He was eleven when they first called him cursed, though the word had lived in certain adults' eyes long before that.
The contract had failed that day — not because his mana was weak, or his will, or his talent.
The spirit had recoiled from his gaze, as if looking into him was like staring into a mirror that reflected too much.
The scholars whispered: mana inversion? ocular interference? corruption? The children whispered too, but with fewer syllables and sharper intent.
Cursed.
Wrong.
Dangerous.
Bad luck.
The adults never corrected them. That was when Kylus learned that silence could wound more efficiently than any blade.
Over time the labels didn't just cling — they multiplied.
Every mistake, every miscast spell, every spirit that refused him became proof. Doors shut more quickly.
Conversations paused when he entered.
Maids who atleast, once served him forcefully,drifted to other masters.
The isolation wasn't sudden; it was erosion.
By the time the rumors matured, respect was not even a consideration.
He was feared like a monster that would destroy the very kingdom of elves. he was treated like an inconvenience that the palace could not remove.
In the days that followed the failed contract, no one asked how he felt.
Not the scholars. Not the council. Not even the priests who preached patience and purity of mana.
They discussed his anomaly as if it belonged to them — as if his body were a thesis they owned,and that how he can be an incarnation of evil,or sometimes how to banish him.
At supper, the nobles avoided the chair beside him.
Conversations skirted around him like streams avoiding a stone.
Kylus learned to sit smaller, speak softer, exist less.
That night, alone in his room, the weight of it all finally refused to stay silent.
Kylus did not sleep.
The rooms of the palace had always felt too large for a boy who was still hoping to be understood, but tonight they felt cavernous and cathedral of silence that judged him with every second.
His hands trembled over the lantern flame.
The golden light licked the walls and refracted faintly in the polished glass of the window.
In that reflection he saw his own eyes — the eyes that had chased away spirits, the eyes that had birthed rumours, the eyes he never asked for.
Even now, if he closed them, the memory struck like thunder.
The vision. The whispers. The spirits fleeing.
Acceptance — that was all he wanted.
He wanted to be like the others. To laugh without caution. To learn magic without fear.
To speak without waiting for someone to flinch at the shade of purple in his gaze.
But the palace walls remembered.
The streets whispered. And even the scholars who studied rare gifts refused to name what he had.
It gnawed at him — a slow, invisible ache.
He leaned forward until his forehead touched the cold windowpane.
Outside, the night was gentle, wearing a moon like a silver brooch, and the gardens were a sea of mist-wrapped leaves.
From here, the palace looked peaceful. Beautiful, even — which made the unrest in his chest feel even sharper.
What was he supposed to do?
The question wasn't spoken aloud, but it reverberated through him like a bell struck underwater.
He replayed the day in fragments: the startled faces, the hurried distance, the way even the spirits had recoiled.
Kylus had grown used to people stepping back from him, but the spirits had been his final illusion of companionship. If even they fled, then what was left?
He sank onto the edge of the bed, fingers curling into the sheets.
He thought about the Queen the only person who loved him— her quiet warmth, her steady hand on his hair, the way she never called him cursed, no matter how many scholars did.
He loved her and he feared hurting her.
Leaving would hurt him. Staying would not only hurt him but also the Queen.
His chest tightened — not with pain, but with the peculiarly sharp kind of loneliness that demanded resolution.
At first he only cried.
Not a princely cry, not a restrained one — a child's cry, raw and uneven, the kind that tore through the quiet as if it had claws.
"It's all because of me…"
His voice cracked. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm, smearing tears across his cheeks like warpaint.
"Because of me… Mother would get hated… because of me…"
His breath shook, but the memories did not pause.
They replayed without mercy — the whispers in the hall, the disgusted looks, and worst of all, the conversation in the study.
'The elders are calling him cursed.'
'If this continues… they'll hate you, Your Majesty.'
'We must consider eliminating the source—'
'Enough!'
Even at that time, the Queen's voice trembled in his head — not with anger, but with fear. Fear for him. Fear for herself.
The memories still played in his mind.
Kylus's hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened.
He was too young to understand politics, but old enough to understand blame.
"Why…" his voice fell to a whisper. "Why is it always me…"
As the questions crawled in, they grew teeth.
" If i wasn't here… would the palace be calmer? "
"If I wasn't born… would she still be loved?"
" If i did not exist… would they accept
Mother? "
To him,His love for his Aunt,who he always called his mother was more greater a impact
than the treatment he was given.
His mind was racing with questions on what would happen if he din't exist.
He couldn't answer any of them, and the not-knowing hurt worst of all.
He pressed his forehead against his knees, curling in as if the world could not strike what it could not see.
"Why… what did I do to deserve this…"
Not accused. Not shouted. Just asked — like a child trying to understand weather, or gods.
The room gave no answer.
And then — as if the thought had been waiting, patient and heavy — something clicked in place inside him.
His eyes widened.
"What if I… disappeared?"
The idea startled him — not because it was reckless, but because it was simple. Clean. Without blood. Without screams. Just absence.
"If I run away…" his breath trembled, but the panic softened into logic.
"If I run away then they won't need to kill me…"
He remembered the Captain's voice — cold, trembling with duty.
'Your image is suffering, Your Majesty. The nobles whisper that you've lost reason — for a cursed boy.'
'If nothing changes… they will demand action.'
Action.
A word that meant something heavier when spoken by men with swords.
Kylus swallowed hard. Terror flickered through his mind, followed by something gentler — care.
"If I go… people would still love Mother…"
It was not self-pity. It was not martyrdom.
It was a boy loving someone bigger than himself, and thinking the only solution was to make himself smaller still.
Rain began tapping against the window — slow and rhythmic, as if the sky were answering with its own tears.
He sat in silence for a long time.
Fear weighed one side of the scale. Love, strangely, weighed the other.
And in the middle, a decision waited.
Running would mean loneliness. Running would mean hunger. Running would mean dangers he couldn't name.
But Running meant The Queen's dignity getting restored.
But staying meant slowly being erased by the ones who were meant to protect him.
For a child of eleven, the choice was too heavy. And yet, it was his.
The lantern flame wavered. Perhaps it sensed his resolve.
Kylus stood.
He didn't pack much — only what mattered, only what he could carry, only what his mind wouldn't let him abandon. A robe, a few coins, a small wooden carving of a Horse the Queen had gifted him.
The last he held for longer than he meant to, thumb brushing the smooth grain as if it could speak.
"If I stay," he whispered into the dimness, "I'll become what they fear."
The words surprised him. It was the first time he had named the truth aloud.
And truth, once spoken, became unbearable to ignore.
The decision formed — quietly, almost tenderly — like frost on glass. There was no grand moment, no thunder, no prophecy.
Just a boy finally choosing to move before the world moved him.
He saw towards the window.The Rain stopped pouring as if it heard his Resolve.
He pulled up his hood and stepped into the corridor.
The palace was asleep. Tapestries hung like silent witnesses as he slipped past familiar doors, past the library, past the council chambers.
He braced himself for guards, for questions, for orders barked in alarm.
But when he reached the courtyard — there was nothing.
No patrol. No lantern light. Not even a hint of metal against stone.
It was strange. Wrong. Almost orchestrated.
The night air kissed his face and for a heartbeat he felt free — wildly, frighteningly free.
His boots struck the garden tiles as he broke into a run, mist swirling around him in ribbons of silver-blue.
The vines on the trellises seemed to watch him, the statues seemed to listen, and the gates loomed ahead — tall, ancient, promising distance.
Just a few more steps.
His breath fogged in the cold. His heart hammered. Freedom. Escape. Direction. Choice.
He reached out.
And then—
A shadow separated from the darkness by the gate.
Broad shoulders first, then the glint of armor, then a pair of eyes that did not flinch from his.
The Captain stood squarely before the iron gate, sword sheathed but posture
unmistakably blocking passage.
Kylus skidded to a halt.
The night held its breath.
And for the first time all evening, Kylus felt something worse than fear.Getting caught.
The Captain didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"Young master," he said softly, "what are you doing?"
His tone sounded neutral, almost polite, but Kylus could feel the steel underneath.
Kylus panicked — and panic always birthed lies faster than truth.
"I… I just wanted to get some fresh air," he said, forcing a brittle smile. "I couldn't sleep, so—"
The Captain's gaze slid down to the bag in his hands.
Kylus froze.
"And that," the Captain asked, "is the purpose of the bag?"
Kylus swallowed. Hard.
Silence stretched between them until the Captain's sigh filled the night.
"Young master," he said, "the moment I saw you leave your room with a bag… I
understood your intention."
His voice held no accusation, no mockery — only certainty, the kind formed from observation and care.
Kylus's fingers tightened around the bag's straps.
His shoulders trembled.
Then — anger, raw and unpolished, broke through the fear.
"Then move away!"
It wasn't a scream meant to intimidate.
It was a scream meant to survive.
The Captain didn't flinch.
"Is that truly what you wish?" he asked calmly. "To run into the world alone? Without food, without shelter, without allies — without knowing what awaits you?"
Kylus's breath hitched.
The Captain pressed gently, voice low:
"What do you think will happen to the Queen when she finds your room empty? What do you think the nobles will whisper then? What will the ministers say? And you—"
His eyes softened, just barely.
"—what will become of you?"
Kylus felt the questions land, one by one, like stones dropped into a pond.
He bowed his head.
"I know," he whispered. "I know all of that."
"Then why do this?" the Captain asked.
Kylus looked up. Tears welled again, but this time they did not fall in fear — they fell in clarity.
"Because if I stay… they'll kill me!"
The Captain's eyes widened a fraction — the smallest break in composure.
Kylus continued, voice trembling but steadying with every word:
"If I stay, Mother will be hated. If I stay, the court will blame her. If I stay, someone will try to Harm us.If i stay...I am just hurting others!.'"
He took a breath — deep, quivering, but brave.
"But if I leave… at least I decide my own ending. At least Mother keeps her dignity. At least no one is forced to stain their hands because of me....And everyone will live...Happily."
For the first time, the Captain's hand slipped from his sword.
The boy wasn't bargaining.
He wasn't begging.
He was choosing.
"And as for the world," Kylus said, clutching his bag tighter, "I'll face it. I'll face the hunger, the loneliness, the danger — everything. Because out there… no one knows me. And that..."
He continued " is better than being known as a curse."
His voice softened into something even more dangerous than defiance — acceptance.
"I'm not asking for help. Just… don't stop me."
The Captain looked at him — truly looked — and something old and tired flickered in his eyes.
Duty battled empathy. Protocol battled understanding.
Then, slowly, he stepped aside.
Kylus blinked. Confusion met disbelief.
The Captain didn't smile, but his voice carried a weight Kylus would remember for a lifetime.
"Then go."
Kylus stared — stunned, breathless, and unbearably small in the night. His fingers clenched, then relaxed.
" I already knocked the guards down,so no one will stop you."
Kylus was stunned.He now understood why it was quiet and and he got an explanation as to why there was no guard while he was running to the gate.
" Go! " The captain shouted.
He began to run.
He stepped past the Captain.
But as he passed, the Captain whispered — not loud enough for command, but not soft enough to be uncertain.
"Live..."
It was both a farewell and a challenge.
Kylus didn't look back.
If he did, he might not have had the strength to continue.
The gate opened, the night widened, and a cursed child ran toward a world that had never asked for him.
The Captain watched until the boy vanished into darkness — and only then did he bow his head, as if saluting a soldier far older than his years.
"All the best...warrior."