Raizen trudged through the manor gates, boots crunching gravel underfoot, each step a dull thud that echoed in the fading light. Mud flaked dry from his pants in stiff, crumbling chunks, scattering like ash across the stones—cold wind tugged at the damp shirt clinging to his skinny chest, sweat and muck soaked through, chilling his bones.
Two days shy of his tenth birthday, and he felt older than that—4'7" of scrappy kid, hands trembling faintly, streaked with dirt and the faint rust of that man's blood drying dark under his nails. The town clung to him—screams sharp in his ears, wet streets slick under his boots, Kezess's voice slithering through his skull, "You've got it in you—buried deep." His gut churned, a tight knot of anger, fear, and something heavier he couldn't pin down—something that tasted like ash and iron.
The gates creaked shut behind him—Garen's broad shadow lingered a beat, nodding once, sharp and final, cloak flapping as he turned toward the barracks, sword clinking soft against his hip.
Raizen stood frozen, breath hitching in shallow puffs, white mist curling faint in the cold—his eyes traced the manor's stone bulk, looming like a squat beast against the bruised purple sky.
Torchlight flickered weak through warped shutters, casting jagged shadows that stretched long across the courtyard—claws raking the gravel, reaching for him. "What now?" he muttered, voice low, hoarse, scraping out of a throat raw from the day—Kezess's presence prickled his skull, a cold, sharp itch at the base of his neck, but the red-eyed bastard stayed silent, lurking like a wolf in the dark.
He shoved the heavy door open—hinges groaning loud, a deep, mournful sound that bounced off the stone walls, rattling through the dim hall.
Boots scuffed the floor, leaving muddy smears in uneven streaks—the air hit him, stale and thick, heavy with dust and the faint sour tang of old wax dripping from sconces long unlit.
His shadow stretched ahead, small and thin, swallowed fast by the gloom—every step echoed, a hollow thud-thud that felt too loud for a place so dead.
Viridian's study door hung ajar—quill scratching steady, a cold, relentless rhythm Raizen could've traced blind.
He hesitated, hands clenching 'til his knuckles ached—then stepped in, small frame dwarfed by the high shelves, maps curling yellow at the edges, parchment stacks leaning like they'd topple any second. Viridian didn't look up—graying hair tied tight in a knot, green eyes fixed on the desk, hunched over like the world beyond his ink didn't breathe.
"Father," Raizen said, voice cracking faint, a splinter in the quiet—throat raw from shouting counts in the drill hall, now dry as bone. Viridian's quill didn't pause—just scratched louder, ink bleeding into the paper, a black sprawl that drowned his words.
"I'm... back from town." No answer—just that endless scratch-scratch, a wall of sound building higher, shutting him out. Raizen's chest tightened—resentment flared hot, a coal glowing in his ribs—two days to ten years old, and this was it: a grunt, a trip, a door left open but never for him.
He turned, boots thudding heavier than they should've, kicking up dust that swirled faint in the torchlight, and Kezess's voice hissed low, "Told you—pathetic excuse of a father. What'd you expect, a pat on the head? A cake?"
"Shut up," Raizen snapped under his breath, fists balling tight—mud cracked off his knuckles, dusting the floor in faint gray flecks, a trail marking his retreat.
He stomped down the corridor—torchlight flickering wild, shadows dancing on the walls, twisting like they'd grab his ankles and pull. He rounded a corner fast—nearly crashed into Teriel, her skirts swishing sharp, a rustle like dry leaves underfoot.
Gray streaks glinted in her dark hair, catching the dim glow—her eyes narrowed to slits, lips tightening to a thin, bloodless line, bitterness rolling off her in waves, thick as smoke.
"You," she spat, voice cutting like a blade through cloth, stopping dead—her gaze raked him top to bottom, mud-caked and ragged, a scrawny smear staining her pristine hall.
"Back from your little jaunt, are you? Filthy as ever—look at this mess." She gestured at the muddy tracks, arm stiff, jaw twitching hard like it might crack. "Stay out of my sight tomorrow—your birthday's no excuse to ruin my floors, my air, my peace."
Raizen's throat burned—words stuck there, hot and useless, piling up like stones. "I didn't—" he started, voice small, a squeak against her storm—Teriel cut him off, stepping closer, looming over his small frame, her shadow swallowing his whole.
"Don't talk back," she hissed, eyes flashing bright and mean, breath sharp with something sour—wine, maybe, or just hate.
"Keep away from Ryan, too—I won't have you dragging him into whatever muck you've rolled in, you little leech." She spun, cloak snapping like a whip's crack, heels clicking away—each strike a nail in the silence, leaving Raizen staring at the stone, chest heaving, hands shaking harder now, nails biting his palms.
"Charming lot," Kezess slithered, cold and amused—red eyes glinting faint in his mind, twin coals glowing through the haze. "She hates you more than the dirt—impressive, for a kid. A real talent you've got, stoking that fire."
Raizen didn't answer—just trudged to his room, boots dragging slow now, each step a fight against the weight in his legs. The door creaked as he shoved it open—bed sagging in the corner, blanket thin and patched, walls bare but for spiderwebs swaying in the draft, silver threads catching the faint light.
He dropped onto the mattress—dust puffing up in a gray cloud, springs groaning under even his slight weight—staring at the ceiling, mud still clinging to his boots, flaking onto the floor in uneven clumps.
A soft knock—Raizen jolted, head jerking up, heart thudding sudden and loud. The door cracked open—Ryan peeked in, freckles stark on his pale face, brown eyes wide and nervous, clutching that frayed scarf like it'd hold him together.
"Rai?" he whispered, voice trembling—slipping inside, boots scuffing quiet on the stone, barely a sound. "Happy birthday… early, I mean. I—I got you this." He held out a small wooden bird—carved rough, chipped at the wing, edges uneven where his small hands had slipped with the knife. "Don't tell Mother—she'd burn it."
Raizen's chest warmed, a flicker cutting through the cold that'd settled deep—reached for it, fingers brushing Ryan's, calluses snagging on his soft skin.
"Thanks," he rasped, voice thick, stuck in his throat—Ryan smiled, shy and quick, then froze as footsteps echoed down the hall, heavy and fast. "I gotta go," he blurted, darting out—door clicking shut soft just as Teriel's voice barked his name, sharp and distant, a whip-crack through the walls.
Kezess hummed low, "Sweet, but weak—runs from her like a kicked pup. You're different, though—mud and all, you've got teeth." Raizen glared at the bird in his hand, wood rough against his calluses, edges digging in.
"What's that mean?" he muttered, voice low, barely a breath—Kezess's red eyes flared, cold and steady, boring into him. "You felt it out there—something waking up, clawing through the muck. You're not just their runt, not some whimpering thing. Stop sniveling—toughen up, or they'll grind you down to dust."
Raizen's jaw tightened—resentment, fear, that spark Kezess kept poking—rolling together, a heavy, churning weight in his gut, pressing against his ribs. He set the bird on the rickety table—wood wobbling under it—stood slow, boots scuffing the floor, leaving faint smears.
He crossed to the cracked window, glass warped and streaked, sky dark now—stars faint through the grime, pinpricks struggling against the night.
His reflection stared back—small, hollow-eyed, mud streaked across his cheek like war paint. "I'll get stronger," he whispered, voice hard, cutting the silence—Kezess didn't answer, just dimmed, red eyes fading slow, leaving him alone with the vow. His small frame stood rigid in the cold, fists clenched, mud drying stiff on his skin—ten years old, and already something fiercer burned beneath.