"Stand up, Ash."
The voice was calm, too calm.
Ash did not move. Dirt filled his mouth. Blood buzzed behind his ears like flies.
"I said, 'Stand,'" the voice growled, slamming in another kick.
A boot pressed down on his spine—not hard enough to break it, but just enough to remind him it could.
His elder brother, Varrick, leaned in closer. He always smelled like sweat, leather, and too much pride.
"You are not going to cry again, are you? You were pathetic, and still are." Varrick said, grinding his teeth. "Fight back, you no-good bastard. You have no affinity with magic, nor are you capable of swordsmanship. How in the world did you survive the forest of death?
Ash's eyes widened.
"You thought we would forget; we ignored it only because we had to get into the academy. Dealing with you would have been a hassle then.
It's been six years, Ash. You've bulked up. Didn't think you had it in you."
The others laughed—soft, sharp, and practised. The way people do it when they've hurt someone so many times, it's not even a sport anymore.
"He's not crying," said the second brother, Marek. "He's just leaking failure."
Another round of laughter. Ash stayed silent.
Just breathe. Let it pass. Watch. Always watch.
Gly spoke, "Brother, it seems Father is headed this way. I suggest we wrap this up. It's our graduation ceremony. We don't want any trouble."
"Tch, you are saved, Ash, for now. Don't worry, we will take good care of your maid, Licia. She will know a good pounding from us three men." The three of them laughed before heading outside the storehouse.
Varrick slammed his fist into Ash's ribs.
Something broke; it did not matter.
What mattered was that they thought this still worked.
That he was still small. Still weak.
This is me, Ash Rivenhart—a good-for-nothing son of a mistress, a bastard. The Third Son.
But not for long; it's been six years. I have waited so long and endured a lot. It's enough. Tonight, I end it once and for all.
Six years ago, Forest of Death.
Ash crawled through the grasses, hands tied, mouth gagged. Tears streamed down his cheek.
"The fuck, what did I do to deserve such treatment? Varrick, Marek, and Gly, those assholes, are bullying me just because I have no affinity with magic or I can't hold a sword due to this lean body."
"Only if I had the power, yes, power, I would not have been bullied like this. O Lord, please hear my prayer and grant my wish."
The cries were heard, but not from above, but from beneath.
"Come, the one who seeks power, come to me," a voice came from the cave not far away. Ash had reached near the cave that was said to have dangerous creatures living inside it. Not only the cave, but the whole forest, had vicious creatures around, creatures far more powerful than humans; hence the name "Forest of Death."
Ash stood up after a struggle; his hands were still tied. Mouth still gagged. He walked towards the voice, swaying from left to right. He was tired; Blood loss blurred his vision. Maybe the voice was a trick of the mind, but he walked anyway.
"I would at least die instantly if this is some hallucination and some creature is luring me in. I don't mind. It is better than dying every day"
The moment he entered the cave, he felt like he was being watched. And he heard it again. "Come, child. Soon you will possess powers beyond imagination." The voice had weight. Like it had been waiting... waiting for someone like him.
He had come far inside the cave, and he saw a dead end. He felt despair and betrayal again.
Was this another disgusting prank by his brothers? He thought, and from the corner of his eye he saw something shine. There was something lodged into the wall, a crystal of some sort. He went ahead and rubbed his forehead on it; for a while, it felt like it was just a pretty stone in the wall—every cave has a few. Soon the ground shook and caved in, sucking Ash inside.
He fell. It was endless, like an abyss, a never-ending space. He thought he would die and smiled, "Thank you for calling to me."
Darkness consumed him as he lost consciousness.
He woke up suddenly, gasping for air. What he saw was otherworldly.
A pitch-black sea full of bones, Skulls and weapons floating above a faraway light: "Am I finally dead?" he asked himself.
"I see you have woken up." A voice came from behind.
Ash turned to look at who it was. He couldn't take his eyes off of her.
An otherworldly beauty. She didn't walk. She unfolded from the darkness, as if the void itself had been wearing her skin. Half her body was wrapped in black silk so sheer it may as well have been shadow; the other half exposed pale flesh that looked kissed by moonlight—and marred by cracks that pulsed like veins of obsidian fire.
Her hair fell in rivers of midnight, brushing along her bare shoulders, framing a face that was half divine beauty, half haunting decay. One eye glowed like a dying star, the other socket a cold abyss.
Her lips were painted in a red too rich for mortals, the colour of final kisses and bloodied promises. And when she smiled, it felt like temptation and execution in one breath.
"You called to me... little broken thing," she purred, her voice silk on steel. "And I have come to collect."
She stepped closer. Bare feet on bone. Hips swaying like a dancer at her funeral. Her touch brushed Ash's chest—not warm, not cold, but claiming. Fingers dragging down slowly, deliberately, like death deciding where to carve its mark.
"Wh...Who are you, Lady?" Ash stuttered, shyly looking at the woman in front of him.
"fufufu.....you came to me, my youngin, followed my voice. Where are my manners? I am Hela."
"The forgotten daughter. The keeper of silence. The mother of the dead."
Her smile was cruel, cold, and beautiful.
"And now... I am yours."
"You ache, don't you? For vengeance. For touch. For meaning."
Her fingers pressed to his lips. "Let me carve it into you."
Ash took a step back. Then kneeled—not in fear, but in reverence. Hela tilted her head, curious… and smiled.
"Oh, goddess of death, Lady Hela, I am honoured to see you, but what can this little lamb do for you?" He asked, facing the ground, not daring to look into the eyes of a powerful being who rules over death.
Hela laughedd, "Oh, child, my dear Ash Rivenhart, I've watched kingdoms burn. Heroes fall. Gods fade. But you... You broke the silence. Endured. With nothing. No sword. No spell. No one. That is why I chose you." She leaned in close, placing her finger on his chin. Lifting his face, she spoke, "But"—a small pause. "If you want power," she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, "you must offer something worthy in return. Your soul, your servitude... or your body."
Her breath was smoke and ice. "And I always collect my debts."
"I don't care what you take. If it means I never kneel to them or anyone else again—give it to me." Ash spoke, his eyes burning with fire.
Hela Smiled. She claimed his lips with a kiss as sharp as a dagger's tip.
Agony bloomed like a flower of fire across his chest—no blood spilt, but the pain was exquisite. His skin burned from the inside out, not with flame, but with pure concept: shadow, silence, vengeance.
Lines etched themselves into his skin—a glowing sigil, alien yet familiar. It spiralled out like a scythe's arc wrapped in runes, the centre shaped like an eye split by a crescent moon.
The mark glowed deep violet, fading slowly to matte black ink. Cold to the touch. And alive—it pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Hela leaned in, lips at his ear.
"Now you bear my mark, little shadow."
"No man shall command you. No god shall deny you."
"You are mine now—as I am yours."
As soon as she spoke those words, darkness engulfed him, and he was back outside at the entrance of the cave. He looked at himself; his body was healed, with no burn marks from the iron stick, no scars on his back either. With that, he closed his eyes and touched his chest right where the sigil was. Opening his eyes, he called forth the power, and a small, curvy dagger formed in his hand out of thin air, emitting black smoke. He smiled, "Now I train. They will get what they deserve."