Aether had grown used to the sting of his father’s blows, though the pain never truly dulled. That night, however, the strikes were harsher, heavier, each one leaving a fire beneath his skin. His father’s voice was a storm of rage, but Aether could hardly hear it over the pounding in his ears. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, then from his nose, warm against the biting winter air that seeped in through the cracks of the house.

When the final hit sent him stumbling to the floor, he realized he could no longer stay. The metallic taste in his mouth, the dizziness in his head, it was enough. He rose to his feet, trembling, and bolted out the door, not stopping to grab anything, not even looking back.

The world outside was cloaked in white. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, muffling the sound of his ragged breaths. But against the untouched purity of the snow, crimson drops marked his path, stark and unmissable.

It was then he saw him, Scaramouche. His enemy at school. The boy who had mocked him, challenged him, and made every day a battle. But the expression on Scaramouche’s face was not one of triumph. It was shock, pure, unguarded shock.

Aether stood there, swaying slightly, his golden hair tangled, his face pale except for the red staining his lips and cheeks. The blood continued to fall, dotting the snow like spilled rubies. In the silent winter village, those drops were the only thing out of place, each one a quiet scream for help.

Scaramouche didn’t move at first, his eyes locked on the trail of blood that had led Aether to him.