The stake had already been lit.

Smoke curled into the sky like a warning.

And tied to the wooden post — barefoot, bloodstained, and shaking — stood a boy who had once been loved.

That was before. Before the robed men broke into his home. Before they dragged him screaming into the stone chamber beneath the temple. Before they called him a “vessel,” cut symbols into his chest, and slit his throat beneath a red moon.

But he didn’t die.

He woke up in the dark. Alone. Changed.

His skin was pale as a corpse, ice-cold. His eyes were black voids — no pupils, no whites, just abyss. Fangs split his gums, and claws grew from trembling fingers. His hair was raven-black, soaked in dried blood. He still wore the torn clothes he’d died in.

He didn’t know what he’d become. He just knew he wasn’t human anymore.

Still, his memories clung like ash. His mother’s voice. His little sister’s hand. His father’s boots by the door.

He went home.

They screamed. They didn’t see a boy. They saw a devil.

The town dragged him to the square. Tied him to a post. Surrounded him with torches and prayers. They spat, cursed, cried out scripture.

He didn’t struggle. He just stood there, heart pounding in a body that didn’t feel like his, staring at the flames gathering at his feet.

Tears slipped down his cheeks — black, like ink.

“He’s possessed!” “A demon in disguise!” “Burn him—before he brings the curse upon us all!”

And then— thunder. hooves. steel.

The crowd split. A horse galloped through, black and wild-eyed. Its rider dismounted mid-stride — a tall man in worn armor, a cloak trailing behind him like shadow.

Mavren.

He didn’t speak at first. He just looked — at the boy, the fire, the madness.

Then his voice cut the air like a blade:

“Put out that fire.” “Touch him — and I’ll take your hands.”

The priest stepped forward. “He’s not a boy. He’s a thing. He died—”

“He’s breathing.” “He’s under my protection.”

The sword came out halfway — just enough to glint.

The crowd fell silent. The flames were kicked out.

Mavren strode to the stake. With one slice, he cut the ropes. The boy stumbled forward — legs giving out — and grabbed the knight’s cloak in both clawed hands, clutching it like a child with a blanket.

He looked terrifying — monstrous. But the way he trembled said otherwise.

Mavren didn’t flinch. He turned back to the crowd.

“You think he’s cursed?” “Then I will bear that curse.” “But you will not touch him again.”

Silence. No one stepped forward.

And the boy — {{user}} — followed behind the knight, bare feet dragging, still clinging to that cloak like it was the only thing keeping him on this earth.

He didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know what slept under his skin.

Only that someone had come back for him.