Cero staggered back, a searing pain twisting in his gut.
His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring as he clutched his throat. A sickly, metallic taste filled his mouth. Then, with a violent cough, blood sprayed from his lips, staining the dirt beneath him.
The villagers stood around him, their faces twisted in something between triumph and contempt. Some sneered, others crossed their arms, and a few even chuckled under their breath.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto all fours, his fingers clawing at the ground. His wide, disbelieving eyes darted from one villager to the next, searching for even a shred of remorse. He found none.
"Why?" His voice cracked, hoarse with pain and betrayal.
He pointed a trembling finger at them, his hand shaking as though the weight of the accusation was too much to bear. "Why?"
"W... why?" His voice was hoarse, weak barely more than a whisper. He searched their faces, looking for an answer or even a sliver of mercy. None came. Only schadenfreude.
An old woman scoffed, her arms crossed. "You bring nothing but misfortune, boy. Bad luck follows you like a shadow, and we've suffered enough because of it. We had no choice." Her voice was sharp, each word dripping with bitterness, as if spitting them out might ward off whatever ill fate clung to him.
A man spat at his feet. "Every harvest you touch fails. Every family you visit suffers misfortune. We should have done this long ago."
The words struck like a blade to the gut. His chest tightened. He tried to deny it, to scream that it wasn't his fault. He opened his mouth to protest, but pain exploded in his gut.
He gasped, looking down to see the gleaming edge of a blade buried deep in his stomach. A rough hand , merciless twisted the weapon, sending a fresh wave of agony through him. His knees buckled. Warm blood trickled down his skin, pooling beneath him.
The world blurred. The flames dimmed. The voices faded into an eerie silence.
Cero jolted awake, his breath ragged and his body damp with sweat. His eyes darted around the dimly lit room, searching for the burning houses, the accusing faces, only to find the familiar wooden beams of the ceiling above him.
He exhaled a shaky breath, pressing a hand against his chest to steady his racing heart.
"Just a dream," he murmured to himself, though the pounding in his ears made it feel all too real. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his tangled hair. The blankets clung to his damp skin, a reminder of the fear that still lingered.
The world outside was quiet, untouched by the horrors of his vision. Yet, deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that the nightmare was more than just a trick of his mind.
Cero sat on the edge of his small bed, his fingers still absently pressing against his stomach. The nightmare clung to him like a phantom pain, but what truly unsettled him wasn't the dream itself but it reminded him of.
His gaze drifted to the wooden floor, distant and unfocused. Everything had been normal. Or at least, as normal as life could be for an orphan. He had chores, helped at the clinic whenever the doctor was out of town, and lived in quiet obscurity with the town doctor who had raised him. The villagers ignored him, but they hadn't feared him. Not yet.
Then, it started.
Six months ago.
That was when it began. Slowly at first, like a splinter working its way under the skin.
The heartbeat had been the first sign. That strange thrum beneath his ribs, pulsing out of rhythm with his own. He remembered the confusion on the doctor's face when he couldn't explain it, and the way Cero had laughed it off at the time, nervously, but still trying to believe it meant nothing.
Then came the accidents.
The morning after he fetched water from the village well, it caved in. No one was there, thank the gods, but people noticed. Whispers started.
Days later, a patch of crops turned black and brittle overnight, right where he'd paused to rest on his way to deliver herbs. A hunter broke his leg after eating stew Cero had helped prepare.
Coincidence, they said at first. But the village had never been kind to orphans, and now they had something to hold against him.
He remembered the faces.
Children who used to wave now ran when they saw him. Merchants stopped bartering with him. Sick patients refused his medicine, even when they were dying.
He'd never forget the day an old woman spat at his feet and called him "the mark of Chernobog." He hadn't even known who that was until someone whispered the name again at the market: Chernobog, the god of misfortune.
It stuck.
They started calling him the jinx. The cursed child. The black shadow.
Even the doctor, kind as he was, had grown quiet. Concerned. Distant.
Cero's fingers clenched the grass beneath him. He could still remember the look on the doctor's face the night the barn collapsed, how his voice trembled as he asked, "You passed by there, didn't you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
The pain wasn't just the rejection. It was the doubt. The growing voice inside that wondered… What if they were right? What if something was wrong with him?
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the tree, letting the second heartbeat echo softly inside his chest. It hadn't stopped in six months.
"I didn't ask for this," he whispered.
But the wind carried no answers.
The town clinic was quiet.
Cero moved between the shelves and cabinets, carefully restocking the jars of dried herbs. The scent of chamomile, thyme, and bitterroot lingered in the air familiar, comforting. His fingers moved with practiced ease, muscle memory born of years watching the doctor work.
This place… it was the only home he'd ever known.
He glanced toward the back room, where rows of shelves stood crammed with tomes, scrolls, and weathered manuscripts, an unruly but sacred library the doctor had collected over decades. Some were texts on anatomy and medicine, others on history, philosophy, old gods, and forgotten languages. Some were forbidden in the kingdom, but the doctor kept them anyway.
That was where Cero had spent most of his childhood, tucked away with ink-stained fingers and burning curiosity, reading long into the night. He'd learned to read before he learned to swim, learned to mix tinctures before he learned to ride a horse.
He wasn't just an orphan. He was the doctor's apprentice. His assistant. His shadow.
Whenever the doctor traveled whether to tend to patients in nearby villages or to argue with local authorities about the king's taxes or church levies, Cero took over. He bandaged wounds, set bones, mixed salves. Most villagers had once trusted him, even respected his skill.
But that was before.
Now, they'd rather bleed than let him touch them.
He sighed and leaned on the wooden counter, eyes trailing across the room. Every bottle, every tool here had once made him feel needed. Now, they just reminded him of what he was losing.
His thoughts drifted to the Church of Light, whose stone tower loomed over the village like a watchful eye.
The Church claimed to be the beacon of truth in a broken world a divine institution descended from the High Thrones, guardians of purity and order. Their white-clad priests and gold-crowned bishops preached about the One Light, the eternal flame that banished darkness and sin.
Their structure was rigid: hierarchies, ceremonies, codes. Parish priests answered to local bishops, who answered to High Luminaries, who answered to the Pontifex in Solaria the holy capital far to the south.
Their presence in the town had grown over the years. Sermons filled the square every week, bells rang before dawn, and Lightwardens soldier-clerics clad in polished chain-mail patrolled the roads during holy festivals.
To most townsfolk, the Church was comfort. Order. Protection.
To Cero… it was a wall.
But since books and medicine couldn't solve his problem, Cero had no other choice. He'd have to go to the Church.
It wasn't a decision he made easily. For months, he had searched the doctor's library, combing through old texts and medical scrolls, hoping for an explanation. He'd tried everything: teas, pulses, even old folk remedies that made no sense. But nothing eased the strange heartbeat beneath his ribs. Nothing made it stop.
Now, with each passing day, it only grew stronger.
So that morning, he found himself standing in front of the Temple of the One Light, unsure if he truly belonged there.
It wasn't his first time at the temple. He used to sit at the back during feast sermons when he was younger. But it had been years since he walked through its doors. And even back then, the priests had always seemed… distant. Polite, but never welcoming.
He hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside.
The scent of incense drifted through the air, warm and faintly floral. Sunlight poured through high stained-glass windows, casting quiet colors on the stone floor. The pews were mostly empty, a few older villagers seated in silence or quiet prayer.
Cero moved slowly down the center aisle, not drawing attention to himself. His boots made a soft tap on the stone with each step. He didn't know if he should sit or wait. There was no clear sign of who to speak to.
Near the altar, a young man in acolyte robes was sweeping the steps. He looked up, pausing mid-motion.
Cero offered a small nod. "Excuse me. I… need to speak with someone. A priest, maybe."
The young man blinked, then gave a short nod. "Alright. Wait here."
He set the broom aside and walked through a side door, leaving Cero standing quietly in the stillness.
The stained glass above the altar depicted Solanar the Radiant with arms raised, light streaming from his hands, casting away shadows. Cero looked at it without much feeling. It was a beautiful image, but distant. Like everything else in this place.
He rubbed his thumb over the inside of his palm and sat down at the edge of a pew. He didn't pray. He didn't know how.
He just waited.
Cero didn't wait long before the young acolyte returned, motioning silently for him to follow.
He was led through a narrow hallway lit by lanterns and sunlight from high arched windows. The stone walls here were lined with carved suns and inscriptions in Old Tongue. The air was cooler and quiet, but not heavy just still.
The acolyte opened a wooden door, gave a nod, and stepped aside.
Inside was a modest room. Bookshelves lined the walls, a desk sat in the corner, and a small wooden sun emblem rested beside a flickering candle. A man sat near the window, robed in white and gold, reading from a bound copy of "The Book of Lumens". His eyes lifted as Cero stepped in.
"Thank you, Brother Milar," the man said gently. The initiate bowed and closed the door behind them.
The priest gestured toward a nearby chair. "Sit, if you'd like."
Cero obeyed quietly.
The man studied him for a moment, not unkindly, but with interest. His voice was calm and deliberate when he spoke again.
"You're the doctor's boy."
Cero nodded. "Yes, Father."
"I am Luminary Tovran, servant of the Light for this district." He set the book aside. "You're not the type who comes here for prayer. Why are you here now?"
Cero hesitated. His hand drifted to his chest, but he stopped himself.
"I've been… having dreams," he said. "And bad luck follows me. Not the kind people imagine. Real things. Accidents. Illness. Everything around me goes wrong, and no one wants me near anymore."
Luminary Tovran folded his hands on his lap, listening without interruption.
"I don't know if it's a curse. I don't know if I've done something wrong. But it's been going on for months." Cero looked down. "I just thought maybe someone here would know what to do."
The priest leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.
"Tell me," he said, "do you know the story of the kingdom you live in?"
Cero blinked. Of course I do, he thought. I know far more than you'd expect. More than most priests in this district, probably. He had read the histories, the founding texts, even banned accounts that contradicted the Church's official version. But he kept his face neutral and gave a small shake of his head.
"Not really," he lied. "Only what's in the town books."
Tovran smiled faintly. "This land, the Kingdom of Serath, was founded two hundred years ago by a warlord-turned-visionary named Alric Serathian. He saw a world fractured by darkness, ruled by cruel gods and forgotten kings. So he built a nation with one goal: to spread the Radiant Light to all corners of the world."
He stood and stepped to the window, looking out at the sunlight falling over the temple courtyard.
"He made a covenant with the High Church. Said, 'Let Serath be the first kingdom bathed in Solanar's glory and the blade that carries that Light to the rest of the world.' That's why the Church and the Crown are so closely tied."
Tovran turned back to him, his expression gentler now.
"You see misfortune," the priest said, "but perhaps Solanar sees something different. The worst storms clear the sky. The blackest soil grows the strongest trees. Perhaps you are not cursed. Perhaps… you are being carved into something necessary."
Cero blinked, unsure how to respond.
Luminary Tovran continued. "The kingdom is preparing. There are murmurs, visions, signs that the Church will soon lead a new holy march beyond the southern borders. A crusade of flame and purpose. A cleansing. And in the Light's army, there is space for many kinds of men."
He stepped closer, his voice quieter.
"Perhaps even those whom the world calls jinx."
Cero looked up at him, brows furrowed. "Why would they want someone like me?"
"Because," Tovran said, "Solanar doesn't only use the pure. Sometimes, He uses the broken to break what must be broken."
He placed a hand on Cero's shoulder—light, not forceful.
"Stay awhile. Read if you like. When you're ready to speak again, I'll be here."
The next day began like any other.
Cero was in the back garden of the clinic, gathering dried thyme and root herbs under the midmorning sun. A light breeze stirred the leaves. A small sparrow perched nearby, chirping quietly as if the world had no reason to be uneasy.
He didn't notice the smoke at first.
It was faint and low like someone burning leaves. But then the sparrow fled, and the scent thickened sharper than wood. Acrid. Something wrong.
By the time he stood upright, voices were rising from the northern side of the village. Angry ones.
He walked out to the main road. That's when he saw it.
One of the village food stores a storage barn near the square was ablaze. Flames licked up the thatched roof, sending black smoke into the sky. Villagers rushed with buckets, shouting for water, shouting for help.
Then someone shouted something else:
"It's the boy! He passed through here this morning!"
Cero froze.
Another voice added, "He was here not two hours ago! Always near when things go wrong!"
"I saw him near the barn yesterday evening!"
It spread like dry grass catching fire.
Eyes turned to him, wide, accusing. Some villagers dropped their buckets mid-run. A woman pointed with shaking fingers. A man's face twisted into fury.
"He brought this! He cursed the grain!"
"No more of this! We've let him live too long!"
Someone grabbed a pitchfork.
Another reached for a burning torch.
"Burn the jinx!"
Cero backed away slowly, breath quickening. The second heartbeat inside his chest pounded now—fast, insistent, wild. His own fear surged with it.
"Please..." he tried, but they didn't listen.
They started toward him.
Then
"Enough!"
The voice cracked like a whip across the air.
The crowd paused. Some turned. Others froze in place.
The town doctor stood at the edge of the road, coat half-buttoned, eyes blazing with a fury Cero had never seen in him before.
He stepped between Cero and the villagers without hesitation.
"Have you all gone mad?" he barked. "You're blaming a boy for a fire you couldn't stop yourselves from starting?"
One of the men raised the pitchfork slightly. "You know what he is. The accidents. The bad luck. You can't protect him forever."
"I can protect him today," the doctor said coldly. "And you'll regret what you're about to do."
There was silence for a moment. The only sound was the fire still cracking in the background and the distant clatter of spilled buckets.
No one moved.
Then the doctor placed a firm hand on Cero's shoulder.
"Go. Inside."
Cero didn't argue. He turned and walked, not fast, not running, just moving with his heart hammering and the unnatural rhythm thudding behind it.
Back inside the clinic, the doctor locked the door.
Cero stood near the window, hands trembling slightly.
"They would've..." he began, voice shaky.
"I know." The doctor poured water into a bowl, then handed it to him with a cloth. "Clean your face. Then rest. We'll figure this out. But no more walking around alone."
Cero nodded faintly. "I didn't do anything."
"I believe you," the doctor said.
"But belief won't always be enough."
Outside, the shouting faded.
But the fear remained.