We can see a boy with white hair, sitting alone in the corner of the orphanage, his eyes scanning the pages of an old book. His skin is so pale that in the snow, he seems almost invisible. His hair falls just over his shoulders, and his eyes—his eyes are the only thing that sets him apart from the others. His right eye is a deep black, while his left is strange, almost unnatural—black with a circle inside it, and four tiny black pupils arranged around the white center.
The other children in the orphanage often whisper behind his back. "A spawn of a demon," they mutter, pointing at him when they think he's not looking. His small frame and feminine face only add to their suspicion, but Avyakta never seems to mind. He doesn't react to the taunts. He just keeps reading. It's the only thing that comforts him in this cold, lonely place.
Sister Dalia walks into the room, her soft footsteps barely making a sound on the stone floor. She notices Avyakta, sitting as usual in his corner.
"Avyakta," she calls gently, approaching him. "Are you still reading that same book? It's good, but don't you want to join the others outside for some fresh air?"
Avyakta looks up, his black eye meeting hers, the other one seeming almost... distant. "I'm fine," he replies, his voice quiet but firm. "I like reading. It's peaceful."
Father Johan enters the room just behind Sister Dalia, wiping his hands on his robes. "We should be getting ready for mass," he says, his voice booming as always. "Come along, Avyakta. You can't hide in here forever."
Avyakta doesn't answer at first. He looks down at the book in his hands, then closes it slowly. "I'm not hiding," he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind outside.
The priest chuckles softly, a kind, warm sound that's often rare around here. "I know, lad. But even the best of us need to step out into the light sometimes."
Outside, the snow has begun to fall heavier, blanketing the ground in a thick layer of white. The other children play, their laughter and shouts echoing around the courtyard. Avyakta walks toward the door, Sister Dalia holding it open for him.
"You know," Sister Dalia says as they step outside, "the children might tease you, but they don't understand. You're special, Avyakta. And one day, the world will see that too."
Avyakta doesn't say anything in response. He just watches the snow fall, feeling the cold sting of the air against his pale skin. He doesn't know what's special about him. All he knows is that he's different—and sometimes, that difference feels like a heavy weight on his small shoulders.
Father Johan calls to him from the steps of the church. "Hurry up, boy. We can't leave without you."
Avyakta hesitates for a moment, then walks toward them, his small steps leaving marks in the snow. As they walk together toward the church, he can hear the whispers of the other children behind him. "Demon spawn," they say. "He's not one of us."
He doesn't mind. He never does.
The words, the looks, the names—they slide off him like rain on stone. But deep inside, buried under years of silence, they leave tiny marks. Scars he doesn't know how to name yet.
That afternoon, all the children were called into the main hall. The stone floor was cold under their feet, and the air carried the faint smell of incense and old wood. Father Johan stood in front of the altar, a big book in one hand and his other hand raised for silence.
"You're all growing up fast," he said with a smile. "Soon, many of you will turn ten. And when that day comes, something important will happen."
The kids started whispering among themselves.
"You'll receive your Stigma," Father Johan continued. "A mark. One that only you can see. And through it, your gift will awaken."
"Like a superpower?" one of the older boys asked, eyes wide.
Father Johan chuckled. "Sort of. It may be the skill of a swordsman, an archer, a healer, a shieldman, a mage… or something else entirely. Everyone's path is different."
He held up his left hand, showing a faint shimmer only he could see. "Mine is the Shield of Providence. It lets me protect others, even from the dark things."
Sister Dalia stepped forward, pulling back her sleeve. "And mine is the Grace of Light. It helps me heal the wounded and cure sickness."
The room buzzed with excitement. Even the most bitter orphans leaned forward now, wondering what kind of mark they'd receive.
Then, Father Johan placed the big book on a stand and opened it. The pages creaked.
"But before any of you get your Stigma," he said, "you should know the reason why we have them in the first place. A long time ago, there was a great war. A Holy War. Between the Heroes… and the Unholy Ones."
The chatter stopped.
He turned the book to show them a detailed painting. It was old but clear, colors preserved over the centuries. A battlefield, torn by fire and shadow. A group of shining figures stood tall—each marked with light. At the center stood three figures: Saint Ravina, glowing in white robes; Hero Edmund, with golden armor and a shining sword; and beside them… a man in pitch-black armor, his chestplate marked with the symbol of a blue dragon. His helmet was shaped like a dragon's head.
"That's Sir Archen," Father Johan said, voice lower now. "He wasn't a Hero. Not officially. But he fought alongside them. And in the final battle… he was the one who stopped the Unholy King."
He pointed at the edge of the painting—a dark gate, jagged and ancient. Two figures were locked in battle before it. One wore black. The other was cloaked in shadow.
"He pushed the Unholy King into the Gate of Silence. The gate sealed behind them. Archen was never seen again. But without him, the world would've fallen."
The children stared in silence.
Avyakta didn't look at the glowing figures. He didn't care much for Edmund's shining armor or Ravina's halo of light. His eyes were fixed on the black knight. The one who didn't shine. The one who looked like he didn't belong.
"People don't always remember him as much as the others," Father Johan added, watching them carefully. "But that doesn't change what he did."
A small hand went up. One of the younger boys. "Why did he wear black armor? Wasn't he on the good side?"
Father Johan smiled, but it was a quiet kind of smile. "He was. But Archen believed that light and dark weren't always enemies. He wore what he wore because that was who he was. He didn't need to look holy to do what was right."
The hall fell still.
Sister Dalia's voice came softly from the side, near the stained-glass windows. "Sometimes, the ones who look different… are the ones who protect us the most."
Avyakta didn't say anything. But he felt something shift inside. He looked again at the painting. At the black knight. The others in the painting had faces. Shining, perfect faces.
But Archen's face was hidden.
"No one knows what Sir Archen really looked like," Father Johan said, closing the book gently. "Only the dragon on his chest, and the way he fought, are remembered."
The children began whispering again—excited, curious, inspired.
But Avyakta stayed quiet.
He didn't care that the knight wore black.
In fact, that was the only reason he looked at him at all.