could not channel, could not fight, could not even make the faintest flicker of power appear.
The whispers followed him everywhere. "Empty… worthless… a mistake."
Yet, even in the depths of neglect, the boy noticed subtle things others did not. A shadow stretched oddly behind him, lingering just a moment too long. A breeze would hesitate before brushing his cheek. Small, faint vibrations tickled at the edges of his awareness, imperceptible to anyone but him.
He did not understand it. Not yet.
By the time he was five, the boy had been beaten, mocked, and ignored countless times. The courtyard had become a battlefield of ridicule. Children shoved him aside, servants muttered when he passed, and his own siblings treated him with disdain.
One afternoon, he stumbled into the central hall, trying to fetch a bucket of water. The eldest of his siblings, a boy of ten years, towered over him, face twisted in cruelty.
"Still breathing, little shadow?" he sneered. "I thought the Patriarch might have buried you when you were born. Everyone here knows you are nothing."
The boy's chest tightened. The words were daggers, but as always, he said nothing. He would not give them the satisfaction.
Yet, in the silence between the taunts, a vibration pulsed through him. Not audible, not visible, but unmistakable. The Growl—though he did not know the name yet—stirred quietly, faint as a whisper beneath his ribs.
His shadow flickered. The candlelight bent strangely across the stone floor. A small vase wobbled and fell, shattering without anyone touching it.
No one noticed. No one cared.
That night, the boy lay awake in the small chamber allocated for him in the northern wing. His body ached from neglect, but the pain was familiar, almost comforting. It reminded him that he was still alive. And for the first time, he pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the subtle pulse there, deeper than his heartbeat.
He did not understand it, could not name it, and yet he felt it as clearly as hunger or fear. Something within him waited. Something primal. Something that belonged to no one but him.
Outside his window, the moon cast silver shadows across the estate. The wind whispered through the stone corridors, carrying faint murmurs that might have been voices, or might have been the night itself.
Somewhere beyond the estate, in the deep forests and hidden valleys, cloaked watchers stirred. They had known from the beginning, even before the boy's birth. Their presence was silent, invisible, but attuned to the faint pulse within him.
"He has awakened," one whispered, though the boy could not hear. "Though he does not know yet, the Growl stirs. Soon… the world will see what they thought was nothing."
The boy closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at him, yet a faint thrill ran through him. He did not know what it meant. He did not know what he would become. All he knew was that even when the world had rejected him, something inside refused to die.
I will survive, he thought silently, though he did not understand why. I will not be nothing.
And somewhere deep inside, the Growl pulsed again, faint, patient, waiting for the day it would rise fully.