From Cursed Scum to Supreme Sovereign

The Beating

Dawn slipped through the cracks of Kael’s shack like a thief after coin. Thin blades of light cut across the straw heap he called a bed, prying him awake. Every breath scraped fire through his ribs, bent yesterday under boots but stubborn enough not to break.

The hovel was barely a room. Scavenged planks for walls. A roof that leaked when the rain came heavily. No hearth, no warmth. Just enough space for a boy and a dog to curl into each other and pretend the world outside wasn’t sharpening its knives.

Fang’s tongue rasped across the cut above Kael’s eye. The pup had grown fast, too fast, as if desperation itself had fed him. Still all ribs and matted fur, but the amber eyes had changed. They no longer begged. They watched. They warned.

“Easy,” Kael murmured, scratching behind the dog’s twitching ears. Fang’s body was tense, ready to spring at any sound from beyond their boards.

“We’re safe here.”

The word clotted in his throat. Safe was a lie he told because silence was worse.

From outside drifted the daily chorus: buckets scraping stone, bare feet slapping wet cobbles. The women of Eryndor gathered at the well each dawn, trading gossip as steady as they drew water.

“Heard they’re laying odds at the tavern,” Marta’s voice carried, smug and loud. A clang as her bucket struck the rim. “Three to one, the cursed thing doesn’t last past sunrise.”

“Too generous,” wheezed Bessa, her voice dry as old parchment. “Should be ten. Maybe twenty.”

“My husband says they should’ve drowned it at birth,” came young Sera, the baker’s wife. “Like you would a runt pig.”

Their laughter rattled the boards like stones against glass.

Kael pressed his face deeper into the straw, nails biting his palms. Fang whined and curled closer, ribs brushing Kael’s bruised side.

“Good riddance when the cursed mutt finally dies,” Marta declared. “Then maybe the Goddess will bless Draven House again.”

“Aye,” Bessa croaked. “Fortune’s soured ever since that wretch drew breath. Failed harvests, blight raiders, even the Veil thinning.”

“All because one mistake lived when it should’ve been snuffed out.”

Buckets sloshed, feet shuffled away, and their voices dissolved into the distance.

The silence that followed felt heavier than their words.

Then, faintly from the square, a new sound rose. Children’s voices, sweet and high. Practicing their feast-day song.

“Golden Aelric, light of our line,

Blessed by stars with blood divine…”

Each note was honey, but it scraped like knives.

Kael’s fists tightened until wet warmth leaked between his fingers.

“Prince of morning, heir of light,

Champion true in endless night…”

His voice cracked out before he could stop it. “Why him?” His chest hitched. “Why not me?”

Fang tilted his head as if listening to pain itself. There was no answer to give.

The chorus swelled, more children joining in, their voices lifting bright against the gray streets. Tonight they’d sing it before the banquet fire, while Kael bled for their entertainment in the Trial.

“Cursed foe.” He spat the words back at them, sharp as iron in his mouth.

Heavy footsteps interrupted the song. Too many. Too deliberate. Not women with buckets. Shadows crowded beneath his door.

“We know you’re in there, dog,” called Torin, the blacksmith’s son. Nineteen and built like his father’s forge, with a voice to match. “Come out and face your betters.”

“Maybe he’s already dead,” another boy jeered. Laughter followed.

“If only we were so blessed,” Torin shot back. “But I can smell the stench.”

A fist hammered the door. Rotten planks groaned.

“Open up, or we’ll kick it in.”

Fang stiffened, ears flat, a low growl simmering in his chest. Kael’s own chest constricted. No choice. There was never any choice.

He pulled the door open.

Five boys filled the alley, older and broader than him, grins sharp with certainty. Torin stood at their center, fists balled like sledgehammers.

“There’s our hero,” he said. “Ready to die for the kingdom?”

“Step aside.” Kael’s voice was low, barely there. “I have work.”

“Work?” Torin laughed, booming against the narrow walls. “The only work you’ll do is dying. But first…”

Hands seized Kael’s arms, dragging him from the shack before he could blink. Fang barked once, frantic, but stayed rooted at the doorway. Smarter than Kael.

They hauled him into the square. Merchants were just setting up, pausing only long enough to glance, then look away. Of course, they wouldn’t stop it. This was the morning’s sport.

“Kneel,” Torin commanded.

Kael stood. A boot slammed the back of his knees. He crumpled, palms scraping stone.

“Look at him,” Gareth, the mayor’s son, snickered. “Shaking like a leaf.”

“Bet he pisses himself before the Trial,” another chimed.

Torin circled, boots clacking. “You know what they say about dogs. They’ve gotta be broken before they’re useful.”

“He’s not useful for anything,” Gareth said. “Except dying.”

“Breaking’s fun, though.” Torin stopped in front of him, smiling widely.

The first mudball struck Kael’s chest. Wet splatter. Then another. And another. Laughter rose with the rhythm.

Mud turned to stones, tiny at first, then larger. One clipped his temple; blood trickled warm down his neck.

“Dance, dog!” Torin barked.

Another stone smashed against his ribs, right where yesterday’s bruises screamed.

“Please,” an old woman’s voice trembled from the edge of the crowd. “He’s just a boy…”

“He’s a curse,” Torin snapped. “And curses burn clean.”

He stooped, lifted a jagged plank from a broken crate. He tested the splintered edge against his thumb.

“Hold him.”

Hands pinned Kael’s arms, forcing him forward. Cold stone pressed against his knees. His shirt rode up, his back bared to the morning air.

“Let’s mark you properly,” Torin said.

The wood bit into flesh. D. Then O. Then G. Each line was deliberate, slow. Kael clamped his teeth into his tongue to smother the scream, tasting blood.

Beneath his collar, the Eclipse Mark throbbed awake. A second heartbeat, hot and urgent. Power pulsed down his spine, whispering promises… vengeance, ruin, freedom.

Kael clenched his jaw and shoved it down. Not here. Not yet.

A growl ripped through the square.

Fang.

The pup stood rigid, his hackles high, his amber eyes blazing at the circle of boys. He was small, starved, but the sound coming out of him belonged to something far larger.

“Look,” Gareth laughed. “The dog’s dog wants in.”

Torin swung a boot. Fang yelped as his body lifted, slammed against cobblestones, then stilled.

Something inside Kael snapped.

The world narrowed to red. He lunged, tearing free from their grip, and his fist cracked against Torin’s jaw. The bigger boy reeled back, spitting blood.

“Stay away from him,” Kael snarled, planting himself over Fang’s body.

Torin wiped his lip, grinning through the blood. “There’s fire in the mutt after all. Good. Makes it worth the trouble.”

What followed wasn’t a fight. It was craft. A methodical lesson. They took turns, each blow measured so none would kill him outright. Kael curled around Fang, his body the shield. His ribs cracked. Blood filled his mouth.

The Mark burned hotter, begging to be used. He refused it, again and again, his teeth clenched against the dark pull.

Then bells tolled. Heavy bronze voices rolled over the city. Evening prayer, or the summons to trials.

The boys stilled.

Boots approached. White cloaks, spotless despite the mud. Temple guards. Their armor gleamed like judgment.

“Kael Draven,” the nearest intoned, voice flat as iron. “By order of High Hierophant Malrick, you’ll come with us.”

Rough hands dragged him upright. His vision swam gray, steadied.

At his feet, Fang stirred, a faint whimper proving life still clung. Relief nearly buckled him.

“The Trial awaits,” the guard said, smiling thin as a blade. “Time to see what curses are worth.”

They hauled him from the square, from his shack, from everything he had called home.

Behind him, boys’ laughter clattered off stone like carrion crows.

The Mark pulsed once more, then quieted.

In that silence lay a promise.