PHASE I – The World He Was Born Into
Year: 1745 PK – The first year in Kalidor's life
He didn't know he was born in a gray year. Children don't carry calendars in their hands, But the faces that first looked upon him Didn't beam with the joy reserved for long-awaited births.
The year was 1745 Post-Crystal, Officially recorded in the political archives as "The Third Dormant Season." There were no wars launched, no blood pacts dissolved— But tiny shifts stirred on the edges of the realm… Like a rat chewing a map beneath a king's table.
The child was born in the kingdom of Lorma, One of the oldest vampire realms forged in the dark ages, And the most rigorously bound by its caste order.
In Lorma, nobility was not measured by deed, But by the purity of blood, sharpness of fang, And affiliation with the so-called "Red Covenant"— A pact of noble bloodlines sworn never to mix with humans, And never to obey anything but the Central Crystal.
The kingdom was divided into six provinces, Each ruled by a noble house, All swearing fealty to the royal house Virelan, The ruling dynasty in the heart of the land.
Legends spoke of Virelan the First, a woman consecrated to the White Crystal, Whose blood carried an echo of that primal purity That separated the "pure shadows" from the "tainted blood."
But Kalidor, at his birth, belonged to neither the Virelan line… Nor to any of the six major houses.
He was born in the northern province of Il-Vern, A half-forgotten land bordering the wide Astral River, Which divided Lorma from scattered western territories, Home to tribes with strange names: The Grims, the Dammen, the Undying Blacks.
Though these tribes rarely dared cross the river, Tales about them occasionally reached the market peasants:
"They saw a banner of human skin raised on the other bank."
Castle Arvalor was no grand fortress. It was guarded by three stone towers only, Surrounded by a single incomplete wall to the east, And an annex that resembled a stable, But was used for storage—and secrets.
No more than twenty-two servants lived there, Scattered across family rooms, narrow corridors, and the deep kitchen. The soldiers numbered eight, And rumor had it—they weren't guards, But witnesses to the bloodline.
The first to hold the newborn wasn't his mother, But a pale-skinned woman with coiled gray hair And long hands marked with scars. She had arrived at the castle three years earlier. Her name was whispered: Merick.
They said she came from an inland province called Fay Loren, Known as "the nursemaid who never mishandled a noble."
But the child she cradled Was no high noble. He was one who lived on the edge of acknowledgment.
When she wrapped him in red cloth And rested his head on her arm, He looked at her for the first time. He did not cry.
She whispered, watching his eyes:
"You're taller than you should be… and quieter than anyone can bear. Maybe that's why you arrived in a year that didn't know how to announce itself."
That was all. One year of life. Not filled with laughter, nor crying— But eyes that watched, And one recurring phrase in the hallways when he stirred:
"Merick, the lady's son is moving his eyes again today."
But no one called him by name.
His name… had not yet been written.
PHASE II – Son of a Waiting Covenant
By his first birthday, His name was spoken clearly in the castle corridors. Kalidor… The firstborn, the awaited heir, Bearer of pure—enough—blood.
He didn't yet grasp those words, But he understood one thing: Each time his name was called, a door closed behind him, And another opened ahead. So he entered.
By his second year, he wore clothes tailored specifically for him— Velvety blue garments embroidered with silver threads, Depicting an inverted tree: The Arvalor crest— A tree burying its roots in the sky, With branches stretching toward the earth.
Merick combed his hair daily, Whispering:
"People don't respect the child… they respect what he wears." Then she'd softly tighten his sleeves— As if aligning a clock of fate.
Since children don't learn as adults do, The lord sent a tutor to the castle twice weekly— A calm, gray-haired man named Ossil. They said he once served the royal court in the capital, Sent here as a "reward" for some deed—or a punishment. No one was sure.
Ossil never raised his voice, Nor looked Kalidor directly in the eye. Instead, he placed items before him: Parchments, stone shapes, etched symbols, engraved words.
He'd say:
"If you are to inherit something, You must first know how to read it."
But Kalidor rarely focused. The letters danced before him, As if unwilling to settle. His fingers were long enough to play, Too short to understand.
Some servants began calling him "The Little Master." And whenever he passed, They lowered their heads— Even if he wasn't looking.
But children don't know reverence. They only know whether they are loved.
One time, passing near the kitchen, He overheard a cook muttering:
"If he's like his father… that's fine. But he doesn't have the king's gaze."
He didn't understand the last word— But he felt disappointment, Without knowing why.
Merick always tried to compensate. When she sensed sadness, She'd take him to the northern balcony where he could see the towers from afar, Sit beside him, and say:
"The tree on your chest isn't a joke, Kalidor. It says you grow from the sky to the ground—not the other way around." Then stroke his forehead and add: "But it's okay if you forget letters… even the sun doesn't write, yet it shines."
The second year passed with symbolic weight. Nothing extraordinary happened— But he was treated as who he would be… Not as who he was.
And in his heart, He began to feel all of this… was larger than his size.
PHASE III – The Gentle Fracture
In his third year, the voices around him grew quieter. Not because he was less important— But because when people sense something isn't working, They talk about it less, As if fearing their disappointment might be heard.
Ossil, the silent tutor, stopped staying long in the study hall. He'd arrive, place a carved wooden tablet with etched symbols, Wait a few minutes silently, And leave before the sun dropped past the castle's left shoulder.
Sometimes he placed a hand on Kalidor's head, But said nothing. And Kalidor never asked.
The child they expected to shine Began to dim slowly.
Words came slowly from his mouth, His memory grew short—retaining only fleeting moments. His hand wouldn't stay on the lines— He often drew an unknown animal, Or the inverted tree—just like his family crest, But withering.
One day, standing in the inner garden, He tried to catch a falling leaf. But it always slipped away. And with it… a word.
"Little Master?" Merick called from behind. He didn't turn. He stared at the escaping leaf.
Merick grew quieter that year. She stopped combing his hair every morning, No longer commented on his clothes. But she didn't leave.
She just stared at him more than she spoke— Held his shoulder for long seconds… without a word. As if searching him for something she had lost—or lost in herself.
Once, entering his room late at night, She found him sketching something in charcoal on the wall. She came closer—circles intersecting… With a dot in the center.
"What's this?" she asked gently. He didn't answer. She sat beside him. He whispered, dreamlike:
"This is my head… and I'm getting lost in it."
She told no one. But the next day, the maid "Ossa" cleaned the room instead. Ossa looked at the boy and said—only to herself or perhaps aloud in that special tone:
"See, Merick… I told you: pretty eyes aren't enough."
The third year passed without celebration. No gifts were sent. The lord never appeared.
The silence that once symbolized his centrality, Now wrapped him like a thin veil on a box meant to be forgotten.
For the first time, Kalidor felt his footsteps were no longer heard in the halls.
PHASE IV – When the Wall Crumbled
By his fourth year, no one asked whether he accomplished anything. He was treated as if the answer was already known.
Ossil, the quiet tutor, disappeared one evening without goodbye. A maid claimed a message had come from the capital. The study hall was sealed indefinitely. No one offered an explanation, But everyone understood it wasn't just about the tutor—it was about the child.
That winter, the blue curtains of Kalidor's wing were removed, Replaced with faded gray ones. Merick claimed it was for "seasonal cleaning." But the boy knew: The windows were rarely cleaned in the castle… And the dust wasn't new.
Merick no longer slept much. Her eyes reddened from lack of sleep. Sometimes, she'd leave the room suddenly, Rubbing her face in the corridors.
One night, he found her in the kitchen, Clutching her right hand with her left, Staring at the wall as if it whispered.
When she noticed him, she wiped her eyes quickly, Knelt before him, And asked in a brittle voice:
"Did you learn how to hold the pen today?"
He shook his head. She smiled—but said nothing. And never asked again.
Some servants grew bolder around him, And he heard words never said in his presence before: "Poor thing"… "Fate turned early"… "Maybe the next one will be better."
One cloudy morning, a new maid arrived at the castle. A broad-shouldered young woman with coarse braided hair. Her name was Rila, daughter of Marno, from a village called Verstana south of the river.
She was the first to speak to him without a title:
"You're the little one, huh? The one they don't know what to do with."
She said it with a smile that wasn't really a smile. And didn't wait for a reply.
When Kalidor asked Merick about her one night, She sighed:
"Rila? She came two weeks ago. Daughter of a maid who served House Velen before its fall. They say she doesn't believe in rank… only results."
Then, after a long pause, she added:
"If only results came with the child."
By year's end, Merick was no longer addressed with the same respect by the staff. She was asked to assist with cleaning, Under the supervision of Rila— Who seemed to embody a new logic meant to "correct" the castle.
Kalidor couldn't fully understand what was happening, But for the first time, he felt Merick was handling him with caution… Not just affection.
One night, after leaving his shoes outside his room, No one returned them.
The next day, he saw Merick holding them, Staring at them for a long while, Then returning them to the corner without looking up.
There was no voice telling him he had failed. But everything suggested… he had ended before beginning.
PHASE V – Silence After the Storm
In his fifth year, voices no longer reached his wing. The castle remained lively, But the firstborn's quarters were isolated— Without formal closure.
No one asked him anything. He hadn't been taken to the garden in months. He wasn't asked to study letters or stand like nobility. Everything repeated like a fading dream on loop.
Merick still remained, But her presence had changed. She now walked beside him, not ahead of him. She closed the curtains herself, And only spoke when asked.
Some nights, he'd wake to find her sitting by the fireplace, Holding nothing, doing nothing— Just staring into the embers as if awaiting a message that wouldn't come.
Sometimes, he locked himself in, Watching through frosted windows As unfamiliar maids bustled in the southern garden, Laughing, carrying trays, Sometimes glancing at his window— Then continuing their talk as if it were just a wall.
Another figure emerged this year: A thin man named Valter, son of Brag, A basement servant who logged supplies and handled light cleaning. He came from Castle Vester after its ruling family fell.
Valter wasn't talkative, But once told Merick while reviewing daily rations:
"If needed, we could repurpose the northern room as a storage unit… The boy doesn't use it, does he?"
He didn't know Kalidor was at the far end of the hall. And didn't look back to check.
One day, running down a long corridor (something once forbidden), Kalidor accidentally bumped into a young maid's shoulder. She stared at him in surprise and said:
"Oh… I forgot you were still here."
She meant it. Genuinely. Not mockingly.
That night, he entered Merick's room, Found her asleep sitting up, Her head tilted on her shoulder, Clutching his old robe as if warming a memory.
He gently reached for it, Pulled it free.
She opened her eyes slowly, Looked at him, And asked in a whisper barely audible:
"Does this hurt you?"
He didn't answer. She closed her eyes again… And never asked him that again.
That year, he began to understand something he hadn't as a child: Not everyone who loves you… can save you.
The winter was bitterly cold, The fireplace slow to light. Merick used her old clothes to warm him, Then sat beside him as if guarding his shadow—not just his body.
In the last days of the year, Kalidor noticed parts of the castle changing. The eastern wall was repainted. Some tables were moved. New linens placed in the upper wing.
And for the first time, he heard Rila—the now self-appointed supervisor—say:
"The Golden Wing is being rearranged. They say the castle is preparing to welcome new life."
Kalidor didn't ask. He had learned: Questions are asked of those from whom answers are expected.
And no one had expected anything from him… for some time.
PHASE VI – Before the Birth
Winter came early that year. Snow fell in the first week of autumn, And windows became silent white canvases.
Kalidor no longer ventured out. He spent most days by the dormant fireplace, Pressing ash between his fingernails— As if warmth only came from touching it directly.
His wing was no longer cleaned daily. Dust gathered in corners, The old paint's scent lingered. Books that once came—though unread—ceased. Even Merick… stopped singing him to sleep.
Something had shifted in the castle. He knew it—though no one explained.
One day, walking the hall toward the forbidden Golden Wing, He saw a door half open, A woman's hand holding what looked like a red-gold bracelet.
Then a whisper:
"Hurry… the Lady doesn't like waiting."
The voice faded. The door shut.
Kalidor stood frozen for moments. Then remembered—he shouldn't be there. He slipped away, unseen.
New faces had arrived. One was a slim woman with graceful steps—Azura Neris, Said to be from a medical village south of the capital, There to "monitor the Lady's condition."
She never once looked Kalidor in the eye.
The upper wing hallway was sealed at night, Lit by blue candles. A guard remarked—without addressing him directly:
"When care intensifies… fate gets rearranged."
He didn't understand the phrase, But he knew—it wasn't about him.
Merick grew quieter than ever. She no longer served his meals herself. Some days, she stayed in her room for hours. When he saw her, she looked… smaller than before. Not older. Just smaller.
One night, he sneaked into the old noble council room. It was empty. But a table remained, With a small castle map, And a new title written elegantly:
"Golden Wing – Heirs' Hall"
He trembled. Not because he understood, But because he knew— His name wasn't on that paper.
The next day, Rila saw his worn-out clothes and said plainly:
"Don't worry… a new tailor is coming, but not for you. Things change. The lords get rearranged."
Then she smiled— The kind of smile that doesn't show joy… but closure.
On the last morning of the year, He woke before dawn for no reason. He heard rushing footsteps, Candles lighting… Then faint weeping in a distant hallway.
But no one knocked on his door. No one said a word.
And in that moment, Kalidor understood—without fully understanding— That the door once opened for him at birth… Had quietly closed, forever.
In the cold of that night, He sat on the edge of his bed, And whispered to no one:
"Can even a shadow… lose its shadow?"