Chapter 89 — The Scars of Blood
9 years ago — Kingdom of Britannia, Emberfall Manor;
The Emberfall Manor proudly dominated a lush green hill in the heart of the Kingdom of Britannia. It was an elegant and imposing fortress built of white stone and black marble, featuring slender towers, perfectly manicured labyrinthine gardens, and vast training grounds. From morning until night, those grounds echoed with the metallic clash of colliding swords, authoritative orders barked into the air, and the cries of pain from falling apprentices. Sculpted fountains depicting roaring lions flowed endlessly, and blue and silver banners fluttered in the wind symbols of the family's immense power and ancient lineage.
The Emberfall family was one of the most influential and powerful in the kingdom. Their name was synonymous with military victory, ancient wealth accumulated over centuries, and an undisputed noble bloodline that had produced generals, royal advisors, and war heroes. It was rumored that the Emberfalls had dragon blood running through their veins a rumor they cultivated with immense pride.
But Damian was the youngest son.
The "failure." The mistake. The dead weight of the family.
From his earliest childhood, he had understood with cruel and painful clarity that he was not worthy of the name he bore.
"You're pathetic!" shouted Jester, his fourteen-year-old eldest brother, striking him violently with a wooden training sword reinforced with iron.
The blow hit Damian in the flank with a dull, sickening thud. The seven-year-old boy fell heavily into the dust of the training ground, his breath knocked out of him. Tears of pain and humiliation rolled down his dirty, flushed cheeks.
"You can't do anything right! Father is completely right about you!" Jester continued, laughing cruelly before kicking him in the ribs. "Look at you! Trembling like a wet leaf! How do you expect to be an Emberfall with such weakness?! You're an embarrassment to all of us!"
Zairos, the second brother, aged twelve, crossed his arms and laughed coldly from the edge of the field, leaning against a wooden railing.
"Drop it, Jester. He's a hopeless case. Father was right not to bother training with him. He'll never bring honor to the family name. He's just... a stain."
Damian, his body already covered in a mixture of old and fresh bruises, painfully pulled himself up. He clenched his teeth to fight back the tears in his eyes. His small, trembling hands picked up the training sword, which was far too heavy for him. He tried once more to reproduce the basic movement his brothers executed with baffling ease: a perfect diagonal slash, followed by a fluid, powerful thrust.
He failed. Again.
The sword slipped from his hands and fell heavily into the dust. Jester's wooden staff came down once more, harder this time, across his back.
"Pathetic! Pathetic! You're completely incompetent!" Jester yelled with every strike, his face distorted by contempt and sadistic pleasure. "You're a good-for-nothing! You should be ashamed for all of us! A disgrace to the Emberfall name! You don't even deserve to wear our crest!"
Their father, Lord Astrea Emberfall, observed the scene from afar. Standing on the grand terrace of the manor with his arms crossed, his face remained impassive and cold as stone. He said nothing. He never reprimanded his eldest sons. To him, Damian was a disappointment, a useless burden to the glorious family name. A son who didn't even deserve a glance, let alone a word of encouragement. At seven years old, any true Emberfall was expected to already possess an innate talent and strength for swordsmanship but that was not the case for Damian.
Every single day was an endless nightmare for young Damian.
In the morning, he tried to ride horses, only to fall miserably and be ridiculed by the squires snickering behind his back.
In the afternoon,he tried archery, missing the target every time and receiving harsh slaps from his instructors.
In the evening, he tried to recite history and military strategy lessons, only to stutter, forget names, and be humiliated in front of the entire household during dinner.
His brothers, meanwhile, excelled at everything. Jester was already a prodigy with a blade, capable of defeating squires twice his age. Zairos mastered military strategy better than anyone his age, anticipating movements like a seasoned general. Their father looked at them with obvious pride, affectionately clapping them on the shoulder and gifting them sumptuous presents: brand-new armor, thoroughbred horses, and swords forged by the finest artisans.
One evening, after another public humiliation where he had been beaten and ridiculed in front of everyone during a group training session, Damian fled to the back garden. He hid behind a large, blooming rosebush. He cried silently, curled up into a ball, his body covered in fresh bruises and his heart in pieces, wondering why he had ever been born into this family.
"Why... why me...?" he sobbed softly, his voice muffled by his tears.
His mother, Lady Elara, found him there. She gently knelt before him, her blue silk dress dragging in the damp earth, and tenderly took him into her arms, pressing him against her warm chest that smelled of lavender and roses.
"It's alright, my sweetheart..." she murmured in a soft, trembling voice, slowly brushing his tangled hair. "It's alright... Cry as much as you need to. I'm here. I will always be here."
Damian sobbed harder, burying his face in his mother's neck, his small hands gripping her dress tightly as if he were terrified she might vanish.
"Why... why can't I do anything right, Mother? Jester and Zairos... they're perfect at everything... Father won't even look at me... He hates me... I'm pathetic... I'm truly pathetic... I don't deserve to carry this name... I wish... I wish I had never been born..."
Lady Elara closed her eyes, a lone tear silently rolling down her pale, delicate cheek. She held him even tighter against her, as if she wanted to protect him from the entire world and from the cruelty of his own family.
"Your father is not the type to show his love, my darling..." she whispered with infinite sadness in her voice. "He is harsh, cold, demanding... but he loves you, in his own way. He wants you to become strong, stronger than your brothers. He simply doesn't know how to tell you. And you... you are different, Damian. You have a pure, sensitive, and brave heart."
She kissed his forehead tenderly for a long moment, her warm lips pressing against his cold, tear-stained skin.
"You are not pathetic. You are simply becoming yourself. And I am proud of the man you will become. No matter what they say. You are my treasure. My most beautiful treasure."
But at night, when everyone else was asleep, the manor revealed a completely different truth one far darker and uglier.
Damian, frequently awakened by dull, muffled thuds, would sometimes slip out of his bedroom, his bare feet padding quietly on the cold floor of the corridor. With his heart pounding wildly, he would creep through the darkness, guided by the sounds. He would hear his mother's muffled cries coming from the master bedroom. The blows. The insults whispered in low tones. The stifled weeping she desperately tried to contain.
His father was beating his mother.
Not every night, but often. When he had drunk too much. When he was frustrated by the kingdom's politics. When he brooded over the "weakness" of his youngest son. The sounds were always the same: the sharp crack of a slap, the heavy thud of a fist, the sound of a body hitting the wall, and the smothered sobs of Lady Elara trying her best not to wake the servants.
Damian would remain hidden in the dark hallway, his entire little body trembling, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. He wanted to intervene. He wanted to scream, to throw the door open, to beg his father to stop, to protect his mother.
But he was too afraid. Too afraid of receiving the same blows. Too afraid to see his father's hatred directed squarely at him.
Every morning, Lady Elara would come down to the grand dining room with a forced smile, her face lightly made up to hide the bruises blossoming on her cheekbones, jaw, and arms. She would visit Damian in his room before breakfast, treating her own wounds with discreet salves, and then treating her son's injuries with maternal tenderness.
"It's nothing, my love..." she would whisper softly, applying the cool ointment to Damian's bruises, her voice shaking despite the smile she forced onto her face. "It's nothing... Everything will be better one day. I promise you."
Damian would weep silently, clenching his fists on his knees.
"Why does Father hit you, Mother? Why is he always so angry with you?"
Lady Elara's eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a lone tear escaping her eyelids despite her best efforts. She pulled her son into a tight embrace.
"Because he is angry at the world... and at himself. But he loves us. In his own way."
Days turned into months, and one night, the entire manor seemed to hold its breath.
Damian, startled awake by a violent, heavy crash, slipped out of bed with his heart racing. His small bare feet touched the cold floor of the corridor. He was already trembling, knowing all too well what awaited him. He crept silently through the darkness, guided by the muffled noises coming from the master bedroom at the end of the hall.
He stopped in front of the half-open door, his breath catching in his throat. Through the narrow opening, the flickering light of a lantern cast distorted shadows on the walls. He hid behind the doorframe, barely daring to breathe, his eyes wide with horror.
First, he heard the sound of a violent slap, followed by a choked cry.
Then, the voice of his mother, Lady Elara, finally cracked. After years of forced silence, masked smiles, and swallowed tears, she snapped.
"You have created monsters!" she shrieked in a broken voice between heartbreaking sobs. "Your sons... Jester and Zairos... they are becoming less human by the day! You have turned them into heartless beasts! Cold, empty machines of war!"
Lord Astrea replied in a low, menacing voice, heavy with suppressed rage:
"Shut your mouth, foolish woman. You don't know what you're talking about."
But Lady Elara pressed on, her voice shaking with rage, despair, and a lifetime of accumulated agony:
"I hate this family! I hate you and that cursed ritual you have repeated for centuries! Every boy born into the Emberfall lineage must drink dragon blood as an infant! A chalice filled decades ago with the blood of dragons slaughtered by your ancestor, Balron the Slayer, and all who followed him! You think it makes you stronger? More resilient? Giving you inexhaustible energy and bodies capable of enduring anything?! All it does is steal your humanity! It erases your emotions!"
She sobbed harder, her voice cracking under the weight of her tears.
"And that is why you don't love Damian... Because the dragon blood had absolutely no effect on him. He remained a normal human. He kept his heart. His sensitivity. His capacity to love and to suffer. He is the only one who still has a soul left in this cursed family! And you... you can't stand looking at him and seeing what you lost forever. You hate him because he reminds you of what you were before you became this heartless monster!"
A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the bedroom.
Then, the sound of a violent slap rang out, followed by a body slamming brutally against the wall.
SLAP!
"Shut your damn mouth!" roared Lord Astrea, his voice distorted by an animalistic rage. "You know nothing! That ritual made us strong! It allowed us to survive in this world! Without it, we would have been wiped out long ago! If Damian is weak, it is his own fault, not mine! He is a mistake! An abomination! And above all, it is *your* fault, because you failed to give me a son strong enough to withstand our ritual! A son who should never have been born!"
Another strike followed. Harder this time. The sound of a body sliding down against the wall was accompanied by a muffled groan of pain.
Lady Elara whimpered, but she did not scream. She never screamed. She endured it in silence, just as she always had.
Damian, hidden in the dark hallway, shook from head to toe. Warm, silent tears streamed down his face. He wanted to go in. He wanted to open the door, to scream, to beg his father to stop, to shield his mother. But fear paralyzed him completely. His legs refused to move. His throat was tightly knotted. He could only stand there, utterly helpless, listening to the blows and the muffled sobs, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
That night, Damian understood something profound and terrifying: in this family, love was a weakness, sensitivity was a curse, and tenderness was a betrayal. And he, the youngest son, was condemned to carry that curse for the rest of his days.
Years passed.
Damian continued to suffer in silence, wearing his bruises and humiliations like an invisible, heavy, freezing armor that weighed on his shoulders every single morning. He would wake up before dawn, training until utter exhaustion falling, pulling himself up, and falling again all while desperately trying to become what his family expected of him.
But nothing worked. His brothers' blows grew harsher, his father's contemptuous glares grew heavier, and the silences within the manor grew more oppressive.
Yet, his mother's words remained the sole warm light in his daily hell. Every evening, when he cried in secret in his bedroom, he would repeat her words to himself like a prayer:
"You are not pathetic. You are simply becoming yourself."
Then, on a crisp, sunny autumn day, a royal visit changed everything.
The sky was a clear, pure blue, dotted with a few fluffy white clouds. The trees on the estate had begun to take on golden and amber hues, and a light breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves and late-blooming flowers. An imposing royal convoy arrived at the Emberfall Manor with a loud clatter of hooves and wheels on the gravel. Blue and gold banners fluttered proudly in the wind, accompanied by an impressive royal escort: knights in polished armor, squires wearing the crown's colors, and several mages in dark robes vigilantly scanning the surroundings.
Then, a young boy, only seven years old, stepped out of the royal carriage with visible timidity. His blonde hair was slightly disheveled from the journey, and his large blue eyes observed everything with a curiosity mingled with apprehension. He wore a simple but elegant tunic, embroidered with the royal lion of Britannia.
By his side stood Merlin, his mentor—a mature and remarkably handsome man whose wise, benevolent gaze stood in stark contrast to the imposing aura of the guards surrounding them.
This boy was none other than Prince Arthur.
Lady Elara, dressed in an exquisite sky-blue gown, welcomed the prince with grace and elegance, bowing slightly before him.
"Welcome to the House of Emberfall, Prince Arthur. We are deeply honored by your presence. You will spend nine days among us to refine your swordsmanship skills under my husband, Lord Astrea. The manor is entirely at your disposal."
Arthur looked around shyly, taking in the high towers, the immaculate gardens, and the training grounds where the clash of swords still echoed. Then, his eyes met Damian's.
Damian was standing slightly in the background, uncomfortable and nervous, his eyes cast down toward the ground and his hands tightly clasped behind his back.
The two boys stared at each other for a long moment. Something passed between them a silent, almost instinctive connection, as if their souls recognized each other despite the vast difference in status and Damian's years of profound isolation.
Arthur offered a small, timid smile. Damian, taken by surprise, responded with a hesitant smile of his own the first genuine smile he had shared in a very long time.
Merlin placed a gentle, reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder.
"Do not worry, my prince. I believe you and young Damian will get along splendidly. He is a bit shy, just like you. But he possesses a truly good heart."
And so began a historic bond between the two boys and undoubtedly, the very foundation of their eventual separation.
To be continued...