Chapter 1: The Boy Who Was Left Behind

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Chapter 1: The Boy Who Was Left Behind

The storm raged as the black mist carried the child far from blood and ruin. Thunder cracked overhead, and the wind howled like a beast untamed — but within that swirling chaos, the child slept. The demon's power wrapped around him, a cocoon of shadows and forgotten promises, carrying him across miles and time.

When the mist finally dispersed, it left the boy in the heart of a cold, barren forest. The air smelled of pine and earth, the quiet only broken by the distant call of wolves. The bundle stirred, and the child began to cry.

That was when the old man found him.

Doran Greaves was no savior. He was a farmer, a man hardened by the cruel hand of life. But when he saw the child — alone, fragile, and helpless — something shifted in his weathered heart. He lifted the baby in his arms, his calloused fingers brushing the child's cheek. "Hush, now," Doran whispered, his voice rough but gentle. "You'll freeze if you keep cryin'."

And so the child found a new home.

The village of Greywick was a small and forgotten place — a rough settlement at the edge of the kingdom of Vaelcrest, where the law reached lightly and survival was a daily struggle. It was a world ruled by strength, where the weak were cast aside or used up. And for most of his life, the boy named Alexis Greaves was among the weakest of them all.

He grew up smaller than the others — thinner, slower, and sickly. His pale skin and dark hair set him apart from the village's sun-weathered children, and his strange red eyes only fueled the whispers.

"Demonspawn," they called him when they thought he couldn't hear.

He heard. He always heard.

But Alexis never fought back. He never had the strength. When the village boys pushed him into the mud or stole his meager share of bread, he bore it in silence. When the elders turned their gazes away, he kept his head down. And when Doran Greaves — the man who'd taken him in — grew colder and more distant with every year, Alexis simply endured.

But weakness taught him things that strength never could.

It taught him patience. Resilience. It taught him how to fade into the background, to listen and observe. And above all, it taught him to dream — of something more, of a day when he wouldn't have to run or bow his head.

He did find joy, here and there. A kind word from the village healer, old Maela. The laughter of Elen, the blacksmith's daughter, who never seemed to care that Alexis was different. And there was Jareth, his only true friend — a boy with more courage than sense and fists quick enough to make up for Alexis's lack of them.

"One day," Jareth said, grinning as they sat on the outskirts of Greywick, watching the sun dip below the trees, "I'm gonna be a knight, you know. Join the King's Army and fight for Vaelcrest. And you'll come with me."

"Me?" Alexis laughed, but the sound was hollow. "I can barely lift a sword."

"Doesn't matter," Jareth said, his eyes fierce. "You've got a good head, Lex. Smarter than any of those idiots back in the village. And you're my brother, blood or not. We stick together."

For a while, Alexis believed him.

But fate had other plans.

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The war came without warning.

Vaelcrest had long been a kingdom on the brink — caught between the ambitions of greater powers and the relentless advance of the Holy Church of Eos. The church claimed divine right, waging crusades against any who dared defy their vision of purity. And when they declared that Vaelcrest had harbored demonic influence, there was no stopping the tide of blood.

The village burned.

The sky turned red with fire and ash, and the screams of the dying filled the air. Alexis ran — not because he was brave, but because he was afraid. He ran through the forest as his home crumbled behind him, the sound of marching boots and clashing steel never far behind.

He found Elen first. Or what was left of her.

He didn't remember falling to his knees, only the cold numbness that followed. The village healer, Maela, was next — her body broken in front of the small hut where she had once treated his wounds.

When he found Jareth, the boy was still alive — barely.

"They… they called us heretics," Jareth whispered, his voice weak and wet with blood. "Said we… consorted with demons."

"Don't talk," Alexis begged, tears streaming down his face. "We'll get you help."

But Jareth just smiled — that same reckless, defiant smile. "Told you we'd… stick together. Didn't I?"

Then he was gone.

By the time the soldiers reached him, Alexis had nothing left to lose.

"Kill him," one of the knights sneered, his silver armor stained with blood. "No need to waste time on a weakling."

But the leader — a tall man with cold, calculating eyes — raised a hand. "No. This one… we take alive."

And so they did.

Bound and beaten, Alexis Greaves was dragged from the ashes of his home. The war had stolen everything from him — his family, his friends, and whatever hope he had left.

But deep inside him, something stirred.

A memory forgotten. A power long sealed.

And far away, beneath the pale moon's light, the demon waited.

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