The Lonely Boy and his first friends

The midday sun bathed the school playground in soft, golden light.

Children's laughter echoed across the yard — groups of students chasing each other, playing ball, or huddled together sharing jokes.

But one boy sat alone.

Ronan Ashford, barely ten years old, perched quietly at the far end of the playground.

He sat cross-legged on a patch of grass, his worn notebook balanced on his knees, a half-used pencil in hand.

While others shouted and played, he drew in silence — focused, calm, invisible to the world around him.

On the page, he sketched the figure of a young warrior.

A boy, just like him, gripping two elegant swords in both hands — blades that seemed to dance with power and freedom.

He imagined himself like that someday.

Strong. Fearless. Free.

From a distance, two boys watched him.

They had seen Ronan before — always alone, always silent.

They had heard the cruel rumors whispered by others:

"That's the boy from the cursed house."

"Stay away from him!"

"His family is bad news."

But these two boys, unlike the rest, felt no fear toward Ronan.

They only felt pity... and maybe something more — a sense of understanding.

Gathering their courage, the two boys approached him.

"Hey," said the taller boy, smiling awkwardly.

Ronan glanced up, surprised. No one ever talked to him.

"Mind if we sit here?" the other boy asked.

Ronan hesitated, then gave a small nod.

They plopped down beside him without another word, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I'm Elias," said the taller boy.

"And I'm Lucan," said the shorter one.

Both of them spoke with light English accents — their families were from England, simple folks, not Hunters or nobles.

"I'm Ronan," he mumbled.

They sat together for a moment, the noise of the playground filling the silence between them.

Then Lucan leaned over, peeking at Ronan's notebook.

"What are you drawing?" he asked curiously.

Ronan shifted a little, almost shy.

"I'm... drawing myself," he admitted quietly.

"I imagine... fighting with two swords."

"Cool!" Elias said, his eyes lighting up.

"So you want to be a Hunter?"

Ronan smiled faintly for the first time. "Yeah... of course."

Elias nudged him playfully. "You're gonna be awesome. I can already tell."

A strange feeling bloomed in Ronan's chest — something warm, something unfamiliar.

Was this... what having friends felt like?

But doubt still lingered in his heart.

He looked down at his drawing and whispered,

"Don't you... don't you hate me? Everyone else does."

Lucan frowned. "Hate you? Nah."

"Yeah," Elias added firmly. "We actually think you're pretty cool."

"You don't bother anyone," Lucan said.

"You're just... you know, you're on your own. We figured maybe you could use some friends."

For a second, Ronan didn't know what to say.

A lump formed in his throat — but it wasn't sadness this time.

It was something else.

He smiled again, a little stronger this time.

From that day forward, the three boys were inseparable.

They talked every day at school, shared lunches, and slowly built a bond that Ronan had never known before.

[Scene: The School courtyard during lunch break. The three boys-Ronan, Lucan, and Elias are sitting quietly on a bench eating quietly]

Ronan: (looks up from his food, a little hesistant) "hey, have you guys ever seen the royal palace before?"

Lucan: (eyes wide) "The Royal Palace? Are you serious? We've only seen it from outside…. Its like a dream. Why?"

Elias: (grinning) Yeah, that place looks insane. I bet even the floors are made of gold or something"

Ronan: (smirks lightly) "Floors made of gold? The palace is not all that. Would you guys…like to see it? Like, actually go inside?

Lucan: (blinks, stunned) "wait, what? You mean go inside the palace? Are you being serious right now?"

Elias: "I mean, of course we would love to go! But are you sure? Wont that get you in trouble? Bringing peasants into palace"

Ronan: "Don't worry, ill sneak you guys in. No one will know, I promise. You're not peasants, you're my friends"

Sneaking Lucan and Elias into the palace had become second nature to Ronan.

He knew the secret paths, the quiet corridors where no one would notice three boys laughing and slipping through like ghosts.

But tonight...

Someone noticed.

As they turned a corner near the eastern wing, a sharp, familiar voice cut through the silence.

"So,"

Draven Ashford stood there, arms crossed, sneering at them.

"You actually brought peasants into the royal palace.

Haven't you brought enough shame on this family already, Ronan?"

Lucan and Elias froze, looking between Ronan and Draven nervously.

Ronan stepped forward, shielding them slightly.

"Just shut up, Draven," Ronan said coldly.

"This isn't your concern."

Draven's smirk widened as he took a step closer.

"You think you can just walk away like that?"

He grabbed Ronan roughly by the arm.

"You're a disgrace. Always have been."

Before Ronan could react, a firm hand separated them.

It was Ronan's guardian, appearing swiftly.

"That's enough," the guardian said, voice low but filled with authority.

He glanced at Draven with cold disapproval.

"Go back to your quarters, Prince Draven."

Draven scoffed but, after a tense moment, turned and stormed away.

The guardian turned to Ronan, his expression softer now.

"Take your friends out of the palace," he said quietly.

"Before anyone else sees them."

Ronan nodded without a word, leading Lucan and Elias back outside through the hidden passages, into the cool evening air.

They wandered quietly, eventually sitting together on a grassy hill overlooking the glittering lights of the city.

For a while, none of them spoke.

Finally, Lucan broke the silence.

"Hey, Ronan... why does your brother hate you so much?"

"Yeah," Elias added. "He's such a jerk. I don't get it."

Ronan stared up at the darkening sky, his voice quiet when he finally answered.

"I don't really know," he said.

"Maybe... because of the demon inside me.

My mother must have told him things. Made him see me differently."

He picked up a small stone and rolled it between his fingers.

"It's been that way since we were little.

He's always hated me.

No one in the palace really likes me... except my father... my guardian... my trainer... and you two."

Lucan and Elias looked at each other, then back at Ronan.

"You're not the only one with a rough life, you know," Lucan said, smiling faintly.

"People think I'm a weirdo because I like weird stuff... drawing, sword-fighting, all that."

"And me," Elias added, laughing weakly. "My family's poor.

Kids at school always make fun of me because of my clothes."

They all sat there for a moment, connected by the silent understanding of shared pain.

Ronan smiled for the first time in hours.

"One day," he said softly,

"one day, we'll rise above all of this.

We'll show them that we're stronger than they ever thought."

Lucan and Elias grinned back at him, the bond between them stronger than ever.

The stars shone brighter overhead, as if silently witnessing a friendship that would withstand every storm yet to come.

A whole year had passed. Ronan was now eleven years old, and so was Draven. Ronan, despite the many whispers and judgmental stares, remained inseparable from his two closest friends—Lucan and Elias. The bond between them had only grown stronger over time. They laughed together, studied together, and supported each other in a world that constantly tried to isolate Ronan.

Sometimes in school, the three of them were still mocked—called "the freaks" by other kids who didn't understand them. But Ronan didn't care anymore. Not as long as Lucan and Elias were with him. Whenever he could, Ronan would sneak out of the palace just to see them. And at times, he even snuck them into the palace without anyone's knowledge—well, aside from the few loyal staff who turned a blind eye for Ronan's sake.

One bright afternoon, after school had closed for the day, the three boys were walking home together, talking and joking as usual. As they passed a wide field not too far from the school, they noticed a group of seven kids playing football. Elias's eyes lit up instantly.

"Hey," he said, nudging the others. "Let's join them. Looks fun."

They all agreed and walked onto the field. Some of the boys paused their game, curious about the newcomers. One of the kids, who looked to be their age, walked straight up to Ronan.

"You're that kid," he said, pointing. "The one who beat those bullies last year, right?"

The other kids turned and looked at Ronan. For a moment, he felt that familiar tension rise in his chest. But before he could say anything, the boy gave him a grin.

"That's cool, bro. Very cool."

Ronan blinked, clearly surprised. "You guys… don't think I'm weird? Or… evil?"

The boy shook his head. "Nah. You gave those bullies what they deserved. Besides, it's not like you've ever hurt anyone innocent."

Another boy from the group added, "Yeah. You're actually pretty cool."

For the first time in a long while, Ronan felt something warm in his chest. He smiled—small, but genuine. His heart felt light.

"Wanna play with us?" the boy asked.

Ronan glanced at Lucan and Elias.

"Yeah," they all said at once.

They divided themselves into two teams of five. Ronan, Lucan, Elias, and two others formed one team, while the rest took the opposing side. The game began with energetic shouts and laughter echoing across the field.

Ronan was surprisingly skilled. His movements were sharp, quick, and precise. He weaved through defenders like it was second nature, scoring goal after goal. Lucan passed well, and Elias, despite being surprised at Ronan's talent, kept up the pace.

The final score stood at 5–3, with Ronan's team taking the win.

After the match, the boys dropped to the grass, tired and breathless but smiling widely. The others were now chatting with Ronan freely, patting him on the back and praising his skill.

"Bro, you were insane out there!" Lucan laughed.

Elias shook his head in amazement. "You never told us you could play like that!"

Ronan shrugged, still smiling. "Didn't think it mattered."

As the sun began to set and the sky turned orange, Ronan sat there, surrounded by kids who finally saw him for who he truly was. Not a monster. Not a curse. But just a boy—one who longed for friendship, for peace, and for a place where he belonged.

For the first time in a long while, Ronan felt like he was finally finding it.

As the sky deepened into shades of gold and purple, the boys lay on the field, laughing and panting from their match. Their spirits were high, sweat clinging to their skin and joy in their voices. Ronan sat up, wiping his forehead, then turned to the group, his tone shifting slightly.

"Hey… have any of you heard about the demon attacks lately?" he asked. "The Hunter Association's been fighting off more shadows across England these days. They say it's getting worse."

One of the boys scoffed. "Demon attacks? Come on, that's all just propaganda. Shadow demons, portals, curses—it's what they use to scare people and get more funding from the crown. I haven't seen one. You believe in something you've never seen?"

Ronan was quiet for a moment. "I've… seen things."

Before any of them could respond, the sky above the field began to distort. A loud, eerie hum filled the air, and a dark purple portal cracked open in the middle of the field, swirling with shadowy energy.

"What the hell is that?!" someone screamed.

From the rift, grotesque figures poured out—ten in total—twisted creatures of black flesh and glowing red eyes. Thralls and wretches. They let out guttural shrieks as they charged toward the boys.

"Run!!" Elias shouted.

But it was too late.

One of the wretches lunged forward and struck Ronan hard in the chest. The force of the blow sent him flying, crashing through a fence and slamming into the side of a building. His body hit the ground head-first with a sickening thud, leaving him stunned, unable to move.

His vision blurred as he tried to raise his head.

He could only watch.

The rest of the demons descended on the others like wild beasts.

Lucan tried to run to Ronan, but a thrall grabbed him and drove a blade into his chest—straight through his heart. Blood gushed from his mouth as his body hit the ground.

Another wretch seized him by the head and, without hesitation, split his skull in two with a single, brutal strike.

Elias screamed, trying to defend himself with a stick he found on the field—but it was useless. A thrall plunged its claws into his abdomen and tore through him without mercy.

The other children had no chance.

Their screams filled the air for only seconds before silence took over the field.

Ronan lay on the cold ground, barely conscious, unable to speak or move. Tears spilled from his eyes, mixing with the blood on his face. His vision was filled with the lifeless bodies of Lucan and Elias—his only real friends.

And the demons weren't finished.

The same wretch that had thrown him returned, looming over his limp body. Ronan's heart thudded weakly. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even scream.

Then, they appeared.

Two shadowy figures emerged behind Ronan. His shadows.

One of them stepped forward with blinding speed and drove its fist through the wretch's chest. The creature shrieked in agony before crumbling into ash.

The other shadow moved in a blur, tearing through the remaining demons with deadly precision. Within seconds, all ten creatures were slaughtered, their remains evaporating into black dust that scattered into the wind.

And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, the shadows returned to Ronan's body.

The wounds across his flesh healed almost instantly. But his strength didn't return. His soul felt crushed beneath the weight of what had just happened.

His friends—gone. Their bodies broken and bloodied. The field stained with the memory of their laughter and the horror that followed.

Tears streamed down Ronan's cheeks. He was alive. But for what?

In that moment, lying helplessly on the ground, he remembered something his trainer once told him:

"Those who carry demons within them… misfortune clings to them like shadow to flame. They are cursed not only by power, but by fate."

Minutes passed. The sound of boots echoed in the distance as a squad of Hunters arrived, drawn by the portal signature and the chaos. They stopped when they saw the scene—demonic remains, shattered ground… and the lifeless bodies of children.

"Dear God…" one of them muttered.

"There's no one else here…" another said. "Who did this?"

And then they saw him.

Ronan Ashford. Lying unconscious near the wreckage. Alone. And very much alive.

Their eyes filled with suspicion. Whispers began. The unease grew.

Because no human child should have survived a demon onslaught.

And yet… here he was.

Ronan slowly opened his eyes, the sterile scent of medicine and silence surrounding him. He was in his room—back in the palace. Soft golden sunlight filtered through the tall glass windows, but everything felt distant… numb.

His body was whole. His wounds were gone. But inside… he was shattered.

Sitting beside his bed was his father, King Alistair Ashford, his face lined with worry. The moment Ronan stirred, Alistair leaned in.

"Ronan… you're awake." His voice trembled slightly. "How are you feeling, son? You've been unconscious for hours. I was worried."

Ronan's lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes drifted to the side, to the floor, to nowhere. His chest tightened. His throat burned. The images replayed in his mind over and over again—Lucan, Elias… their blood, their eyes wide open and lifeless.

He turned his head away.

Before Alistair could speak again, a cold voice echoed from the doorway.

"Maybe he killed them," Draven said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. "What was he even doing out there, wandering around like a commoner? Bringing disgrace and now… this."

Ronan didn't even react. He just stared blankly into the distance.

King Alistair rose to his feet sharply. "Draven, that's enough."

"I'm just saying what everyone else is thinking," Draven replied coolly.

"I said that's enough!" Alistair barked. "Get out."

Draven held his father's gaze for a moment, then scoffed and walked away without another word.

Alistair sat down again, his anger slowly giving way to grief. "Don't listen to him," he said softly, brushing Ronan's hair back gently. "You're alive. That's all that matters right now. I don't care what people are saying. Just rest. Try to get better."

He stood up, casting one last look at his son before turning to leave. "I'll see you later, Ronan. You're not alone."

The door closed behind him.

By evening, word of the massacre had spread like wildfire.

The palace received a summons.

The highest-ranking members of the Hunter Association of England arrived at the royal court—advisors, generals, hunters. Dressed in black and crimson, their presence was sharp and imposing. Behind them, the atmosphere was tense, and grief hung like smoke in the air.

A meeting was held in the palace war chamber, where King Alistair sat at the head of the table. Beside him stood Queen Helena, arms folded, face unreadable.

"Your Majesty," one of the hunters began, "the scene at the field was unlike anything we've seen before. There were signs of demonic activity—clear evidence of a portal breach. However, all the demons were already dead when we arrived."

Another hunter added, "And the only survivor… was your son."

Helena's gaze sharpened. "Exactly. And he had no visible injuries. Ten children murdered… and he walks away without a scratch?"

The room fell into a heavy silence.

King Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Are you implying that Ronan killed them?"

"No, Your Majesty," the hunter quickly replied. "But the public will ask questions. Especially the parents of the deceased."

Helena pressed on, "His powers, whatever they are… they're unstable. What if this wasn't a demon attack? What if the threat came from inside him?"

"Enough," Alistair said firmly, silencing the room. "I understand the weight of what's happened. And I know the pain the families must be feeling. But we will not throw my son to the wolves while he still lies in grief."

He turned to the royal treasurer. "Make preparations. The families of all victims will be compensated. Homes will be rebuilt. The government will cover all losses and damages."

Then his gaze returned to the hunters.

"As for Ronan—he is under the care of the crown. You will speak to no one about this until I say otherwise. Let the boy rest. He is still recovering, and you will hear the truth from him directly… when he is ready."

The hunters exchanged glances, then bowed.

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

"Good," Alistair said. "You're dismissed."

As the Hunter Association left the palace halls, whispers followed in their wake. The boy who survived the demon massacre. The prince with strange powers. The demon's child.

And high above them all, in his lonely room, Ronan Ashford lay awake, his heart numb with sorrow, the weight of the world pressing down on his fragile soul.

[That Evening – Inside the Royal Chambers]

The golden light of the chandeliers danced on the marble walls of the king and queen's private chambers. But the warmth of the light could not ease the tension in the room.

Queen Helena stood by the window, her arms folded tightly against her chest, her gaze fixed beyond the horizon. King Alistair sat at the edge of the bed, his expression tired, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him.

"He's a threat, Alistair ," Helena said, her voice cold but trembling slightly. "We cannot keep him in this palace."

Alistair sighed, rubbing his temples. "We've talked about this—"

"No. You talk. You pretend everything is fine. But it's not." She turned to face him, her eyes sharp. "What if something happens? What if that demon power awakens again? What if it destroys us—Draven, me, all of us? What if it turns on this palace?"

Alistair 's jaw tightened. "Helena—"

"You don't want to discuss it," she interrupted. "You just want to let him go on sleeping peacefully while the rest of us live in fear."

"You're always supporting that boy," she continued, her voice rising. "Why? Why are you always on his side? What do you see in him that I don't? He has a demon inside him, Alistair ! Can't you open your eyes and see the truth?"

"Isn't he your son?" Alistair asked sharply, standing now. "Why do you hate him so much?"

Helena looked away. Her next words came like a whisper, but they carried more pain than any scream.

"I don't hate him…" she said slowly. "Hate was born inside him. It lives in him. That boy… is not my son. Sometimes, I pray. I go down to the temple and beg the gods for mercy. Because I feel like I've committed a sin just by bringing that thing into this world. I ask, why me? Why was I the one chosen to give birth to… that?"

A heavy silence fell.

Alistair stared at her for a long time, then turned away with clenched fists.

"For gods sake, Helena…" he muttered. "Forget all that. All this talk about demons and curses—has he ever hurt you before? Has he ever raised a hand to anyone in this palace?"

No answer.

"He's a good boy," Alistair said. "A good boy. Loving, quiet, kind. But none of you see it. To you all, he's always just that demon child. He's just a kid… He's only ten years old."

He shook his head and began walking toward the door. "I'm done with this talk. I don't hate him. And I won't treat him like a monster."

He paused at the door.

"Good night, Helena."

And with that, he left.

That Night – Ronan's Room

The moon hung silently over the palace, its pale light spilling across the sleeping kingdom. All was quiet, but not within the heart of one boy.

Inside his chamber, Ronan sat upright on his bed, drenched in sweat, trembling. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he clutched his head, shaking.

The images wouldn't stop.

Thomas's smile before the game.

Oliver's laugh.

Their bodies on the ground… lifeless… bleeding…

The blood. The screaming. The demon's face.

The shadow's roar.

His own voice, screaming helplessly inside as his body couldn't move.

He saw them all. Over and over again.

And then the voice of his master echoed faintly in his mind…

"Those born with the demon's mark carry great power… but also great misfortune. Pain. Death. It follows them like a shadow."

"No… no…" Ronan whimpered, curling into himself.

His hands trembled as they gripped his blankets. His body shivered, unable to find warmth in the suffocating cold of his own thoughts. The weight of it all crushed him—his heart, his soul.

He cried.

Not just from sadness, but from terror.

From guilt.

From loneliness.

And then, finally, unable to bear it, he let out a single, tortured scream that echoed faintly in the silence of the night.

Then… darkness.

The scene faded to black.