Shadow of the First Sin

The moon hung high above the kingdom, casting its ethereal silver glow upon the forest below. Seated near the window of the room provided by the queen, I observed the serene night. Guards stood watch outside the door, and an invisible magical barrier protected the windows, rendering escape impossible. Yet, escape was not my intention; I could have fled already if I so desired. This was merely a precaution, a duty the queen felt compelled to fulfill. Tomorrow at dawn, I would face trial, and my fate would be determined. Strangely, I felt no nervousness. The queen's account of my father and the pact he made reassured me; perhaps I was not responsible for the young boy's death that fateful night. My father had pledged a dark fragment of his soul in exchange for a favor, a bargain that ultimately cost him his life and, two years later, his most cherished possession—me. Born two years after the pact, if the queen's theory held true, the boy from that day was the same one I encountered recently, and he holds a claim to my life as much as I do. That would explain my loss of control during the orc attack and the tragic loss of the innocent child.

"It was his fault, not mine..." I murmured to myself in the hushed confines of the room, seeking solace in a truth I struggled to embrace.

The air was chill, and a gentle breeze caressed my cheeks. Lost in thought, I pondered the tale of my father and the white dragon. After his passing, the dragon vanished without a trace, disappearing into obscurity. I wondered if it still lurked somewhere, concealed from the world's gaze in a place where no living soul dared to tread. As a child back in Elyria, I often found solace in dreams of dragons. They became my escape from reality, my nightly companions in my dreams. In my imagination, they embodied freedom, with their mighty wings and fearsome visage. While some may have feared them, to me, they represented everything I longed to be. In the dark corners of my childhood room, I would whisper to myself that one day, I would be like a dragon. Yet now, as I gazed around the room where I found myself once again confined, I realized the irony—I was still imprisoned. "At least this time, there's a window," I mused silently before drifting into a deep and uneasy sleep.

Within the realm of dreams, I found myself adrift in a void—a world of shadows stretching endlessly. The ground beneath me was composed of darkness, from which countless hands emerged, reaching upward like beggars on the streets. Amidst this eerie expanse sat a young boy, his back turned to me. He swayed gently, humming a tune akin to a lullaby, his head bobbing from side to side in rhythm. I approached him cautiously, the grasping hands beneath my feet attempting to pull me into their depths. Despite their efforts, I pressed forward with relative ease. Standing beside the boy, I peered down at him, only to find him smiling from ear to ear as tears streamed down his cheeks. In the darkness, his eyes glowed a fiery red, fixed on me as he knelt before me, hands resting on his knees. His whispers echoed through the void.

"Liars. Liars. Liars," he repeated, each word carrying a weight of accusation.

Recognizing him as the same boy who had granted me powers and ensnared my father in an unwanted pact, I observed his frail form, his eyes filled with a haunting sadness as he remained in his repetitive chant of "Liars."

A series of knocks on wood reverberated through the emptiness, accompanied by a faint glimmer of light ahead. With a final glance at the boy, I chose to pursue the light, stepping away from his presence. Yet, with each step toward the light, his desperate cries grew fainter and the light remained elusive, slipping from my grasp whenever I drew near.

For a final time, the boy's voice pierced the silence, a furious scream of "Liars!" resonating through the void. At that moment, amidst his fury, I found a strange sense of empathy, an understanding of his anguish. Despite his role in my father's plight and my own, I harbored no hatred for him. Instead, I saw not malice but a pitiful figure railing against a world deaf to his cries.

As darkness enveloped me and consciousness faded, his voice lingered, a whispered refrain echoing softly: "Liars."

"Valerian! Come on, you need to wake up!" Silas's voice and gentle push roused me from a dream that felt like an eternity had passed since I last saw the light.

"Morning, Silas. What's with all the commotion this early in the morning?" I asked, scanning the room.

Two guards stood near the doorway, and a group of fey women dressed in green dresses with delicate white trims stood poised, their skirts grazing their knees and feet adorned with gleaming black shoes. Their hair was intricately woven into tight buns and simple braids, and they stood at attention, holding pieces of clothing.

"These are the palace maids, Valerian. They are here to dress you for the trial," Silas explained, still groggy from sleep.

"I can dress myself, thank you."

"Nonsense!" one of the fairy maids scoffed. "You came into our home in dirty, ragged clothes stained with blood! By the look of your simple attire, I can assume you've never put on proper clothes! So, what makes you think you could put on the finest fairy clothes by yourself? I'm sure your eyes couldn't comprehend which piece goes where." The maid's laughter rang out, but her words hit home. I was clueless about fashion.

"Very well, then," I relented.

With my consent, the maids rushed toward me and began removing my clothes.

"Hey! What are you doing?" I protested.

"Preparing you for a bath, of course! You stink!"

Resigned to their plans, I allowed the fairies to proceed. They ushered me to a bathhouse, submerged me in water, combed my long hair, and smeared it with sweet-smelling soap. Once clean, they moved me to a mirror and began dressing me. The pants were snug, a dark blue with golden stitching along the sides. A lightweight silver chainmail was draped over my shoulders, barely noticeable in its weight. They layered a coat matching the pants' color over it, adorned with the same golden stitching on the sleeves. Finally, they fitted me with light brown boots.

Staring at my reflection, I hardly recognized the person before me. Once unkempt locks now neatly framed my face, with a single strand cascading over my forehead. I resembled a politician, or perhaps even a prince. It felt empowering.

"And they say a suit doesn't make a man!" one of the maids remarked proudly.

"Now, let us head for the courtroom."