Child Of Time

"To walk the line between what is and what seems—this is the path to despair,"

The cavern was silent save for the crackle of unseen flames, their oppressive heat pressing against Grey's convulsing body. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, pooling around his shaking frame. The rune carved into his skin blazed like molten fire, searing not just his flesh but the very fabric of his being.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever endured, a scorching lance that pierced his body and mind. His screams were guttural, torn from the depths of his soul as his hands clawed at the ground, leaving streaks of blood and broken nails.

"AHHHHHHHHHHH!"

As the last echoes of his scream faded into the oppressive silence, the torment shifted. The suffocating presence of the Mirror Realm, a twisted simulacrum of reality, surged forward like a predator sensing weakness. Its oppressive weight had always been there, a silent and inescapable burden he had learned to endure with gritted teeth and steeled resolve. But now, with his body wracked by unbearable pain and his mind frayed to the edges of madness, the tenuous defenses he had clung to crumbled.

The rune did not relent. It burned brighter, glowing with the intensity of a miniature sun, as if molten lava coursed through his veins. The relentless carving into his flesh continued, each line etched with agonizing precision, yet Grey—who had slipped into the clutches of hallucination—no longer felt its searing torment. His body remained rigid, his chest heaving, but his consciousness drifted into the phantasmal depths of the Mirror Realm's madness.

His wide-open eyes stared blankly into the void, unfocused and vacant, as if frozen in a silent scream. In his mind, he wandered a surreal landscape of shifting horrors and fragmented realities, where time stretched and twisted into incomprehensible shapes. Yet outwardly, he lay unmoving, his trembling reduced to a faint shiver.

The cavern fell silent once more, save for the unyielding crackle of the rune's fiery glow. It was as if the echoes of his torment had never existed, swallowed whole by the oppressive void.

***

The first memory surged forward, hazy at first but sharpening with cruel clarity. He was no longer in the cavern. Instead, he stood before a grand chamber. The polished marble beneath his feet gleamed in the golden light spilling from the slightly ajar door. Inside, he could hear soft laughter—gentle and warm, a sound that should have comforted him.

But it didn't.

Grey—or whatever his name had been then—stood frozen. His small hands clutched the edges of the doorframe as he peeked inside. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear but from hesitation, an unfamiliar ache that kept him rooted.

The scene inside was idyllic. A woman, radiant and regal, sat on a grand bed, her silver hair cascading like a river of light. In her arms, she held a tiny bundle swaddled in fine silks. The man standing beside her, his presence commanding yet gentle, was the king. His sharp features softened as he gazed at the two, an expression of pride and love etched into his face.

The child outside the door shifted slightly, the movement causing the wood to creak faintly. The woman's head turned sharply toward the sound.

"Who's there?" her voice called, gentle yet firm.

Panicking, the boy ducked behind the doorframe, his heart pounding even harder.

The woman's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Come here, ■■■■" she said, her tone softening.

The boy didn't move. He pressed himself against the wall, willing himself to disappear.

The man's voice followed, deep and steady, tinged with amusement. "Your mother called you, boy. Don't make her wait."

The boy peeked around the door again, his wide eyes meeting hers. For a moment, he hesitated.

"Come," the queen said again, her smile warm enough to melt his fear. "Aren't you going to meet your brother?"

Her words froze him in place. Brother? He hadn't thought about it much—he wasn't even sure what to feel.

Still, he slowly stepped into the room, his bare feet cold against the marble floor. His head remained low, his gaze flitting between the ground and the faces of the people before him.

The queen adjusted the bundle in her arms, tilting it so he could see. "Look," she said softly, "this is your brother."

The boy hesitated again, his small fists clenching at his sides.

"Don't be shy now," the king added, his stern tone carrying a note of encouragement. "A big brother shouldn't hesitate."

The child moved closer, step by reluctant step, until he stood beside the bed. The queen's gentle smile didn't waver as she tilted the bundle toward him. Inside, a tiny face with pale skin, black eyes, and soft white hair peeked out.

"Go on," the queen said, her voice soothing. "Hold him."

His hands trembled as he reached out, his heart racing. His father's deep chuckle echoed in the room. "Careful now, boy. You're a big brother—you have a duty to protect him."

The boy's small arms cradled the baby, his touch so light it was almost as if he feared breaking him. The baby stirred, its tiny hand reaching out to grasp his finger.

The boy's lips parted in awe, his previous hesitation melting away. For the first time, a small, genuine smile appeared on his face.

"Will you protect him ■■■■?" the queen asked, her gaze piercing yet kind.

The boy nodded, his voice quiet but firm. "I will."

The king rested a hand on his shoulder, the weight both comforting and commanding. "Good. A king protects his own."

For a fleeting moment, the warmth in that room filled his chest with something precious—something he couldn't name but didn't want to let go of.

***

The memory shifted. The boy, now older, stood in a training yard, his brother—five years old and full of life—clutching a wooden sword that looked far too big for him.

"Like this," the older brother said, swinging his own sword in a precise arc.

The younger boy tried to mimic the motion but stumbled, the sword slipping from his grasp. It clattered to the ground, and he looked up with a pout, his black eyes shining with frustration.

The older boy laughed, a rare sound. "You'll never win a fight like that."

"I'm trying!" the younger one huffed, bending down to pick up the sword.

The older brother crouched beside him, his expression soft. "Here, let me help."

Their hands moved together, guiding the sword in a proper swing. The younger boy beamed, his earlier frustration forgotten. "I did it! Did you see?"

"Yeah, I saw," the older boy said, ruffling his hair. "You're getting better."

The younger boy's grin turned mischievous. "Does that mean I can beat you?"

"Not in a hundred years," the older brother shot back with a smirk.

Their playful banter echoed in the training yard, the world around them fading into nothing. For those moments, there was no kingdom, no expectations—just two brothers, laughing together.