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Chapter 7: Cry in the Shadows
Seven months had passed since the twins were born. In a remote mountain stronghold, far from warmth or comfort, a small, dark room reeked of damp stone and unwashed bodies.
A weak lantern flickered in the cold draft, casting trembling shadows across the walls. In the corner, a seven-month-old baby—called Cry by the other children for his endless wails—huddled tightly, tiny fists clenched, his vivid violet eyes wide and glistening with tears.
Seven year old Alaric, the eldest of the Xant children left in this place, watched in silence, his crimson eyes glinting sharply in the dim, flickering light. Six-year-old Marek, his deep blue eyes shimmering with an almost unnatural intensity, crouched protectively beside Cry, offering what little warmth he could. Both boys had learned far too quickly to read the caretakers' moods, to anticipate the storm of cruelty that could descend upon them at any moment.
"Cry… stop," Marek whispered softly, pressing a small piece of crusted bread into the violet-eyed baby's trembling hands. "You'll get us punished."
Cry didn't stop. His whimper turned into a desperate wail that shook the thin room. He was hungry—starving, really—but the caretakers had withheld milk for him since morning, letting him cry until exhaustion became his only relief.
Alaric's jaw clenched. "They'll come. We have to quiet him down." He reached for Cry's tiny body, trying to soothe him as best he could.
Marek's hands trembled as he divided the meager scraps of food between them. "Do you think… they'll actually come?"
Alaric shook his head. "If they do, we protect him. That's all we can do. At least there's something to hold onto—something that might keep us from being tortured to death. You know the law."
The law. Everyone remembered it—the magical curse that protected the Xant children until they turned eight. No one dared kill them, because anyone who did would die the next day along with their family. But the caretakers didn't need the law to hate them; cruelty ran in their veins.
From the hallway, footsteps clattered, heavy and sharp. Cry's cries faltered as the sound of approaching boots froze him in fear.
"You there!" barked a gruff male voice. "Why is it so loud? Shouldn't the baby be quiet already?"
Cry's tiny body shook. Alaric handed him to Marek. "Hold still. Don't breathe too loud."
The door swung open with a harsh slam. Two middle-aged caretakers entered, their faces twisted with contempt. The man's fingers curled around a whip; the woman gripped a rough cloth, damp and cold.
"Why is he crying again?" the woman snapped, advancing and striking Marek across the cheek. Cry's wail tore through the room, tears streaming down his pale cheeks.
Marek's lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes shimmered with tears, but he refused to let them fall. He held Cry close, pressing the baby's trembling body against his own.
Alaric's jaw tightened, crimson eyes flashing with fury. "Stop! Leave them—"
The man's whip flicked through the air, landing dangerously close to Marek's arm. "Silence, boy. You'll be next if you make a sound."
Marek flinched but held his ground, clutching Cry tighter. The infant pressed his tiny face into Marek's chest, sobs shaking his small frame.
"You think we enjoy this?" the woman hissed, leaning close to Cry, her eyes cold and hard. "He's an abomination. Look at those eyes—scarier than the others. More cursed."
Alaric stepped forward, fists raised, defiance burning in his crimson gaze. "You won't touch him!"
The man laughed, low and menacing. "And who will stop us? A seven-year-old? A six-year-old? Don't be foolish. This child belongs to the mountain now. His life is ours to make miserable until he turns eight. After that… well, we'll see."
The woman's eyes swept across the dark room before she approached the hearth, its embers long since fading to a dull glow. She scooped up a small pan of coal, its heat radiating faintly. "Let's remind him why crying gets him nothing," she said, voice sharp.
Cry's wails spiked, piercing the still air. Alaric leapt forward, crimson eyes blazing. "No!" he shouted, arms flailing to shield the tiny body. The pan grazed his arm, and he yelped, pulling back, pain flaring through him. Marek's face twisted in fear, jaw tight as he clutched Cry closer, shielding him with what little strength he had.
"Enough!" A small voice trembled from the doorway. Rumi, the caretaker's daughter, stood frozen, hands clutching the hem of her dress. Her wide eyes darted between Cry and the adults, tears glistening as she realized the severity of what was unfolding. She had often sneaked scraps of food into this room, hiding from her parents, but she had never seen them act with such malice.
"What are you doing here?" her mother barked, spinning around.
"I… I just… I—" Rumi's voice faltered. Her gaze flicked to Cry.
Before her parents could react further, she darted forward, reaching for the baby, intent on fleeing with him from the room.
The father's scowl darkened. "Hey!" he barked. "Rumi! Step away!"
The mother's hand lashed out, striking her across the cheek. "You are not to interfere! Do you understand?"
Rumi froze, lips trembling, eyes wide with shock and fear. "I… I just wanted—"
"Yes, Mother," she muttered, voice low, but her eyes betrayed a flicker of defiance. She glanced at Cry once more, pressing her small hands to her chest as if promising protection, before letting herself be pulled reluctantly from the room. The door shut with a harsh click, leaving the children in the shadows, the echo of her defiance lingering like a fragile flame.
Alaric exhaled slowly, red eyes scanning the room, jaw tight. "You'll pay for this… someday," he muttered under his breath, a vow forming in the depths of his heart.
Marek adjusted Cry gently in his arms, smoothing the infant's blanket. The baby's violet eyes glistened as he hiccupped softly, pressing his face against Marek's chest. It was a quiet, fragile trust—the only trust he had in this cruel, cold place.
The evening dragged on, punctuated by the caretakers' harsh voices shouting orders, scolding for trivial mistakes, their disdain for the children evident in every gesture.
Cry eventually fell into a restless sleep, still trembling, still hungry, but alive. Alaric and Marek huddled close, vigilant, a small circle of warmth and protection in a world that offered them none.
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Months later, in stark contrast, the palace of Solareth was alive with life and warmth. Princess Ruth held Uri, now seven months old, in her arms as he cooed and gurgled happily. His tiny fingers curled around her hair, his small feet kicking in delight.
"Did you miss me, little one?" Ruth asked, smiling softly.
Uri's bright violet eyes sparkled as he let out a delighted squeal. He reached toward her face, brushing his tiny fingers across her cheek.
Felix entered the room quietly, a tray of milk and soft bread in hand. Uri's lips curled into a tiny, joyful smile at the sight of him. The prince's presence brought comfort, a shield against all the dangers of the world outside.
"Ah, you've been fed?" Felix asked, kneeling beside Ruth, watching the baby tug at her sleeve.
"Yes, but only a little. He's growing fast," she replied. Uri cooed again, kicking his legs.
Felix smiled, reaching for him and lifting him slightly so they could share a quiet moment together. The palace walls, marble and gold, contrasted sharply with the dark mountain where Cry huddled in terror.
Here, the future crown prince was safe, loved, and protected. There, Cry fought for every crumb, every ounce of warmth, and every second of life in a world that wanted to break him.
And though the two babies' lives were so different, both carried a spark of something rare and precious—a spark that would one day shape the fate of the world around them.
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