Kaelen's earliest childhood memory was quite unfortunate. He had grown up in a small, dingy house reeking of damp wood and old clothes hanging heavy in the air.

  He remembered his mother sitting by the fireplace, a bundle clutched close against her chest, her arms always shaking, from exhaustion or terror, Kaelen would never know. Illuminated by the glow of embers, she had a pale face with sunken cheeks and tired eyes with strands of black hair falling unloosed on her dampened skin.

  She turned and peered at Kaelen sitting beside her and brushed her thin fingers against his tiny, curled horns.

  Something silent clouded across her features. But it could be regret or maybe pain.

  Then, all of a sudden, someone knocked upon the wooden door, breaking the stillness.

  "Who's there?", She asked and quickly hid Kaelen behind her.

  "Open up, Lirien!"

  A deep, gravelly voice answered, and Kaelen remembered that it was the village headman.

  He didn't remember much about that night, but he knew his mother had held him tighter as the voices outside grew louder.

  "She has a demon's child in there!"

  "We should throw the thing into the river before it brings ruin upon us all!"

  Kaelen hadn't understood the words then, but the fear in his mother's eyes had taken root deep within him.

  The door burst open. Rain and torchlight spilled inside.

  Hands reached for him. His mother shrieked and struggled.

  Then, darkness.

  ----

  Kaelen stood at the edge of the village well, his hands cupped tightly around a piece of stale bread. His ribs poked through his thin shirt, his body barely more than skin and bones.

  Across the square, a group of boys, no older than he was, watched with sneers upon their faces.

  "Look at him," one snickered, "eating like some gutter rat."

  Another boy, leader of their little pack, bent to pick up a stone and tossed it in his hand, saying, "Filthy demon spawn. He should've died with his mother."

  Kaelen swallowed, tightening his grip on the bread. He didn't speak. He had long since learned that speaking only made things worse.

  The rock flew before he could react.

  A sharp crack. Pain flared against his temple.

  He staggered, his vision swimming. The bread fell from his hands, tumbling into the dirt.

  Laughter echoed around him.

  "Maybe if we beat him hard enough, he'll sprout wings and fly back to hell," one of them sneered.

  Kaelen clenched his fists, but he didn't fight back. He never did.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Not when they beat him.

  Not when they spat at him.

  Not when, as a five-year-old, his mother took a rope and hanged herself from the wooden beam of their house.

  He had found her, swaying gently in the candlelight. Her face had been peaceful, as if she had finally escaped something unbearable.

  The villagers kept whispering.

  "She couldn't live with the shame."

  "She should have killed the boy before she went."

  Kaelen had never cried. Not that night. Not any night after.

  By the time he was twelve, they had grown tired of tormenting him.

  So they simply cast him out.

  ----

  Kaelen was fifteen when he found the first person who had ever shown him kindness.

  Or so he had thought.

  He was found outside of a city by a man named Gregor: half-starving, half-freezing. Having been the ringmaster of a traveling circus, he had taken Kaelen in, giving him food and a place to sleep.

  "Hard work's better than starving, lad," Gregor said with a smile. "You work, you eat."

  He'd cleaned the floors, polished boots, clean animal stalls, and whatever jobs showed up-it wasn't much, but for the first time since his birth, Kaelen could hope.

  Of course. He still hadn't learnt that hope was dangerous.

  One night.

  The circus stood parked in a healthy trading town. He received his tasks well later than usual that night.

  Kaelen had finished his chores late and was about to retire to his tent when Gregor called him into his tent.

  Inside, a stranger waited—a merchant dressed in fine silks, his expression unreadable.

  “Kaelen, lad,” Gregor said, rubbing the back of his neck. “This here gentleman… well, he made an offer.”

  Kaelen felt odd, seeing Gregor's reaction. He had never acted this way before.

  “What kind of offer?”, He asked and glanced between Gregor and the merchant.

  Gregor sighed and answered, “You’re strong. You’ve got… a unique look. Some folk out there are willing to pay well for someone like you.”

  Kaelen felt his pulse pound in his ears and asked shockingly, “Y-You’re selling me?!”

  Gregor didn’t meet his eyes and simply said, “It’s nothing personal, lad. Just business.”

  The merchant smiled and interjected, “You should be grateful, demon spawn. There are worse fates for someone like you."

  Before Kaelen could even react, something struck the back of his head.

  A dull thud and darkness swallowed him whole.

  ---

  A violent jolt of the wagon through a deep rut in the road flung Kaelen's eyes open.

  He looked around to see a guard outside barking an order as the wagon began to slow.

  Ahead, towering gates loomed over the wagon as the torches on the walls cast long shadows against the forest outside.

  This was the city of Raimon, the place where humans were sold to the highest bidder like livestock and where his fate would meet its end.

  The same former guard approached him, sneering: "Welcome home, demon spawn."