"Newww… newww…"The fragile wail of a newborn cut through the cold stone halls of the Walfier estate. It echoed off frost-lined windows and empty corridors, sharp and hollow — a fragile spark flickering in a long, dark night.
A sound both innocent and burdened, like a whisper from fate itself.
Twenty years ago, in the ancient kingdom of Jetel, a boy was born into the storied House of Walfier — a family whose name weighed heavier than crowns. For generations, their blood had carried the power of witches and warlocks, legends whispered behind closed doors.
Among them stood Hans Walfier, Vice Leader of the Ministry of Magic, his face carved with the authority of decades, his eyes cold like winter steel.
The child was born under a shadow of expectation — heir to a legacy that demanded greatness. Wild magic crackled in his veins, untamed and bright, a star desperate to blaze its path.
Ronin Walfier watched silently from the darkened corner, broad-shouldered and stern, his long hair tied back with a silver ribbon embroidered with the family crest. His jaw clenched. Strength and tradition defined him — and silence was his language.
But the blood that coursed through the boy's veins was tangled.
His mother, Lilia, was not of noble birth. A woman with fiery red hair and eyes like emerald fire, she had crossed the line into their world — welcomed by none, whispered about by all.
She loved Ronin fiercely, and the boy even more, raising him with a warmth and wisdom the Walfier line had long forgotten.
Yet whispers became daggers, and daggers became walls.
Though the boy trained endlessly, striving for his grandfather's approval — the old patriarch who once saw beyond blood and legacy — that fragile hope shattered when the elder died.
The world shifted.
Without warning, mother and son were cast out — stripped of the Walfier name and exiled to a modest London home, accompanied only by Angelina, a loyal house-elf, and a pouch of gold that felt more like a shackle than a gift.
Ronin did not speak as they left.
Only the silence remained — colder than the darkest winter night.
"Disgrace," spat a withered man with yellowed skin and a jagged gold tooth, leaning on a twisted cane. His maroon hat sat crooked, a sneer twisting his face.
"If this leaks, we're ruined. You promised power, Ronin. He was to awaken — but nothing. Just failure."
Hatred burned behind his eyes, aimed sharp at Lilia and her son.
The family had turned against them.
Ronin said nothing as they left. Only silence. A stillness colder than the night.
Three years slipped by like drifting ash.
The world outside their modest London home was cold and gray, but inside, a fragile warmth bloomed.
Lilia's soft laughter filled the small rooms, a balm against the creeping shadows. Her hands were gentle as she braided the boy's unruly hair, and her emerald eyes held steady faith even in the bleakest moments.
Angelina, their small, tireless house-elf, moved quietly among them — a steadfast guardian cloaked in loyalty.
The boy, no longer a babe, had grown into a sharp-minded student at Doddington School of Sorcery, his fingers eager to weave magic, his heart thirsty for knowledge.
But peace was a delicate creature, hiding just beyond reach.
One evening, under a sky swollen with thunder, the boy sat by the hearth, fingers tangled in his mother's fiery hair.
They spoke in whispers, sharing stories of lessons and spells, of professors who saw promise gleaming in his gaze.
He smiled.
For a moment, they were just mother and son — not hunted fugitives in a world grown cold.
Then, the fire changed.
A terrible, unnatural wail tore through the room.
Pop. Pop. POP!
The red flames twisted violently, twisting blue and black, lashing out like serpents caught in a storm.
This was no ordinary magic.
It was an Ash-Gate — a dark, forbidden spell that tore through space and warding alike, banned by the founders for its destructive power.
Before they could breathe, figures poured from the searing blaze — cloaked, masked, and silent as death.
Wands flicked.
Jets of crimson, amber, and green erupted, cracking the quiet with deadly light.
A green bolt hissed toward the boy — fast, merciless.
He froze.
Angelina's voice, sharp and desperate, cut through the chaos.
"Master!" she cried, leaping in front of him.
The curse struck her square in the chest.
Smoke curled from her robes as she crumpled to the floor.
With fading strength, she gasped, "Madam… danger… take the young master… run…"
Then silence swallowed her.
Lilia's emerald eyes flared, hardening into steel.
She seized her son's wrist, yanking him toward the front door — only to find it sealed by invisible magic.
"Laxo!" she cried, voice sharp as shattered glass, casting a door-unlocking charm.
Nothing.
The Ash-Gate's cruel spell had locked every exit, even their enchanted gates of travel.
Trapped.
Her mind raced. No time.
She dragged the boy upstairs, spells flying around them like venomous beasts.
Charms and curses tore at the walls, lighting the corridor with red and gold fire.
Bursting into her bedroom, she spun around, face fierce.
"Hide," she commanded, voice trembling only in corners.
"In the trunk. Your father will come. I promise."
His heart thundered, pounding louder than his mother's whispered spell.
She pressed her wand to her chest, murmuring sacred words.
A white light blossomed from her heart — soft, alive, a fragile shield.
She cupped the glow in her hands, pressing it into him.
Warmth unfurled inside the boy — sunlight through cold fog.
Lilia swayed, pale, strength draining fast.
But she refused to fall.
She summoned a piece of parchment, inscribing shimmering words, sealing a message of hope into the trunk.
Then, with every last ounce of power, she cloaked the trunk in a veil — a shimmering shield to hide him from the world.
The door crashed open.
Four shadowed figures swept into the room, faces twisted by cruelty, cloaks tattered, dust hanging like death's veil.
One wore an eye patch, another drooled through broken teeth. Their eyes gleamed—hunters who had come to finish the hunt.
"Where's the boy?" snarled the largest, stepping over shattered wood and torn curtains.
Lilia stood like a blade—worn but unbroken. Her wand was steady, her gaze unflinching.
She said nothing.
"Silent, huh?" sneered the man with the maroon scarf, licking his cracked lips. "Maybe we need to loosen that tongue… with pain."
The one-eyed brute grinned, cracked knuckles. "Tell us, and maybe you'll keep your pretty head."
"Never," Lilia spat, defiance burning in her voice.
Wands snapped up.
A storm of curses exploded — jets of fire and light carving chaos in the dim room.
Lilia's voice rose in a desperate chant. A shimmering shield blossomed before her, catching spells like a net catching sparks.
But the onslaught was relentless.
The shield burned at its edges, cracking like brittle ice.
A curse found its mark — searing into her side.
Lilia gasped, pain twisting her face.
Her wand slipped from trembling fingers.
She collapsed, a crimson stain blooming across her robes.
Her breath came ragged, eyes fluttering.
The intruders closed in.
"Where is he now?" the scar-faced leader hissed, voice cold as poison.
Weak but resolute, Lilia lifted her head, eyes glassy but steady.
"Just… kill me."
The words, sharp and empty, ignited their rage.
Spells rained down — red bolts, cracking curses, flames scorching flesh.
Inside the trunk, the boy's wide eyes filled with tears.
Powerless, he watched his mother shatter beneath their cruelty.
Every strike drew sobs from his throat — a scream that went unheard.
The protective veil muffled all sound — a prison of silence.
He pounded fists against the shimmering barrier, heart fracturing.
His black hair grayed strand by strand — shock and sorrow twisting like a storm inside.
"Let's find the boy," growled one intruder. "That woman said they lived here together."
They tore the house apart — flipping chairs, smashing glass, scattering books like leaves in a tempest.
Fire crackled, glass exploded.
But none touched the trunk.
They passed it by — eyes sliding away as if it were a ghost.
The veil wasn't just a shield; it was invisibility forged in ancient magic.
"Cezar, he's not here," one man finally muttered.
"Fled, maybe."
"Impossible." The scar-faced leader's hiss cut through smoke. "The Walfiers gave us this artifact — said it seals the entire space."
He raised a golden lion-shaped charm, its eyes gleaming with fierce light.
"No matter. Burn it all. We'll say the boy died with her."
"But boss—" a hesitant voice.
"We were told to bring him alive."
Cezar ignored the protest.
"Ignium."
From his wand erupted a massive lion of fire, roaring with furious heat.
It bounded from room to room, devouring everything in flames.
"Laxo la imprilagio," Cezar muttered, clutching the lion-engraved artifact.
It glowed, pulsing with power.
One by one, the intruders vanished — swallowed by flashes of light and smoke.
The house burned.
Flames consumed beams and walls.
Smoke thickened like a choking shroud.
When the inferno died, all that remained untouched was the trunk.
Silent beneath the collapsing ceiling, humming with quiet ancient magic.
Suddenly, it vibrated.
Shook.
Spun.
Then popped — vanished.
The trunk blinked into existence far from the burning ruins.
It rested against the crooked wall of an old, forgotten house — wild grass strangling the porch, vines clutching cracked stones, paint peeling like dried skin.
The house sat alone, swallowed by silence and time.
The protective veil around the trunk dissolved slowly — mist evaporating in the morning light.
The lid creaked open.
The boy stumbled out, trembling and pale.
His eyes were wide, haunted.
His hair was streaked with grey ash.
His small hands trembled as he brushed tears and soot from his cheeks.
He looked around, dazed and lost.
Then desperation broke through.
"Help me! Please! Help! My mother—!" he screamed, pounding the weathered door.
Only silence answered.
Then — click.
Lights flickered on inside, casting long shadows.
The door swung open with a sharp crack of magic.
It struck him hard, knocking him back.
He hit the cold stone floor, pain exploding in his side.
Darkness claimed him.
Minutes later, he woke.
The air was cold, heavy.
A crooked lamp flickered above, its glow dim and uncertain.
Four figures loomed over him.
Voices low, sharp.
"Look, he's awake," said a woman's voice—sharp, commanding, unfamiliar.
The boy blinked, heart pounding.
One figure stepped forward — her face bearing an uncanny resemblance to his mother.
"Mother!" he gasped, lurching forward.
But as she moved beneath the lamp's weak glow, her hair revealed its true color—jet black, not ruby red.
Not his mother.
The woman's eyes searched his face with an unreadable mix of sorrow and steel.
"Your mother is dead," she said flatly.
"But she left this note."
She unfolded a parchment, its shimmering ink catching the lamplight.
She knelt beside him.
"So, it's true," she murmured.
"You're my nephew—Valerius. I only heard of you in her letters."
The boy swallowed, voice dry and low.
"What happened to my sister?"
The woman's eyes darkened.
"She was killed... by people from the Walfier family."
Valerius's fists clenched, jaw tightening.
The woman's lips curled in a grim smile.
"Well, it looks like you'll be living here with us for a while."
And just like that, Valerius came to live in the middle of nowhere, with family he had never met—aunt Allina, and her strange, detached household.
Time passed.
One years since his mother's death.Two more after that.
Three years of silence. Of surviving.
Though her face faded from photographs and her name was no longer spoken, Lilia Walfier was burned into Valerius's mind forever.
Living with his aunt was the worst time of his life. Every day was misery. Every morning began with absurd chores—cleaning the entire house room by room, cooking for everyone, and feeding the livestock.
His cousins—brutes with sharp tongues and cruel fists—bullied him daily.The only food he was ever allowed were the scraps they left behind.
The only peace he ever knew came from the gloveldors' strange, cat-like creatures covered with black fur and two tails, with stubby wings. He cared for them every day, and they were the only living beings in that house who never looked at him with contempt.
Over time, his body weakened.He grew thin, his muscles fading.But he did not vanish.
In secret, he survived. Hidden away in the shadows, he kept a stash of food—whatever he could sneak back from school or steal at night when the others were asleep.
His only freedom came from school.
There, he stayed even during the holidays, pretending to study just so he wouldn't have to return. He buried himself in books and practice.
Magic became his escape.
And not just escape—his strength.
Valerius excelled. More than excelled. He mastered spells far beyond his age. Last year, he even created his own flying spell, something his professors claimed hadn't been done in decades.
But no one knew what fueled him.No one knew what he'd seen.No one knew what he remembered.
Only Valerius knew the truth:
He had been abandoned.He had been broken.And now, he was becoming something else.