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The cry pierced the quiet like a blade. It was high and raw, not yet touched by language or memory.
Somewhere in the dark, an infant gasped for breath. Then came another cry, louder this time, as if the child refused to enter the world in silence.
Rain tapped gently on wooden shutters. The storm from the alley was gone, replaced by a soft pattering that made the cold cottage feel even smaller. The fire had long since turned to ash. The walls were old and damp, the air was thick with the smell of blood, wet linen, and something bitter beneath it. A single oil lamp flickered in the corner, its flame casting long shadows that stretched across the stone floor.
The baby wailed again.
The woman on the bed barely stirred. Her skin was pale, lips parted, eyes fluttering half open before drifting shut again. She had no strength left. Sweats were dripping from her face. One hand hung off the edge of the bed, fingers twitching as if reaching for someone… but the person wasn't there.
A midwife servant knelt beside her, silent and still. She held the newborn wrapped in thin cloth, her face caught between awe and hesitation.
There was something strange about this child.
Not the crying. Not the tiny body or the clenched fists or even the shock of black hair already growing across the scalp.
It was the hand. The right hand.
Wrapped around the baby's fingers was a ring. A silver band that pulsed faintly with dark light. Not bright enough to fill the room, but strong enough to be noticed. The midwife stared at it for a moment, lips pressed into a line. Her instincts told her to say nothing.
Suddenly, the door creaked open.
Boots stepped across the stone floor. They were too clean for this part of the estate. The man who wore them did not belong in a place like this (the servant area).
He stopped at the edge of the bed and said nothing for a long moment. Then he looked at the child.
"So this is the ninth," he said. "Born in secret. Raised in dirt."
The midwife held the baby a little closer.
"He is your son, my lord," she said quietly.
The man didn't respond. His gaze moved to the woman lying motionless on the bed.
"She was never meant to matter," he said. "A favor to keep the commoners quiet. That was all."
He turned and walked back to the door.
"No records. No celebration. You may name him if you wish, but he will not be raised as a noble. He will stay here. Out of sight."
The door closed with a dull click. The wind picked up outside. The shutters rattled. The baby's cries softened.
The midwife stared at him. Then she glanced at the dying woman, and a deep sigh passed through her chest. Some servant girls came and took the dying women away.
"Your name will be John," she whispered. "John White."
She didn't know why the name came to her. It felt right. As if the name John had already belonged to him.
She swings the child slowly, back and forth, her hands steady despite the trembling in her shoulders.
And high above the roof of the cottage, deep within the clouds, a faint echo rumbled across the night sky.
It was not thunder. It was the sound of something awakening. John's previous life memories came in fragments.
The warmth of a blanket pulled too tight. The sharp ache of hunger that grew familiar over time. The flickering of candlelight on the walls. Rough wooden floors. A cold draft that never seemed to leave. A woman's voice humming softly in the quiet hours, always just before sleep.
The ring never left his hand. No matter how tightly the midwife wrapped him, the silver band remained exposed. It never slid off. It never dulled. Sometimes it pulsed at night, its faint light dancing across the ceiling like a heartbeat in shadow.
Years passed.
The woman who named him grew older, thinner, and slower. She taught him how to walk and how to read. She taught him how to light a fire when the wind blew hard against the walls. She taught him to be quiet whenever footsteps approached the cottage, especially when they wore polished boots.
Those were the days John hated the most.
Men would come, dressed in noble black and silver. They never smiled. They never spoke to him. They looked around the cottage like it was a cage full of insects. Sometimes they dropped coins on the table. Sometimes they didn't.
Once, when he was five, one of them called him a stain.
The midwife didn't argue. She lowered her head and said nothing. That silence taught John more than words ever could.
He did not belong here. Not in the mansion that stood beyond the iron gate. Not in the family whose blood ran in his veins.
Not even in the stories other children told about dukes and sons and birthdays.
He lived on the edge of their world. Close enough to hear the music from the grand hall on festival nights, but never close enough to see the candles.
He watched them from behind the wooden fence. The nobles. The children with silver cloaks and proud steps. His half brothers.
They didn't look at him. They pretended he wasn't there.
Once when he was six, on a sunny day John had felt brave, maybe foolish. He decided to wave at one of them through the fence.
The boy on the other side wore clean clothes stitched with silver thread His boots looked like they had never touched anything but polished stone His hair was combed and oiled and he smelled faintly of roses even from that distance
John raised his hand slowly awkwardly grinning with the hope of being seen or being noticed or being accepted. He just wanted someone to play with him or talk to him.
The boy turned and looked right at him and without a word bent down and spat into the mud. His voice came clear and sharp like a thorn through flesh.
"Low born."
Then he walked away without another glance. John stood frozen, his small hand still in the air until the sun shifted and the shadow of the fence fell across his face. He never waved again. Not to anyone. Not for many years.
The seasons passed one after another in a long grey march. His chores grew heavier. His back learned the weight of water buckets and firewood. His hands blistered and cracked from scrubbing stone and chopping kindling. The cottage was small and cold, always creaking in the wind. The midwife who raised him grew older. Her once steady hands now shook when she poured tea or tried to sew. She muttered more often and forgot simple things like names and days.
He began to do everything. Fetching firewood from the frozen sheds. Carrying water from the well before dawn. Cleaning ashes from the hearth and scraping dried herbs off the rafters while others in the manor above slept soundly beneath silk blankets and carved ceilings.
Even the servants who passed by the cottage lowered their eyes when they saw him. Some turned corners to avoid him. Some mumbled prayers under their breath as if his shadow might bring bad luck to them. He did not know their names and they did not want to know his.
But the ring stayed.
It pulsed from time to time,softly. A faint warmth that throbbed against his skin like a whisper in the dark. It did not glow or sing or speak but it reminded him he was not entirely alone. Not every day. Not every month. But just enough to make him feel like something was waiting, like something remembered him.
He had asked the midwife once, Why does it do that?
She had stared at the silver band around his finger, her eyes full of things she had never said. Her mouth moved for a moment before she finally spoke.
"It is older than this land. Passed through your blood. That much I know."
He just nodded, unsure what it meant. Then he asked, "Without you, why does no one talk to me?"
"Because they are afraid," she said.
"Afraid of what," he asked back.
She did not answer. Her mouth closed and she never opened it again about that subject.
On his tenth birthday he waited all day in silence. The sky outside wept rain through the cracked thatch. The wind made the shutters groan.
No one came. No knock at the door. No candles, No fire, No bread, Not even a spare potato. The midwife slept through most of it coughing and muttering in her dreams.
No one remembered. Not the midwife, not the manor, not even the servants who walked by the cottage on the path outside without glancing at the window.
Except the ring.
He lay on the edge of the cold hearth staring at the ring as it pulsed. That night, it glowed brighter than ever before. And in the silence, he heard something new.
A whisper. Not loud. Not clear. But present. He sat up in bed, his heart pounding. The candle in the room flickered once and went out.
He waited in the dark, hand clenched around the ring. But the voice said nothing more. He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if he had imagined it.
The truth would come later. Not in a flash. But in the slow, grinding turn of years. Until one day, the voice would return in full. And this time, he would be ready.