Larsen, though only thirteen, bore the weight of expectation—to uphold the legacy of House Zergos. Kind-hearted and naive, he gave his best each day at the Crescent Academy of the Arcane Arts—or at the very least, fulfilled what was expected of him.
Six days had passed since the Patriarch's death. A sorrow still lingered in the air, faint but persistent, like the final chords of a mournful song that refused to fade.
As always, Larsen awoke early in the modest, weather-worn home he shared with his parents. The morning unfolded as it always did—his father's voice ringing through the walls, warning that the hour was slipping past; his mother storming about in search of his robe, only to find it exactly where she'd said it would be.
He threw it on, slung his tattered satchel over one shoulder, and stepped out. The streets were still half-asleep. A few children shouted from alleyways, chasing each other barefoot. Most shops near the outer ring had yet to raise their shutters.
At the academy gates, a handful of students stood about in quiet groups. Larsen passed them without a word.
By the large tree at the center of the grounds, a group of third-years were laughing together—not at anything in particular, but loud nonetheless. One of them caught sight of Larsen.
He quickly tugged his robe's edge, trying to conceal the torn patch at the hem. He gave them a polite nod, a thin, awkward smile, and kept walking.
Inside, his classmates milled about the corridor—talking, exchanging notes, lingering in groups. Larsen slipped past, unnoticed, and climbed to the last row of the classroom, settling in his usual seat—far in the back.
"You know this is our place," said Kanan Yalverin, stepping in front of him. "Don't make this a habit."
Kanan was from House Yalverin, one of the more prominent houses within the Crescent. His family had land, wealth, and the kind of influence that made teachers turn a blind eye and students fall in line. Kanan himself carried the weight of that privilege with ease—tall, well-groomed, always in fine robes and with an air of effortless authority. He didn't need to raise his voice to command a room—his smirk usually did the job.
"There's no rule against sitting here," Larsen replied, remaining seated. "There are empty spots all over."
"Not today," Kanan muttered. "Enough of this. Get up and go to the front."
Before it could worsen, two of Kanan's friends—girls from the same section—slipped into the row and sat beside Larsen. They giggled, throwing Kanan a small glance, not helping his temper.
Kanan's friends closed in. Two boys stepped forward. A shove. A fist. An elbow. Larsen gave one last push before the door creaked open and the teacher entered.
Kanan froze. Larsen backed off and quietly made his way to the front, saying nothing.
The class began as though nothing had happened.
At least I landed the last hit, Larsen thought bitterly. Maybe now I'll be left in peace.
But as soon as the lecture ended and the teacher stepped out, a harsh slap struck the back of his neck.
Kanan again.
Larsen turned halfway, his hand rising in anger—but the next teacher was already entering. He froze in place.
"Teacher's coming," one of Kanan's friends hissed, shoving Larsen back into his seat. Another grabbed his arm roughly and yanked it down.
"Sit still. Look straight."
And so the pattern repeated. Class after class.
Slap. Turn. Shove. Silence. Repeat.
Every break between lectures. Kanan struck. Larsen reacted. Kanan's boys held him down. Then the teacher entered, and all pretended nothing had happened.
By the end of the day, Larsen had had enough.
He rose from his seat, turned toward Kanan, and without a word, struck him across the face.
The sound echoed across the room. All fell still.
Larsen's hand dropped back to his side. Regret flashed across his face. His eyes widened. His breath caught.
Kanan, more surprised than hurt, stared at him blankly… and then lunged.
He seized Larsen by the collar and dragged him close, fury twisting his face.
"You've lost your mind!" he roared.
One of his friends crossed his arms and said, smirking, "Do you even know how many cousins he has in this academy? If even half of them show up, you'll be lucky to crawl out of here."
"You'll regret this," Kanan hissed.
Larsen didn't respond. He stood motionless—caught between fear and guilt—until a voice rang out from the doorway.
"What's going on?"
Heads turned.
Selene Zergos—Larsen's sister—stood there in her upper division uniform, calm and composed. One of the finest students in the entire academy.
She strode forward.
"Let him go."
Kanan hesitated. She reached out, took hold of his wrist, and peeled his hand away from Larsen's collar.
"I'll report all four of you to your instructor," she said coldly. "And if I hear about this happening again, I'll make certain you face the full consequences."
No one argued. They knew who she was—and how far her influence reached. It was as if they had simply forgotten until that moment.
Selene turned to Larsen, nodded once toward the door.
"Come."
They walked home along the narrow stone path. Selene sighed.
"You've been in too many fights lately," she said, neither scolding nor concerned. "The teachers complain without end."
She paused.
"And the new satchel. Father bought it just for you. I couldn't find it anywhere."
Larsen's breath hitched.
He had begged for that satchel for months. Now, after only two days, it was gone. He already knew what would follow.
When they entered the house, their mother's first words were:
"Did he bring the satchel?"
Selene didn't hesitate.
"How could he? He's not careful with anything."
She glared at him.
"You were so proud of that bag. Couldn't even keep it for two days."
That was the signal.
His mother snapped. No words. Just a blow across the face. Then came the shouting, harsh and shrill, about how ungrateful he was, how irresponsible. Another slap. He fell to the floor, curled up in the corner, weeping through clenched teeth.
"Stop that crying!" she shrieked. "I don't want to hear a sound from you!"
He tried to hide his face, but she yanked his wrist.
"Look at me when I speak!"
He looked up—through tears—to see the glare of hatred and disappointment, as though his very existence had brought her ruin.
Then the door creaked. His father stepped in.
"What happened to him?"
Selene answered calmly. "He lost the new satchel."
The father said nothing. He merely nodded and sat down. He ate dinner, spoke with Selene and the mother as though nothing had happened.
Larsen stayed locked in his room.
They called him three times. He did not respond.
At last, his father's voice rose.
"Selene! Bring him out."
Selene opened the door. Larsen followed—each step slow, uncertain.
"Did you not hear me calling you?" his father said. The words were sharp as a blade.
Larsen stood still. Arms shaking.
"Do you know how hard I work to earn this money?"
He remained silent.
"Answer me."
Still silence.
Then, slowly, Larsen raised his head. His father's eyes were not those of a man anymore. Not a human being. Cold. Void. Not fury—but something worse.
Finally, Larsen whispered:
"You labor all day."
His father stepped closer.
"And for whom do I labor?"
No answer.
Again, louder this time: "For whom?"
"…For us," Larsen said, voice cracking. Tears welled again.
"So this is how you repay us?"
The anger surged again. His mother interjected: "Just tell him to eat."
His father spat the words: "Go. Eat your meal, you ungrateful child."
Larsen, trying to control the hiccups breaking through his breath, moved to the table.
"Eat."
The voice was quiet now. But colder than before.
He sat. He ate. Each bite heavier than the last.
That night, long after the house fell quiet, Larsen cried himself to sleep.