Mirror of the past

The slap was so hard it sent his head jerking to the side. The sting flared, but the impact… did not make him flinch.

For a moment, there was silence. He slowly turned his gaze to Mrs. Violet, meeting her with the kind of cold, calculating stare that could break bones. He wasn't afraid. He wasn't broken. But this was not the time to strike. 

"Get up," she growled.

Kael'thar, without a word, rose to his feet. But before he could react, two of the guards who'd been loitering in the hallway entered, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him forward.

"You will pay for your insolence, boy," Mrs. Violet continued, her voice dripping with venom. "You're nothing but a plaything for my amusement."

Kael'thar glared at the twins, who were still laughing in the corner.

Then, the punishment came.

The guards dragged him through the halls—through endless corridors lined with opulence—until they reached a room Kael'thar had never seen before. It was small, with no windows, dimly lit by a single flickering torch. The air was thick and damp.

One of the guards shoved him to his knees.

"No," he said, voice low and steady. "You can't."

But Mrs. Violet was already reaching for a thick, leather whip hanging on the wall.

"You're going to learn what happens when you disrespect your betters," she spat.

Kael'thar braced himself. The first lash burned his skin, tearing through the fragile body he now wore. It didn't hurt as much as the fire of humiliation, but the sting was undeniable. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

Another lash.

This time, it hit his back—sharp and unforgiving. His breath caught, but he didn't scream. 

"Pathetic," Mrs. Violet mocked, her voice thick with malice as she struck him again.

Kael'thar's mind raced. No one had ever dared to treat him like this…

He could feel the rage building—the righteous fury of a god imprisoned. But he held it in. He wasn't going to lash out—not yet. He wouldn't give them that power over him.

The third lash, then the fourth. His body was breaking under the pressure, but Kael'thar's eyes remained cold. His mind remained sharp. He would wait. He would wait, and he would watch. Every thread of their scheme, every weakness they had, would be his to unravel.

And when the time came, when they had no more secrets to hide—he would be the one to strike.

The door slammed shut with an echo that reverberated through the cold, empty room.

Kael'thar was thrown into a dark, desolate corner. His back ached where the whip had struck him, and his body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. His hands trembled, but he clenched them into fists to stop the shaking. He would not let them see him weak.

The sound of the lock turning made his blood run cold.

They had left him here—alone.

" Mark my words Vio…let." He said mockingly." I would pop you like a balloon one day."

It was a room far from the comforts of the grand mansion. The walls were damp, the floor covered in dust and old, rotting wood. The faint smell of mildew lingered in the air, a cruel reminder of the fact that he wasn't in the palace he once ruled, but in a cold, forgotten corner of someone else's life.

Kael'thar sat against the wall, legs folded beneath him. His back was against the cold stone, and for the first time since he'd woken up in this strange, young body, there hasn't been anything good about it.

"Who was this Zayn?"

His fingers, still sore from the earlier punishment, grazed his face. This boy, this body—he didn't know anything about him. 

Zayn was nothing. A stranger in his own skin.

He pressed his fingertips to his forehead, trying to piece together the fragments. The memories of a life that wasn't his were muddled and fragmented. Faces flickered in his mind, but they were like shadows, too faint to hold onto.

"How could this weak thing have lived a life worthy of me?"

Kael'thar's chest tightened. Was this Zayn's life? Was he simply a plaything for these people? His entire being, reduced to a puppet of someone else's whims?

"Who was his family? What had they done to him?"

The room was silent except for the occasional drip of water somewhere far off. Kael'thar's mind raced as he tried to put together the pieces of this broken puzzle. His instincts told him this wasn't just a random body. This boy—Zayn—had a story. A history. And somehow, it was tangled up in the web of his own fate.

Then, as his mind wandered back to his purpose—escape—his eyes caught a glimmer of something on the wall.

He ran to the window.

But it wasn't a window.

 There, partially hidden beneath a layer of dust and grime, was a frame. A picture.

With cautious steps, Kael'thar stopped, the pain in his back barely registering. He wiped the dust from the frame and looked at the picture inside.

It was a young boy—Zayn—standing beside a man and a woman they looked happy. His eyes narrowed. The boy looked like him. Or rather, he looked like the boy. A strange, unsettling sensation tugged at the back of his mind as he studied the faces.

The man was tall, regal, his posture imposing, with glittering eyes but yet a commanding presence. The woman beside him—elegant, beautiful, she smiled at Zayn with love. Their smiles were real, l

"So this is what Zayn came from," Kael'thar murmured, his voice quiet but filled with something he hadn't expected.

He wasn't sure what he felt at first, but it was raw. Something human. Something that clung to the pit of his chest.

This picture… this family. Zayn was not just an orphan. Not just a pawn. He had a mother and father once. They were people. These were people who had lived with him—loved him. Or at least, that's what the picture tried to show.

For the first time in over a millennium, Kael'thar felt a pang of pity—real, painful pity—

for this boy.