"Take it up," said foul Ivan, his voice full of mockery. He flicked his stiff gauntlet wrist and threw his dirty handkerchief onto the ground like it was worthless.
"W-why must I?" Vecillious asked quietly, his voice little more than a breath in the cold air, stuttering as if he was afraid to be heard.
His eyes were full of sadness, not weak tears, but silent pain from battles inside himself.
Ivan did not answer with words.
Instead, he struck him.
The blow hit Vecillious's cheek like thunder. It was so strong it felt like the whole room echoed with it.
Vecillious stumbled and almost fell, but he caught himself. Falling would make things worse.
For ten years, he had lived like this.
Not bound by chains, yet still trapped.
He knelt.
As he had done many times before.
His trembling hand picked up the dirty cloth. There was no pride left—only quiet surrender.
He gave it to a servant.
The servant did not look at him.
None of them ever did.
It was easier for them to act like he did not exist.
Vecillious turned away and walked through cold stone halls. His bare feet made soft sounds on the freezing floor as he went down to his room.
But it was not truly a room.
It was exile.
The walls were damp and old. Mold grew in the corners. The air smelled rotten, and the low ceiling made it feel like the room was crushing him.
A broken basin stood in one corner.
A half-rotten bed in another.
Small vermin moved like shadows when he came near.
There was no fire.
No warmth.
Not even the comfort of a prison cell.
He fell to his knees again.
"I-it's n-not... a place of c-comfort..." he whispered.
"Th-then... w-where? Where am I supposed to go?"
The room gave no answer.
It never did.
Tears ran down his dirty face.
His mother had died soon after giving birth to him.
His father, a king, barely acknowledged him.
A bastard child was something the court wanted to forget.
The nobles whispered about him.
His half-siblings treated him with cruelty.
Every day brought insults.
Every day brought pain.
His life was written in cold silence.
Forgotten meals.
Cold halls.
People looking away.
He wiped his face, but the tears would not stop.
Then hunger came again, sharp and familiar.
His stomach ached.
Food came only when someone remembered him.
Most days, no one did.
He curled up on the cold floor, holding himself tightly.
Sleep came not from peace, but from exhaustion.
Days passed like this.
He sometimes survived on weeds near the stables and stale water.
Sometimes a servant left scraps—bread or fruit.
Small mercy in a cruel world.
Enough to live one more day.
One morning, he woke as always.
Cold. Alone.
As he walked through the empty parts of the castle, he found something beneath an old oak tree.
A hidden opening in the ground.
A way out.
Or a mistake.
But he could not stay.
He wrapped himself in torn cloth and slipped away.
No one stopped him.
No one called his name.
No one noticed.
The forgotten prince had become invisible.
So he ran.
Past the gates.
Past the walls.
Past everything he had ever known.
Freedom felt strange.
Not sweet.
Not kind.
Just unfamiliar.
He wandered until evening came.
The sky turned gold and purple.
Then he reached a huge bazaar.
Lanterns glowed like stars.
Music filled the air.
People laughed, shouted, and danced.
The world felt alive.
Vecillious froze.
The noise was too much.
The joy felt strange and frightening.
He held his ragged cloth tightly and moved through the crowd until it became overwhelming.
He hid behind an empty stall.
He pulled his knees to his chest.
His hands shook.
Tears came again.
Not because someone hurt him.
Not because someone saw him.
But because he did not know where to go.
For the first time, no one told him what to do.
He could go anywhere.
But he had never had anywhere before.
Freedom felt like fear.
As the crowd grew louder, a thought formed in his mind.
"I... w-want to go back..."
Back to cold stone.
Back to pain he understood.
But he did not know the way.
Panic filled him.
Before he could think, he ran.
Through crowds.
Past lights.
Past music.
Past laughter.
Until he reached a narrow alley.
It smelled rotten.
But he did not care.
He sank to the ground and held his legs tightly.
And he cried.
Not for anyone to see.
Not for help.
But because he had to break somewhere.
And the world had forgotten this place.
His quiet sobs echoed in the alley.
Outside, life continued.
People laughed.
People lived.
And for the first time in his life, Vecillious heard only himself.
***
Acheros slipped, like a quiet breath, through the side gate of the great house.
Night pressed close around him like a cloak of ash.
The festival still echoed in the distance—laughter drifting from far courtyards, lanterns shaking on rooftops like fireflies caught in a storm.
Their soft light touched the dark sky with a sad, golden glow.
From all parts of the empire came music—loud, wild, and sweet.
Laughter ran through the twisting streets like water through a broken flute.
He had done it.
He had snuck out.
And yet he was only fourteen years old.
But he did not seem like a child in how he stood.
His body was straight, his steps calm—not proud, but steady with quiet purpose.
A gentle feeling moved with him, like wind through leaves, and in his eyes was something rare: kindness that was not weak, but strong and grounded.
People passed him without noticing—not because he hid, but because he was simply overlooked, as if the world chose not to see him.
Still, inside him was an old pain.
A deep sadness, not sharp, but slow and constant like frost on stone.
A loneliness that did not cry out, but stayed quiet and waiting.
Around him, the festival grew—bright flags, colorful tents, dancers spinning like falling stars, voices full of joy.
But his thoughts were far away, moving through old memories.
"A river of sorrow," he whispered inside himself, so soft even he could barely hear it.
"Not a river that brings sorrow, but…"
He stopped.
His brow tightened slightly.
The thought would not finish.
Something was missing, something he could not name.
That feeling struck him gently but clearly.
Then—softly, like from a forgotten dream—he heard her voice again.
"I have named thee Acheros, beloved. Not because thou art made of sorrow, but because one day, thou must carry it away—like rivers carry shadow to the sea."
He stopped walking.
His hand moved to his chest and held it tightly, as if trying to keep the memory there.
Her voice—the last warmth he still carried.
For a moment, the pain inside him grew quiet.
But soon it came back again.
He turned away from the festival.
The joy and light now felt too sharp against him.
He wanted not only silence—but a place where he could be known without fear.
But happiness is a strange and slipping thing for a heart that has known too much.
It always escapes, like water from shaking hands.
So he walked on—past the music, past the crowd—until a narrow alley opened before him between old stone walls.
Without stopping, he went inside.
And the darkness closed around him like an old friend.
He walked deeper, and the festival faded behind him.
Music became a murmur.
Murmur became silence.
Then—something.
A sound.
Soft.
Broken.
A sob, small and weak like a spark dying in ash.
A cry too tired to be loud.
He stopped.
His heart felt still.
He listened.
Again—it came.
Someone was crying quietly.
He moved forward slowly, carefully, like someone approaching something fragile.
His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark.
There—curled against the wall—was a boy.
Small.
Thin.
Younger than him.
Arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
Shoulders shaking.
Head lowered.
Acheros opened his mouth to speak—
—but then he heard heavy footsteps behind him.
He turned.
A man stood at the alley entrance—hair messy, coat open, breath heavy with wine.
A torch in his hand lit his face in uneven light, and he swayed like he could barely stand.
"Huh?" the man said, squinting into the dark.
"What are ye two doing here?"
Acheros said nothing.
The boy did not move either.
The man blinked and hiccuped.
"Children… bah. Can't even hold a simple lantern…"
He pulled a worn lantern from his belt and pushed it into Acheros's hands.
"Take this. Must not break your necks."
Then he turned and left, stumbling back into the noise and light of the festival.
Silence returned.
Acheros stood still, holding the lantern tightly.
Inside it, the flame shook softly, like a small living heart.
He stepped forward.
The light reached out and touched the curled boy.
Another step.
Then he knelt down.
With a soft, unsure voice, he asked:
"Are you… alright?"
No answer came.
Then slowly, the boy lifted his head.
Tears covered his dusty face.
His lips were pale.
His hair was tangled, dull red—glowing faintly in the lantern light like fading embers.
And his eyes—
Acheros gasped.
Pale blue.
Cold.
Deep with sadness.
Eyes that felt familiar—like the emperor's gaze, like something seen behind gold and power.
But his hair was the color of the low-born Elsereni.
Acheros's thoughts shook.
Old rumors came back to him.
A name never spoken openly, but always known in whispers.
The hidden son.
Born a slave.
Half-named.
His voice came out weak and shaking:
"…Ve…Vecillious?"
…..To be continued