Prologue -Seeds of Hatred #3

Marcellus Voren was a general of remarkable youth—twenty-seven, perhaps twenty-eight at most.

He stood tall, his frame clad in a masterfully crafted iron breastplate—both formidable and elegant, its surface gleaming beneath the golden sunlight. Bronze filigree traced the edges, over his shoulders rested a double-layered pauldron, each plate etched with the imperial eagle. From his left shoulder flowed a striking crimson cloak.

At its center, a gilded eagle-head clasp secured the cloak in place—a small but unmistakable symbol of his noble lineage.

—A noble.

Asher’s gaze lingered on him, cold and unyielding. 

Though his hands were tightly bound, his mind remained razor-sharp, dissecting every detail with quiet precision.

In the northern wilds, the crunch of legionary boots grinding tribal villages into dust was as common as the biting northern winds. Yet like wolves scenting vulnerability, mountain bandits haunted the shadowed passes—lying in wait to ambush imperial stragglers. The armor and weapons they stripped from their victims became trophies—prized spoils of war, displayed with pride and passed down in stories among the clans.

Over time, through rumors and observation, Asher began to see a pattern.

The empire’s soldiers were distinguished by their armor—rank dictated design. The higher the rank, the more elaborate the embellishments, with bronze and gold woven into the steel.

And above all—only nobles were permitted to wear the crimson cloak.

 A child wasn’t supposed to know such things. But Asher was no ordinary child. 

Hidden in the shadows, he had listened—always listening. Whenever his father or the village elders gathered for council, he was there, a silent specter absorbing every word.

Fragmented words, half-heard truths—details of the empire that had once seemed meaningless. Now, piece by piece, they were forming a clear picture.

Asher slowly lifted his head, studying the general before him once more.

General Marcellus Voren’s flaxen hair fell to his shoulders, the ends curling slightly where the light caught them, giving off a faint golden sheen in contrast to his deep violet eyes. A portion of his hair was pulled back into a small, intricate braid, secured with a delicate silver ornament. 

But what stood out most—what made him truly unforgettable—were his eyes.

Cold. Piercing. A gaze so sharp it felt as if it could strip away all pretense, laying bare whatever lay beneath.

There were few who could meet such a stare head-on.

Most flinched. Most averted their eyes without thinking.

Of course—Asher was the exception.

Marcellus noticed. His brows lifted slightly as his gaze settled on the boy’s face.

Dried blood still streaked Asher’s cheek, and a fresh wound on his forehead seeped small droplets of crimson. He was small, barely more than a shadow beside the corpse of the man who had once been his captor. 

And yet, his eyes burned—sharp, unwavering, wholly devoid of fear or plea. They held a coldness that no child should have.

“You have the eyes of a wolf.”

Marcellus spoke at last.

The boy’s hair was a deep brown, nearly black—a common enough sight in the northern villages. But his eyes—those were rare. A piercing green, eerily reminiscent of a wolf’s gaze lurking in the dark, poised to strike.

“You killed my soldier?”

Marcellus glanced at Dirk’s lifeless body, his voice low, giving nothing away.

“Yes.” Asher didn’t hesitate.

Marcellus arched a brow, the faintest trace of amusement ghosting across his lips. “How old are you?”

“Eight.” The answer was just as cold.

“An eight-year-old couldn’t possibly kill an Aetrian soldier—unless the soldier himself was a disgrace.”

The moment the word “disgrace” left his lips, the soldiers around him stiffened. Their breath hitched, shoulders tensing in unison.

He was talking about them. 

A mere child had outwitted them, evaded them, and in the end, killed one of their own. It was an insult to the Empire’s name.

No one dared to move.

“A disgrace, indeed.”

Asher lifted his chin, meeting Marcellus’s gaze head-on. 

“Perhaps your men need better training.”

Silence fell over the camp.

Every soldier drew a sharp breath—no one, not a single soul, had ever dared to speak to the general with such blatant insolence.

The Empire’s iron-blooded general. A man known for his ruthless command.

And yet—

Marcellus wasn’t angry.

If anything, he was intrigued.

An eight-year-old child, not cowering, not pleading—but looking straight at him. Challenging him.

“One of my soldiers lies dead at your hands. That disgrace must be repaid.”

Marcellus stepped forward, closing the distance with unhurried ease. Then, to the shock of those around him, he bent down onto one knee—lowering himself to meet Asher’s gaze.

“How about this—we settle it with a wager.”

“A wager?”

Asher narrowed his eyes.

“Yes. A duel.”

A flicker of amusement danced in Marcellus’s eyes.

“You will fight the strongest soldier in this Cohort. If you win, I will grant you freedom. But if you lose—”

He let the silence stretch, drawing it taut, before finishing, voice smooth and merciless.

“I will have you crucified. Right here. Right now.”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the ranks.

Then, the murmuring began.

Asher didn’t so much as blink. He simply tilted his head up, locking eyes with the general.

“A duel?—Sounds good.”

Marcellus let out a low chuckle, the corners of his lips curling ever so slightly. With a flick of his wrist, he gave the command.

“Get him on his feet.”

The soldiers obeyed immediately, yanking Asher up from the ground.

Marcellus turned to his men. “Bring Argos.”

Then, as his gaze slid back to the boy, his smirk deepened.

“Now, let’s see if you’re worth keeping alive.”

The battlefield was set—a vast, open stretch of grassland.

Soldiers formed a massive circle around it, their ranks packed tight like an iron wall, leaving only the center as the designated ground for combat. Their eyes—sharp, unblinking—locked onto the two figures within, like a pack of wolves.

Beyond the circle, Marcellus stood with his arms crossed, observing in silence.

Argos was one of the Empire’s strongest warriors—a towering figure, standing nearly two meters tall, built like a fortress of muscle. In his grasp was a heavy longsword, its blade glinting coldly under the sun.

And then there was Asher.

A mere child of eight, standing at the opposite end of the field. Yet, despite the overwhelming disadvantage, his emerald eyes remained utterly fearless.

He had been given no weapon—only the broken blade that had slain Dirk. Its edge was dulled beyond recognition, its surface chipped and battered, barely more than a shard of metal.

One strike from Argos’s sword, and it would snap like a twig.

The air was thick with scorn and laughter.

The soldiers had already decided the outcome—A single strike. That’s all it would take. A child, armed with nothing but a shattered blade, against Argos? It wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter.

“He’s walking to his own grave.”

They mocked freely, their voices dripping with certainty.

“If that brat is still standing after a second, it’ll be a damn miracle.”

“Hah! This is just pathetic.”

“Just wait—Argos will cut him down in one blow. There won’t even be a body left.”

To them, Asher was no longer a challenger—he was a spectacle. A jester, a bug waiting to be crushed.

Their laughter grew louder.

Yet, standing at the center of it all, Asher remained motionless. Unfazed.

His grip tightened around the dull metal shard, his emerald eyes fixed on his opponent—steady, unreadable.

It was as if the giant before him was nothing more than a wooden training dummy, waiting to be cut down.

At Marcellus’s command, the duel began.

As expected, Aros swung his sword down in a devastating arc. The sheer weight of the blow tore through the air with a deafening roar, crashing toward Asher with enough force to split the earth. The impact sent a tremor through the ground, kicking up a storm of dust.

The soldiers erupted into cheers.

But Asher moved—fast. 

With nothing but instinct, he twisted his body at the last possible moment, slipping just beyond the blade’s lethal reach. To evade, he bent so low his body nearly grazed the ground—dodging by mere inches, a hair’s breadth away from decapitation.

The air hissed as the cold steel passed by, the tip grazing his skin, a chilling reminder of how close death was.

Argos’s sword was fast—terrifyingly fast. There was no time to think—only to move, to anticipate, to survive.

The soldiers were growing restless. They shrugged, snorted, and let out jeers and shouts, their voices dripping with scorn.

“Hurry up and finish him, Argos!”

“What are you waiting for?!”