CHAPTER ONE:
August loved stories.
He loved them more than sweets, more than the warm milk the housekeeper brought each night, more even than the little wooden horse carved for him by the old stablemaster. But no story made his eyes shine like the tales of knights and princesses, of castles and dragons, of honor and love. His favorite place in all the world was his parents' chamber, where his mother would sit by the fire, her voice soft and full of wonder, weaving worlds into the air while his father listened with a quiet smile and a book always in hand.
It was a chilly autumn evening in the year of 1810. The manor was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind against ivy and the occasional snap from the dying hearths. August's little feet padded softly along the corridor, his nightgown brushing against the polished wooden floor. The candelabras along the hallway flickered, casting long shadows that danced and curled like the ones in his bedtime fables.
He was four years old, heart full of light and dreams, and his mind was already racing ahead to the story his mother would tell that night—perhaps the one where the knight gives up his sword for love, or where the princess saves the kingdom by breaking a curse.
He reached the large double doors of his parents' room.
He raised his tiny hand, curled it into a fist, and was just about to knock.
But something stopped him.
A sound. Not like anything he had ever heard before.
It was a gasp—or a cry?—then a dull thud. Then silence. Deep, yawning silence.
His brow furrowed. He leaned in, pressing his ear to the cold wood. Another sound. Wet. Heavy. Then a choked breath—brief, broken. Then silence again.
The handle was ajar.
August's fingers, innocent and unaware, pushed the door open with a soft creak.
What he saw would never leave him. Not in his dreams. Not in his waking hours. Not even when his voice deepened and his eyes grew sharp and guarded in years to come.
The fire was still burning in the hearth, crackling quietly, casting orange light on the room.
But it was no longer a place of stories.
The scent of blood struck him first—metallic, wrong, thick in the air like smoke. His mother's favorite vase lay shattered near the fireplace. Papers scattered across the floor. And in the middle of it all—his mother. Her pale gown soaked deep red, her hand reaching toward the chaise, eyes open but empty, staring at something beyond the ceiling. His father was beside her, collapsed over her body, a dark wound on his back where no story could ever protect him.
August did not scream.
Children often cry when they fall, or when they are scolded, or when they lose a toy. But August was too small to understand and too frightened to move. Something deep and ancient within him had shattered, but he could not yet name it.
He stepped back.
One step.
Two.
Then he ran—his feet numb, his breath gone, tears nowhere to be found. He ran until the walls no longer looked familiar, until the corridor swallowed him whole, until the cold wrapped its arms around his tiny frame.
The staff found him later, curled beneath a staircase, silent and shaking. His eyes no longer sparkled. The light within him had dimmed, replaced by a shadow that would never fully lift.
That night, the world forgot August as a child.
And in his place, something colder began to grow.
To Be Continued
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