The Last Star-Bearer: Heir of the Shattered Light

CHAPTER 2: PAINS

The hatred in Thorndike was a palpable thing, a cloying miasma that clung to the mud-choked streets and seeped under doorways. People spoke of it openly, in low voices and crossed fingers, and at the heart of it all was Tristan. He moved through the town like a ghost, his shoulders perpetually hunched against the weight of stares that were not merely cold, but venomous.

“There he goes,” someone would mutter as he passed.

“Bad omen,” another would whisper, as if the word itself might summon disaster.

He was their dark cloud on the horizon, and they treated him with a disgust that was almost religious in its fervour.

Tristan avoided them whenever he could, taking the long, overgrown paths behind the houses where weeds clawed at his boots and thorns snagged his sleeves. Even there, he could feel their eyes on him. Escape was impossible.

Jake and Miguel, two boys whose cruelty was as plain as the spots on their faces, made it their mission to be the physical embodiments of the town’s spite.

At the sawmill, Jake leaned against a timber stack, grinning. “Lose something, Tristan?” he called out as Tristan searched the workbench.

Miguel snorted, nudging him. “Maybe the curse ate his tools.”

They hid his measuring tools, tucked deep beneath piles of sawdust, and loosened the bolts on the carriage he was meant to load. “Let’s see him explain that,” Miguel whispered once, tightening nothing at all.

But Tristan, whose hands were calloused beyond his years, was meticulous. He checked every bolt, every strap. He always found the tools. He always felt the wobble before disaster could strike.

“Huh,” Jake muttered one afternoon when the carriage held firm. “Slippery little thing.”

Their failures only stoked their malice.

One evening, as Tristan hurried home with the light fading fast, they ambushed him in an alleyway, the stench of rotting garbage thick in the air.

Jake stepped into his path, cracking his knuckles. “Thought you could sneak by?”

Miguel hefted a heavy piece of wood onto his shoulder. “This ain’t the mill, Tristan. No foreman to save you. We will beat you until you become a bloody mess.”

This was no mere taunting. Miguel swung, the wood cutting through the air with a dull whistle. Jake lunged, trying to trip him into the filth.

“Stay down!” Jake shouted.

But desperation was a potent tutor. Tristan ducked, the wood splintering against the brick wall with a sharp crack. He shoved Jake hard, his shoulder slamming into the boy’s chest, and Jake staggered back into Miguel.

“Idiot!” Miguel cursed as they went down in a heap of tangled limbs.

Tristan didn’t stay to gloat. He ran.

“Get back here!” Jake screamed, fury echoing off the walls. Their enraged shouts chased him into the gloom, but they didn’t catch him.

Their cruelty was mirrored by the entire town. When old man Hemlock’s fence broke in a storm, Tristan spent two hours in the rain mending it, his fingers numb and bleeding as he worked the warped boards back into place. Hemlock watched from his porch, his face a mask of grim suspicion.

“You don’t have to pay me,” Tristan said quietly when he was done, rain dripping from his hair.

Hemlock snorted. “Nothing’s free.” He reached into his pocket and tossed two copper coins onto the muddy ground instead of into Tristan’s hand. “For the trouble,” he muttered, then added, “And to keep the ill-luck from seeping in.”

Tristan picked up the coins without a word.

But it was Mrs. Leroy at the market stall who finally shattered him. His father, drowning his sorrows in cheap ale, had provided no food for two days. Tristan’s stomach was a hollow, aching cavern. Still, he went to the market, because hunger left no room for pride.

He helped Mrs. Leroy all morning, hauling heavy sacks of flour and stacking crates of preserves. “Careful with that,” she snapped once. “Those jars cost more than you’re worth.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, biting back the sting, her promise of a day’s wage the only thing sustaining him.

When the sun stood high, he wiped his brow and stepped closer to the stall. “Mrs. Leroy?” he asked, his voice thin but polite. “My wage, can I ask for it please?”

She wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and stared at him, her small eyes boring into his face. “Wage?” she repeated. “For what? For standing there and spreading your gloomy shadow over my fine breads?”

“I did everything you asked,” Tristan said softly.

She scoffed, a harsh, grating sound. “You think your kindness is a virtue, boy? It’s a leech. You offer help so people feel indebted to you, so they have to look at you.”

Tears pricked at his eyes. “But it’s for my dinner,” he begged, the shame burning his cheeks. “Please.”

Her lip curled. “Oh, I’ll pay you.”

She turned to a bench behind her and picked up a plate. On it sat a piece of dried fish, grey and unappetising, and a heel of bread with a faint, powdery green bloom of mould on its crust.

“Here’s your pay,” she said.

Then, with a sudden, vicious jerk, she threw it at him.

The plate skittered at his feet, the spoiled meal splattering against his worn trousers. Someone nearby laughed. A few people in the market turned, took in the sight of him standing there, covered in refuse, and smirked.

“Serves him right,” a woman murmured.

“Shouldn’t have helped,” another said.

Tristan didn’t move. He stared down at the mess, at the mould that mirrored the rot he felt inside. A sob escaped his throat, raw and broken.

He stumbled away from the stall, not caring about the whispers or the laughter snapping at his heels. He found a small, hidden space between two buildings and sank to the ground, his back against cold stone, finally letting the tears come.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered to no one, his voice breaking. “I try. I give. Why… why is it always like this?”

He gave love and kindness. All he ever received was hatred and indifference. The question echoed in the hollow of his chest, a painful, unanswered prayer.

As his tears, hot and salty, fell onto the parched earth between his feet, a small, stubborn weed clinging to life in a crack began to shudder. It didn’t grow. It withered, its vibrant green bleaching to a sickly brown before crumbling into grey dust.

Tristan didn’t see it. He just cried, alone in the dark, not knowing that his pain was giving life to the very curse they feared.

Days passed. After he turned 21 years old, The whispers came at night. “Nirael… veth’ran… selune…”

Strange words, shaped like prayers or enchants, echoing in his mind during sleepless hours. He dismissed them as exhaustion, just the wind, or the ache of loneliness given voice.

But they grew louder. "Deum, arthum, ecehi... sumon.."

And then, on a night thick with fog, it happened. Tristan walked late from the mill, a sack of grain slung over his shoulder, the night air heavy. He cut through the alley behind the tannery, shorter, but forbidden. Shadows clung to the stone.

Footsteps echoed behind him. He turned. Three figures stepped from the dark, faces masked by scarves, knives glinting like fangs.

“Well, well,” sneered the tallest. “If it isn’t the curse boy. Heard you carry silver in your boots.”

“I’ve nothing,” Tristan said, backing up.

“Then you’ll bleed for sport, you'll be a good punching bag.” the second laughed. They advanced. Tristan ran.

Cobbles stung his thin boots. His lungs burned. He could hear them gaining, their laughter sharp as broken glass. He rounded a corner...and dead-ended.

Trapped.

The leader stepped forward, blade raised. “You should’ve stayed in the dark, boy. You should have surrendered first but now you tire us.”

Tristan tried to fight them but because he didn't eat yet, he didn't have much energy as he exhausted it all at work. He was outnumbered and out powered, Tristan raised his arms, useless, powerless. Then, the air thrummed.

A light.... soft at first, then blinding-engulfed him. It poured from his chest, radiant and warm, filling the alley like a held breath released. The thugs froze.

“What—what is this?” one stammered.

”You! you are a freak!” the other thug exclaimed.