Elarion 3 month old:- The Assassin
Hell taught me—
"I don't need to feel. But I should know how to read. Read the mask and what is beneath ."
"Who deserves to live. Who doesn't.I should be the one to decide not anyone else "
"What's right. What's wrong. No one will tell me, I am all on my own"
"Maybe it feels hard, feels like breaking but if you are alive, that's all you could ask for."
The ceiling above him was old, wooden, and cracked in the corners — familiar.
Elarion's eyes opened slowly.
There was no cry. No panic. No confusion.
Just silence.
' I feel sleepy '
His lashes lowered for a moment as the weight of his return settled in. A child's body — soft, frail, still uncoordinated. But within it pulsed the sharp mind of a monster that once crawled out of hell.
He inhaled once. Deep. Controlled.
It had worked.
He didn't laugh. He didn't cry. He just watched the dust floating above him, filtering through the slats of the roof like falling ash.
But then—
A shift in the air. Delicate, practiced. Not the wind.
Footsteps on wood. No creak. No stumble.
His eyes flicked sideways.
A figure slithered through the window like a shadow given flesh — lean frame, gloved hands, a silvered mask veiling the face.
An assassin. I was wondering why my life is so peaceful.....
Elarion's lips twitched, amused.
'How predictable.'
Instead of moving, he relaxed further, feigning the drowsy stupor of an infant too young to understand fear. Let them think him harmless.
The assassin crept closer. In his hand, a pale-blue sweet wrapped in gold string.
He set it beside the cradle gently, reverently — like an offering to a grave.
A cursed object. Elarion felt it instantly. Rot curled off it like steam — dark magic carefully hidden under layers of fragrance.
"Such a pity," the assassin whispered, his voice soft as silk. "Born like this... an omen child. Better to end it now."
He turned to leave.
But just before slipping back out the window, something made him pause.
He looked back — and froze.
Because the baby in the crib was awake.
Not screaming.
Not laughing.
Just watching.
Eyes like fractured gemstones — one blue, one blood-red.
And worse… there was no confusion in them. No fear. No innocence.
Only awareness.
The assassin's breath hitched.
"What… kind of demon spawn…"One blue. One red.
Unblinking. Empty of fear.
The assassin flinched.
"…What the hell? Two different colors… Disgusting freak."
The words meant nothing.
He'd heard worse.
Been called worse — by those who kissed his feet, then slit his throat.
The man turned to leave.
But just before he vanished, his cloak shifted —
A sliver of ankle.
A tattoo — serpent encircling a dagger.
Elarion memorized it in an instant.
One of her spies.
So… the mistresses were moving already.
Even now. Even here.
The man disappeared.
But the cursed candy began to melt, whispering venom into the air.
Too late.
A soft glow bloomed over Elarion's chest.
The divine blessing etched into his reborn blood —
Regeneration. Purification.
Dark magic dissolved before it could root itself.
Like watching ash drift from snow.
He exhaled softly.
"Tch. At least make it interesting next time."
The baby body was too weak to ignore the toll entirely. He let out a quiet breath, adjusting. Resetting.
His limbs relaxed again. The weight of his memories pressed gently on the curve of his infant bones.
He attempted to speak.
"Ba… Ba-baba…"
He stilled.
…Right.
No vocal control.
'Great.'
A faint irritation pulsed through him — frustration deepened by the fact that his blabber probably sounded adorable to any witness.
'This is hell.'
A frown touched his brow.
This body…
Can't even curse properly.
Another try. Just more innocent babble.
He scowled — or, as much as a baby could.
…I sound adorable. This is humiliating.
But even his irritation passed quickly.
He had other things to focus on.
That tattoo.
The timing.
The spellwork.
They weren't here to test him.
They'd wanted him dead.
Before his first birthday.
Before he could even sit.
So that's how early it would begin.
The game of daggers.
Good.
Let it begin.
His gaze wandered upward. The beams above. The silence of the cradle.
Then inward—
To memory.
To pain.
To himself.
The platform.
The chains.
The moment his father turned and walked away.
The eyes of those he once trusted — filled with hate, or worse… pity.
Never again.
The cold in his heart wasn't something he could forget.
It was forged into him.
He closed his eyes once more.
Sleep came fast.
His body, still too new, demanded rest.
But even as his breathing steadied,
A faint smirk lingered on his lips.
This time, they would not break him.
Let them send assassins.
Let them call him a monster.
He was waiting.
And he was smiling.
---
' No wonder in my previous life despite talent I couldn't achieve anything better'
He thought.
His expression didn't change. His face remained composed — the mask already returning.
The pieces were clicking together.
An assassination within an hour of his birth, just after my brother's left.
A cursed relic planted in a noble house.
The mark of a mistress.
This wasn't just random.
This was intentional.
And it meant one thing — the threat he remembered wasn't gone.
It was already watching.
'Good. That saves me the trouble of hunting you later.'
His gaze softened slightly as old faces flickered behind his eyes — not with warmth, but with sharp clarity.
He'd trusted once. Believed once.
And was slaughtered for it.
This time would be different.
This time… he would rewrite the script.
Let them come.
He was no longer a boy searching for safety.
He was the storm hiding in plain sight.
As the shadows receded and sleep tugged at his body again, Elarion allowed himself to drift — but not before one last thought curled across his mind like a blade drawn in moonlight.
'Next time, send someone better.'
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