After what felt like forever, the storm inside Matthew began to quiet. His sobs slowed, his breath steadied, and the tight grip he had on Asvin's jacket loosened. His small hands trembled as they slid down, and slowly, gently, he pulled away from the warmth of the young man's embrace.
Asvin didn't say a word.
He stayed still, eyes watching Matthew with patience, giving him the space he needed. The boy wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, face red and puffy from the crying, breaths still a bit shaky. But he was calmer now—raw, yes, but grounded. A little more present.
The golden light of morning streamed in through the room's only window, catching on the dust in the air. It painted the room in a soft glow, like it was trying to offer peace in its own quiet way.
Asvin remained seated at the foot of the bed, his posture relaxed, not pushing the boy to speak or move. He'd made sure to shut the door behind him earlier, something he was silently thankful for now. A child shouldn't have to worry about shame while grieving—especially not like this. Letting Matthew feel safe, even just a little, mattered more than anything he could say.
The silence between them wasn't awkward. It was warm. Still.
And Asvin waited, knowing the boy would speak when he was ready.
Matthew sat there, small fingers clenched around the sheets, eyes still red but steady now as he glanced up at Asvin. There was a pause—long enough to make it seem like he might not speak at all.
Then, softly, hesitantly, the words left his lips.
"Is this… are you really… his…?" His voice wavered with doubt, with disbelief. "The Fierce Lion's… son?"
Asvin blinked, caught off guard by the question—not because it was strange, but because it was the first thing the boy had chosen to say after everything. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he gave a small, reassuring nod.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
It was simple. Honest. No pride, no show of glory—just truth.
He hadn't expected that to be what the boy wanted to know first. But then again, how could he blame him? The name Cavias was known across all of Decartium. In every town, every village, there was a story of the Fierce Lion—the warrior who had led countless battles during the Monster War a few years ago. His spear had carved through beasts like thunder in the sky, and his roar had rallied armies.
To many, he was more than a man. He was a symbol.
And now, that man's son sat quietly before a boy who had lost everything.
Asvin didn't speak further. He just let the moment settle, understanding there was more behind Matthew's question than just curiosity. It wasn't about fame, or heroics. It was about hope.
Matthew gave a small nod, a breath escaping him—half a sigh, half a whisper. His gaze drifted slowly around the room once more, and for the first time, he truly saw it.
The clean polished wood beneath his feet, the soft sheets, the elegant carvings along the furniture, even the light scent of fresh herbs hanging faintly in the air—it all made sense now. The reason this place had felt so big, so fancy, so… different.
They were in a noble's home.
No—the noble's home.
The Fierce Lion's home.
He stared for a moment, lost in that realization. His heart beat a little louder at the thought, like he wasn't just in someone's house, but inside one of the legends from the stories he'd grown up with.
Then his gaze slowly returned to Asvin, blue eyes meeting blue. His expression was more steady now, though still touched with a child's fragile uncertainty.
"The Marlston sisters…" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "Terria and Sonia… they're really safe, right? You said they were with your sister, but… really?"
There was a pause.
A moment where everything seemed to hold its breath.
Asvin's expression softened. He didn't hesitate this time. He leaned forward just a bit, placing a hand on the bed for support as he nodded again, firmly.
"They're safe. I promise," he said gently. "My older sister's taking care of them herself. They're in this house too. Just a few rooms away."
Matthew stared at him, searching for anything—any sign that this might be a lie, a mistake, a dream. But there was none.
Only truth.
And a promise.
Matthew seemed to relax at that, his small shoulders loosening as a long, heavy sigh slipped from his lips. The tension that had gripped his body eased just a little.
Asvin chuckled softly at the sight—it was the first time the boy looked like he could breathe—but still, he didn't speak. He kept his silence, letting the moment belong to Matthew, letting him ask the questions when he was ready. Right now, the boy needed control more than answers.
And after a pause, Matthew spoke again.
His voice was quieter this time, laced with something harder to hide—uncertainty, and the dull ache of fear.
"So… what now?" he asked, eyes dropping to his lap. "What's gonna happen to me… and the girls?"
He hesitated, his throat tightening. The next words stung more than he expected them to.
"Are we… are we gonna be sent to the orphanage?"
Even saying it aloud hurt. But he needed to know.
Asvin shook his head lightly, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Nope," he said with casual ease. "It just so happens that you and the Marlston girls… you all have blonde hair."
He let out a soft chuckle, lifting a hand and pointing at his own short, golden strands. "And so does the Cavias family. We all have blonde hair too."
Matthew blinked, confused—until Asvin tilted his head and added, "You're smarter than most seven-year-olds, right? So… can you guess?"
The young boy just stared at him, wide-eyed, stunned silent.
His breath caught. He couldn't move. He knew what Asvin was hinting at. He knew. The words weren't said outright, but they didn't have to be.
His heart thumped loudly in his chest.
Adopted…? By the Cavias family?
By him?
By the Fierce Lion?
No—no way, right? That… couldn't be real. That didn't happen in real life. That was something out of the storybooks he used to read by candlelight at home. Not something he got to be part of. Not him.
He stared at Asvin in disbelief, his lips parted as if trying to form a question—but no words came out.
He just… couldn't believe it.
And then, as the disbelief still swirled in his eyes, something flickered behind Matthew's expression—thought.
Asvin was right.
Matthew was smarter than most kids his age. Wiser, too. He had read more books than most grown villagers. Tales of heroes, of wars, of the great names that shaped the kingdom. And among them, one name had always stood tallest in the pages of Decartium's history: The Fierce Lion—John Cavias.
And with that name came a memory. A detail he had read once, tucked away in the corner of a heavy book too advanced for his age, but he had read it all the same.
The Fierce Lion despised Arts Users.
Not out of jealousy, not out of ignorance, but out of pain. Something had happened—Matthew couldn't recall exactly what—but he remembered the result. It was said the Cavias household strictly forbade the Arts. No one under their name practiced the Arts. No one dared.
But Matthew… Matthew was blessed by the One Power. Deeply.
So much so that even the Black Tower—the very monsters who burned his world—had paused to praise him. One of them had said something Matthew would never forget:
"This child… he may reach Rank 8. Maybe even higher."
Even at seven, Matthew understood how rare that was. Rank 8… that wasn't just powerful. That was legendary.
And more than that—far more than that—was the promise. His final words to his parents, when they had stayed behind to hold off the Black Tower and give him a chance to live.
He had sworn it to them.
"I'll become the Red Sage… I promise."
To do that, he had to be an Arts User. He had to follow the path of the One Power. That promise meant everything to him. It was all he had left.
So, his small hand clenched against the bedsheet.
He took a breath. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Then looked up at Asvin, hesitant but firm.
"I… I read that your father… the Fierce Lion… he doesn't like Arts Users," he said slowly. "That he doesn't let anyone in the Cavias family learn the Arts…"
His voice was small, but steady.
"…Is that true?"
Asvin's expression fell the moment those words left Matthew's lips.
The shift was instant, his smile fading, replaced by something heavier—regret, maybe, or something close to it. He leaned back slightly, his blue eyes lowering, as if he were trying to find the right way to respond. But he already knew the answer. He had known it yesterday when he saw the faint shimmer of blue in the air—the threads of the One Power. They danced around Matthew, subtle to most, but clear as day to someone like Asvin who had spent his life around Fighters of all different kinds.
The One Power—source of all supernatural strength. Most used it to enhance their bodies, becoming Fighters, warriors who bent steel and shattered rock with their fists. That, his father tolerated. That was practical. That was necessary in a world like this.
But to perform the Arts?
To shape it into fire, water, wind, and lightning?
To draw shapes in the air, to command it like a second language?
John Cavias loathed it. And he made sure everyone in the family followed that belief.
Asvin had grown up under those rules. Under that shadow. And now, here was this boy…
Matthew wasn't just "blessed." That word was too small. The threads didn't just react to him—they clung to him, curled around his body like vines drawn to sunlight. He was favored, unmistakably and terrifyingly so. Asvin had never seen anything like it. No one had.
So deep in the back of his thoughts, he had been waiting for this question. Dreading it. Hoping, maybe, that the boy wouldn't know—wouldn't remember what he'd read.
But after speaking to the Marlston girls earlier, Asvin had realized something: Matthew wasn't just intelligent. He was driven. Focused. Sharp in a way most adults weren't. And once that boy set his mind on something, he would never let it go.
So now, Asvin met his gaze. Calmly. Seriously.
"…Yeah," he said, quietly.
He didn't sugarcoat it. Didn't dance around the truth.
"My father doesn't allow Arts Users in the family. He's always believed they're dangerous… unpredictable."
A pause.
"I wish I could tell you it's different. But that part… it's true."
"Oh," Matthew let out quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
His gaze dropped to the floor, the strands of golden hair falling forward, shadowing his eyes. He didn't know what he was feeling anymore. Everything was twisted inside him. Sadness, disappointment, confusion—none of them stayed long enough to take shape. But under it all, one feeling dug itself in deep:
This wasn't right.
He had made a promise—to his mother, to his father. A final promise before the fire took everything. He wasn't going to let go of it.
He couldn't.
More than just a promise, it felt like destiny. He had known it since a month ago, when that strange old man came to Ronia Village—dressed in a white cloak, torn at the edges, eyes gleaming like he saw the world differently. A Researcher, they'd called him. He'd taken one look at Matthew and whispered things that never left the boy's head.
"You're not just touched by the One Power," the man had said. "You breathe it. You were born for it."
From that day, Matthew's path was clear. The Red Sage—one of the greatest Arts Users in history. That would be him. He had even begged his father to let him study in the capital, in Dupium, where the towers of Arts Research stood high into the skies. His father had said no—not because he hated Arts, but because nobles would be jealous, cruel, dangerous.
"Not around them," his father had said. "Practice far from those circles."
But John Cavias? The Fierce Lion?
He didn't say be careful. He didn't say wait until you're stronger. He said no. No to all of it.
And that wasn't something Matthew could accept.
His fingers clenched around the sheets beneath him, his jaw tightening slightly.
I won't give up, he thought. No matter what anyone says. Not even him.
Asvin could see it—plain on the boy's face. The tension behind his eyes, the storm swirling quietly within. Matthew was fighting something inside him. A war of thoughts and feelings far too heavy for someone so small. And it hurt Asvin deeply.
Why couldn't things just be easy?
He clenched his jaw quietly, casting a glance to the sunlight filtering through the window.
Why couldn't his father just accept Arts Users? It wasn't like he hated them. In fact, one of his closest friends—though it was a well-kept secret—was the Green Sage. A legend. A man counted among the top two strongest Arts Users in the entire Kingdom of Decartium.
But even still… his father, John Cavias, wouldn't allow it. Not inside the family.
Asvin had heard the story too many times to count. When his father was a boy—around Matthew's age—he had dreamed of becoming an Arts User. Trained, studied, gave it everything he had. But he wasn't good at it. No matter how hard he tried, the One Power never answered him. People mocked him. Told him he was chasing a dream that didn't belong to him. That his path lay elsewhere.
And in the end, they were right.
Years wasted. Effort for nothing. That pain carved something permanent into the man who would become the Fierce Lion. And when he abandoned the Arts and took up the spear, everything changed. The Red Lion style of Swordsmanship he crafted with his own hands during the Monster War made him a living legend. His name roared through battlefields. Even now, the Cavias Troops—barely 300 strong—stood among the kingdom's elite. Despite their small number, they were ranked as the third strongest force in Decartium, just behind the Royal Guards and the Crown Prince's personal troops.
But all that pride… it had come at a price.
And now, that weight—the bitterness of a failed dream—was being passed down to Matthew.
And Asvin hated that most of all.
Matthew sighed and slowly raised his head, his small hands clenched tightly in the sheets. The struggle inside him hadn't ended. It was written all over his face—conflict, hesitation, the weight of everything pressing down on a boy far too young to carry it. But still, he forced the words out, his voice shaking slightly, his age suddenly clear in every syllable.
"Then... if I want to be an Arts User... so... so what will happen to me then?"
Asvin's breath hitched. He didn't have an answer ready.
The Marlston sisters… they could be guided. They were young enough, pliable. Maybe they'd grow up into Fighters. Maybe they'd live quiet lives, safe ones, far from swords and Arts. But Matthew—no, he was different.
Asvin had seen it in his eyes since yesterday. That fire. That unshakable resolve. The boy had already made his decision, and no amount of reasoning or redirection would change that. Not unless force was used—and Asvin wouldn't do that. He knew his father wouldn't want to either.
But that was the problem.
Two forces were about to collide. The adopter: his father, the Fierce Lion, who forbade the Arts from his household. And the adopted: a boy whose very soul cried out for the One Power, whose dream—fueled by grief and rage—was to master it.
For a long moment, Asvin couldn't speak. The silence between them was thick, heavy with questions neither of them had the courage to answer.
Asvin took a deep breath, his expression softening, though uncertainty lingered in his eyes. His voice came out carefully, as if choosing the wrong tone might shatter what little trust the boy had in him.
"Maybe..." he hesitated, glancing at Matthew, who stared down at his lap, silent. "Maybe you could just forget about it for now? Not forever, just... not right now. You're still young. Maybe, when you're older, you can start your journey into the Arts. You don't have to rush into it."
He leaned back slightly, trying to appear more casual, more reassuring. "If you get adopted now, and grow up in a safe place, you'll be stronger, more prepared. And when you're old enough, maybe you'll have enough money to live on your own... and then you can train all you want."
The words slipped out like a gentle offer, not a command, not a dismissal—but a hopeful compromise. Asvin managed a small smile when he noticed Matthew hadn't replied immediately. He took that silence as a sign that maybe—just maybe—the boy was considering it. But he didn't realize yet that the silence wasn't agreement. It was the quiet before the storm.
Matthew lifted his gaze, brows furrowed, voice quiet but firm.
"You didn't answer me… earlier." Asvin blinked. "If I want to learn the Arts... would the Fierce Lion still adopt me?"
The question landed heavy, and Asvin's lips parted as if to answer, but nothing came out. His throat tightened.
He looked away for a moment, pretending to ponder, though he already knew the truth. His father wouldn't. Not with that condition. Not with that dream.
But how could he tell that to a child who had lost everything?
So he tried again, softer this time, almost pleadingly.
"You're still young, Matthew," he said. "You don't have to rush this. Sure, most noble kids start early—but you're not behind. A lot of people start training in the Arts in their teens. Even their thirties. You've got time. Years, really."
He smiled again, trying to make the lie feel like comfort. "Maybe… once you're older. Stronger. Maybe then you can choose your path, on your own."
But the words tasted bitter in his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing—trying to keep Matthew from choosing the other option. From choosing the orphanage. Because if he did… the only orphanage in Coupitia City would break him. That place didn't raise children—it chewed them up and left husks behind. And that, Asvin couldn't allow.
Matthew shook his head slowly, eyes falling to his lap again.
"So… that means the answer is no, doesn't it?" he said quietly. "That's why you're not answering."
Asvin's breath hitched. The boy's words were sharp—not because they were angry, but because they were right.
He let the silence linger for a moment longer… then finally exhaled, shoulders sinking.
"Yeah," he admitted. "If you say you want to learn the Arts now… my father wouldn't adopt you. He'd say no."
Matthew's heart pounded harder, his chest tightening. It felt like something inside him cracked again. Like everything he thought he might have… was being ripped away.
Again.
But he forced himself to breathe. Forced himself not to cry. Not again.
He clenched his fists, jaw trembling slightly, then looked back at Asvin—his voice quieter now, more careful.
"…What about Terria and Sonia?" he asked. "If I don't get adopted… will that stop them from being adopted?"
Asvin's eyes flickered, the question hitting him like a knife. But he didn't hesitate this time. He gave a firm shake of his head.
"No. It won't," he said, his voice steady. "I'll make sure it doesn't."
Matthew exhaled a long, shaky breath. "Okay… that's good then," he murmured. "That they'll be okay."
At least that was something. Something not lost.
Asvin watched the boy for a moment, taking in the way he clutched at the edge of his pants, the slight shake in his shoulders. He looked so small on that big bed, so tired. But the way he had asked about the girls… the way he had put them first even with everything he'd lost… It wasn't something every kid would do.
And that made Asvin's chest tighten.
He leaned forward a little, voice gentle but firm.
"Matthew…" he began, "I know you don't know me, and I don't know you—not really—but I don't want to see you thrown out. I don't want you to be separated from the girls, either."
Matthew blinked and looked up, brows drawing together.
"I've talked to them," Asvin continued. "Terria and Sonia… they talk about you like you're their whole world. Their big brother. Their last family."
He paused, his voice lowering.
"And judging by how you've been through this whole talk… I think you feel the same way about them."
Matthew didn't say anything. He didn't need to. His expression said it all.
And that made it hurt even more for Asvin.
Matthew looked down at his hands for a moment, small fists clenching into the sheets beneath him. He understood what Asvin was doing. The way he spoke, the way he kept bringing up the sisters—it was clear. He was trying to make Matthew stay, trying to pull on his heart to make him give up his dream. Or maybe not even give it up—just delay it, like setting a toy back on a shelf.
But this wasn't a toy. And it wasn't just a dream.
It was a promise.
A promise to his parents, a promise made with tears and fire and blood. A promise whispered between dying breaths.
And more than that, Matthew knew—he knew—that if he didn't start young, he'd be behind. He wasn't stupid. No one reached the top by starting late. Not in Arts. Not in a world like this. And if he was going to destroy the Black Tower, if he was going to erase them from the world completely… he needed to start now.
He needed to become stronger than them. All of them.
He slowly raised his head. His eyes, red from crying, met Asvin's clearly.
"I can't," he said, voice quiet but firm. "I can't abandon Arts. Not even a little."
Asvin didn't speak right away.
Matthew looked down again, softer this time. "If I stay… if I get adopted… I'll blame Sonia and Terria for it... I don't want that."
He clenched his jaw.
"I won't do that to them. And I won't break my promise. Not to my parents. Not to myself."
Asvin stared at Matthew, stunned into silence.
This was a seven-year-old. A child who had just lost his home, his parents, everything. And yet… the way he spoke, the weight in his words, the clarity in his eyes—it was as if he were older. Much older. Asvin couldn't understand it.
Why? he thought. Why would he say no to comfort? Why not just wait?
He tried to imagine it: being adopted into the Cavias family, living in safety, calling the hero he'd read so much about father. Any other boy his age would've jumped at the chance. Said yes in a heartbeat.
But not Matthew.
He wasn't thinking about today or tomorrow. He was thinking years ahead. About what he had to become. About what he had to do. Asvin didn't want to admit it, but deep down, the question itched at his mind—was the boy thinking about revenge?
He clenched his jaw and shook his head.
No… even if he was, he'd grow out of it. Wouldn't he? He had to. That kind of hatred wasn't something a child should carry. It wasn't something anyone could carry for long and still survive as themselves.
But then again, this wasn't just a random attack. This wasn't a band of thieves or a rogue gang.
This was the Black Tower.
The name alone was enough to make grown men shiver.
Not even the kingdom itself dared take direct action against them. And yet… here sat a boy who looked Asvin in the eyes and declared he would not let go of Arts.
And Asvin couldn't help but wonder…
What exactly do you plan to become, Matthew?
Asvin's voice came quiet, hesitant.
"Are you sure? You really won't…" He trailed off, the rest of the sentence stuck in his throat.
But Matthew had already nodded.
He let out a soft sigh and began to shift, doing his best to stand up from the bed. His legs trembled slightly, but he managed. Only then did he notice—he was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. The simple, rough-spun outfit of a village boy, though now cleaned and smelling faintly of lavender soap.
He brushed the thought away and looked back at Asvin.
"Can we go see the Marlston sisters now?"
Asvin stared at him for a moment, still sitting on the bed, a knot in his throat. The weight of their conversation just seconds ago still lingered heavily between them. He swallowed hard and gave a slow nod, forcing a faint smile.
"Yeah… of course."
He understood now—Matthew didn't want to talk about it anymore. And truthfully, there was nothing more to say. The boy had made up his mind. No matter how gently Asvin tried to steer him, there was no changing it.
—End of Chapter.