The boy stood alone before a crumbling building called Embrek Church Of Light, his pale skin ghostly in the fading light.. The road beneath his feet was dim and poorly maintained—more like the outskirts of the city than part of it. Though the sun still hung in the sky, it cast little light, its glow dulled by thick, drifting clouds. The boy wore ill-fitting clothes: a t-shirt too tight for his frame, shorts that barely clung to his hips, and shoes several sizes too large. At a glance, he looked like an orphan. Yet his jet-black eyes—matching his dark hair—burned with a brightness that spoke of fierce ambition.
Then, a voice called out behind him, soft but clear.
"Aleck!"
He flinched and turned around. A young woman in her early twenties stood there, her presence like a light piercing through the gloom. Her face was striking—so much so that one could mistake her for royalty, even in her modest nun's attire. The crisp white fabric of her habit was slightly dusted from the road, and the cap concealed her hair, though not the grace that radiated from her. Her emerald eyes shimmered with warmth, different from the fire in the boy's own dark gaze, but no less bright.
"You missed the afternoon prayer, didn't you?" she said, her voice lilting like a lullaby. "Don't worry. Father won't scold you… But he's worried about you, even if he never shows it."
Aleck lowered his head, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Without a word, he stepped forward and embraced her tightly.
She smiled and shifted the woven basket in her hands—a faint aroma of fresh bread, herbs, and something warm and savory rose from it, hinting at the evening meal inside.
Kneeling, she gently pulled him into her arms, holding him as the quiet breeze rustled the grass around their feet, the world still for a moment.
The boy stood alone before a crumbling building called Embrek Church Of Light, his pale skin ghostly in the fading light.. The road beneath his feet was dim and poorly maintained—more like the outskirts of the city than part of it. Though the sun still hung in the sky, it cast little light, its glow dulled by thick, drifting clouds. The boy wore ill-fitting clothes: a t-shirt too tight for his frame, shorts that barely clung to his hips, and shoes several sizes too large. At a glance, he looked like an orphan. Yet his jet-black eyes—matching his dark hair—burned with a brightness that spoke of fierce ambition.
He stood motionless in front of the building, lost in thought. The evening air hung heavy with the scent of old stone and damp earth, the kind that clung to forgotten places. Embrek Convent loomed behind him, its cracked walls and faded windows bathed in the dim, filtered sunlight struggling to break through the overcast sky.
Then, a voice called out behind him, soft but clear.
"Aleck!"
He flinched and turned around. A young woman in her early twenties stood there, her presence like a light piercing through the gloom. Her face was striking—so much so that one could mistake her for royalty, even in her modest nun's attire. The crisp white fabric of her habit was slightly dusted from the road, and the cap concealed her hair, though not the grace that radiated from her. Her emerald eyes shimmered with warmth, different from the fire in the boy's own dark gaze, but no less bright.
"You missed the afternoon prayer, didn't you?" she said, her voice lilting like a lullaby. "Don't worry. Father won't scold you… But he's worried about you, even if he never shows it."
Aleck lowered his head, cheeks burning with embarrassment. Without a word, he stepped forward and embraced her tightly.
She smiled and shifted the woven basket in her hands—a faint aroma of fresh bread, herbs, and something warm and savory rose from it, hinting at the evening meal inside.
Kneeling, she gently pulled him into her arms, holding him as the quiet breeze rustled the grass around their feet, the world still for a moment.
"Reyla, what do you do when someone keeps hitting you?"
The boy's voice was tense, though he buried his face in Reyla's arms, trying to hide it.
Reyla held him tightly. She understood all too well.
In this world, the most common hair colors were white or blonde. Red hair was rare and typically found in royalty. But black hair—that was different. It was feared. It was hated. They called it the devil's hair.
The last demon lord, Asterigus, had black hair. He nearly destroyed the Kingdom of Solvarin before he was struck down by Aethan Greywhite, a warrior so revered that Emperor Varros III himself granted him the only Grand Duke title in history. A century had passed since that war, and even its ruins had faded from the land—but not from the hearts of the people. The hatred lingered.
Reyla suspected that was why Aleck had been abandoned at the age of three. His black hair had sealed his fate. His parents hadn't wanted shame. They'd chosen silence over ridicule.
Reyla kept her voice gentle.
"Did you hit them back?"
"No… I don't want to fight," Aleck murmured.
She smiled sadly.
"You're too kind." She pulled him closer, her fingers brushing his messy hair.
Then, with a grin that broke the somber air, she added,
"But if someone picks on you again—just punch them in the face. Big sis will teach you how to fight today."
Aleck blinked. The way she said it so casually—so cheerfully—he couldn't help but sigh.
"You're really a brute…" he muttered.
"Won't Father get angry if I learn to fight?" he asked, more curious than worried.
Reyla tilted her head, then shrugged.
"Then we just won't get caught. Easy, right?" she laughed.
Aleck looked up at her—his caretaker for five years now—and realized all over again who he was living with.
They entered the church hand in hand, the wind howling behind them as the last light of the sun sank beneath the horizon.
A calm, firm voice greeted them from within.
"You're late."
Father stood near the back entrance, arms crossed. He didn't sound angry—just expectant, as though he'd been standing there a while, certain they'd avoid the front gate.
Reyla laughed nervously.
"Ah—yeah, I'll… go check on dinner!"
She quickly let go of Aleck's hand and rushed off, disappearing down the hall.
Aleck stared after her, betrayed. His protector. His "mentor." Gone in an instant.
He turned back to Father, rubbing his arm.
"I was out with some of the other kids. I guess I lost track of time. I'm really sorry… It won't happen again," he said, avoiding eye contact.
Father let out a slow breath, not quite a sigh.
"Did they say something to you again?" he asked quietly.
Aleck's mouth opened, but no words came out. His chest tightened. His fists curled.
Then he broke.
"I don't even know what I did," he choked out. "I just… exist. And they look at me like I'm something wrong. Like I shouldn't even be breathing."
Tears streamed down Aleck's cheeks as the weight in his chest finally gave way. He let go. Of the fear. Of the ache. Of the need to pretend he was fine.
Father stepped forward, his thin frame outlined by the flickering candlelight. He wore his old, patched priestly robes and a pair of crooked spectacles that always slid down his nose. His posture was tired, his eyes dull—nothing like Reyla's radiant presence. There was no warmth in his aura, only quiet endurance.
Yet his hands, though bony and worn, reached out gently.
"You did nothing wrong, Aleck," he said softly.
Then, with more strength behind his words,
"People fear what they don't understand. And with fear comes cruelty, and cowardice."
He knelt before Aleck and placed a hand on the boy's head, voice rising with reverence.
"You are the people of the Goddess of Light—Solenya," he said.
Aleck blinked up through his tears, startled.
"Did you know some even call her the Goddess of Justice?" Father continued, his eyes meeting Aleck's.
He stood slowly, his voice returning to a grounded calm.
"Reyla will teach you to protect yourself—so they don't get to decide who you are."
"I know you're already listening... but please, look after him," Father said quietly, glancing up as if speaking to the air.
Aleck tilted his head in confusion, looking around to see who he was talking to.
A soft voice answered from behind a nearby wall, laced with warmth.
"Of course I will. He's my little brother too."
Reyla stepped into view, smiling gently, her presence like a calming flame in the dim light.
Outside, the sky had turned grey. Rain began to fall, steady and cold, pattering on rooftops across the district. Amid the rows of crumbling buildings and broken fences stood a house far more extravagant than its neighbors. Its walls were clean, its windows intact, and its garden—though small—was well-kept. A nameplate by the iron gate read: Knight Oliver.
A sleek black carriage pulled up in front of the house. Standing at the gate was a man with neatly combed white hair, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit. Though he looked young—barely in his thirties—his posture carried the calm of someone seasoned by war and time. He held an umbrella as the rain grew heavier.
The coachman stepped down and moved to open the carriage door, offering the umbrella toward the passenger inside.
"No need," came a firm voice from within.
A tall man stepped out, red hair tied loosely behind his head, a crimson-sheathed sword slung at his side. His suit clung to his muscular frame like armor. The moment his feet touched the ground, a subtle pulse of energy radiated outward—unseen, but undeniable. The rain bent away from him, never touching his skin or clothes, repelled by the weight of his aura.
"Why not just use an umbrella like a normal person, Sir Ethan?" the white-haired man said with a half-grin, amused.
Ethan shrugged.
"It'd keep one of my hands busy. Inefficient."
Oliver shook his head.
"Burning your resonance just to stay dry… Only you."
He sighed. They had known each other since their academy days. Nothing about Ethan had really changed.
"So, what brings Sir Ethan Greywhite to Embrek? The outskirts of the kingdom aren't exactly your usual path." Oliver asked, his voice growing more serious.
Ethan's response was casual, almost lazy.
"Sightseeing. I'm on leave."
As the two stood under the drizzle, a woman stepped out of the carriage—tall, elegant, with striking blonde hair and eyes like polished amber. She cradled a small sleeping girl in her arms. The child had bright red hair and deep black eyes, an unusual combination.
The coachman quickly opened an umbrella over them.
"Oh right," Ethan said flatly. "My wife and daughter are here too."
Oliver blinked, then chuckled in disbelief as he knelt out of habit.
"Madame Losaile and young Amber… You could've told me they were coming. Two hours' notice, Ethan? Unbelievable. I still can't believe this guy became a father."
"Let's talk inside," Oliver said, opening the gate.
The group began moving toward the house, the rain continuing to fall behind them—like the quiet turning of a page before the next chapter began.