Kaelith crouched in the dirt of Talsara's village square, his small fingers wrapped around a wooden sword his father, Talren, had carved. At three years old, he was already a head taller than the other kids, his crimson eyes glinting under the twin suns. Around him, children laughed and shouted, their bare feet kicking up clouds of dust in a chaotic game of tag.
Lirien, a wiry girl with tangled brown hair, sprinted past him. "Come on, Kael! Don't just sit there like a lump!"
He flashed a grin, pushing himself up. The sword felt light—too light—in his grip. He could swing it fast enough to blur, but he didn't.
Can't let them see, he thought. Not yet.
He darted into the game, weaving through the pack with a grace that didn't match his toddler frame. His muscles hummed with strength, his senses sharp—every giggle, every rustle of cloth, every heartbeat crystal clear.
When he tagged Lirien, his fingers brushed her arm. Her skin was warm, pulsing with life. A jolt shot through him, his gums tingling where his fangs hid.
He stepped back, swallowing hard.
Lirien spun around, giggling. "You're too fast, Kael! No fair!"
He forced a smile, nodding. Control. Always control.
Later, as the suns sank low, painting the square in shades of gold and shadow, Kaelith sat alone on a weathered bench. Villagers packed up their stalls, their voices a distant hum.
His mind wandered, slipping into a memory he couldn't shake.
Kazu slouched in his Tokyo apartment, the laptop's glow casting harsh shadows across his face. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, clicking through sites he knew he shouldn't. Images flashed—explicit, forbidden. His breath hitched, not with thrill, but with a hollow ache.
He'd been caught once—his sister barging in, her disgust plain. "You're disgusting, Kazu," she'd spat. He hadn't argued. He'd just turned back to the screen, drowning in shame.
Kaelith blinked, the memory dissolving. His nails dug into his palms, leaving tiny crescents.
That was me, he thought. A pervert. A delinquent wasting his life.
He shook his head, jaw tight. Not anymore. This time, I'll be better. I have to.
But the hunger gnawing at him—the ache in his fangs—whispered that some things never changed.
That evening, Kaelith perched at the kitchen table, watching Veyra chop carrots with a steady rhythm. The scent of herbs filled the air, warm and comforting. Talren was outside, feeding the goats, his low whistle drifting through the open window.
"Kaelith," Veyra said, glancing over her shoulder, "you're awfully quiet today. What's rattling around in that head of yours?"
He shook his head, his voice still a garbled mess of toddler sounds. If only I could talk right.
She smiled, wiping her hands on her apron. "You're growing so fast. Soon you'll be out there with your father, swinging a real sword instead of that toy."
Kaelith nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Swords were fine, but he craved more—magic, power, a way to master the chaos inside him.
Veyra's gaze softened as she studied him. "You're special, Kaelith. Those eyes of yours… they see too much for a boy so young."
He met her look, a flicker of warmth blooming in his chest. In his old life, his parents had barely glanced his way—too busy fighting or ignoring him. Here, Veyra and Talren saw him. Cared for him.
I won't let them down, he vowed silently. I'll make them proud.
But the shadow in his gut—the hunger, the old urges—laughed at the thought.
After dinner, Kaelith slipped into his room, a cramped space with a straw-stuffed bed and a wooden chest. He knelt by the chest, tugging out a storybook Veyra had given him—knights in shining armor, dragons breathing fire, the usual.
He didn't care about the pictures. It was the words that hooked him—scribbles that promised power.
Running his fingers over the letters, he mouthed the sounds. He'd learned to read as Kazu, hunched over manga and worse. This language was different, all sharp angles and flowing curves, but the logic clicked.
Magic's in here, he thought. In the chants, the spells. Like what Torvyn did.
He closed his eyes, picturing the priest's ward—the tingle of energy that let him walk in sunlight. Could he tap into that?
He whispered a word from the book—"fire"—and pictured a spark dancing in the air.
Nothing.
He tried again, brows furrowing. Fire. Burn. Light.
Still nothing.
That night, the hunger hit harder. He lay in bed, running his tongue over his fangs—small but sharp, fully grown now.
He bit his lip by accident, and blood welled up, a single crimson drop. The taste exploded on his tongue—rich, thick, alive.
His body surged, heat racing through him. He gasped, clutching the blanket, his tiny frame trembling.
My blood… it's not normal. It's strong.
He licked the wound, savoring it. It didn't quench the craving, but it teased him—a hint of what he really wanted.
More, his mind whispered. I need more.
Not now, though. Not with Veyra and Talren asleep down the hall, not with the village so close.
But soon. He'd have to figure it out soon.
The next morning, Kaelith sat by the hearth, a pebble cradled in his palm. He'd watched Torvyn lift things with a flick of his wrist—casual, effortless.
If the priest could do it, so could he.
He stared at the pebble, willing it to move. Up. Float. Rise.
Minutes dragged by. Sweat prickled his forehead. His arm shook from the effort.
Then—a twitch. The pebble wobbled, lifting a hair's breadth before dropping back.
Kaelith's eyes widened. I did it.
It was tiny, pathetic even, but it was his. A spark of magic, born from his own will.
He grinned, fangs catching the firelight.
This is just the start, he thought. Magic. Power. Control.
The hunger still gnawed at him, and the echoes of Kazu's shame lingered. But for the first time, he felt it—a flicker of hope.
He could be more than his flaws. More than his past.
Kaelith's grin stretched wide, the pebble still warm in his tiny hand. He'd done it—lifted it with nothing but a thought. The rush hit him hard, sharper than any game the village kids played, a spark of something wild and alive in his chest.