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I don’t remember the first moment I became aware of everything. But I remember my mother—her gentle hands caring for me, the way she combed my hair, meticulously braiding it, sometimes laughing and saying I was too mischievous, making my hair a tangled mess. I remember how she would take me out to play with my sister, though my sister was always mean and difficult. But that never bothered me, because no matter what, I still loved being with her.

My sister was smart and proud, always acting as if she was above me. She would hit me, push me down, but I didn’t mind much. Maybe because I was used to it, or maybe because her tricks weren’t strong enough to hurt me. But Mother didn’t think so—she would scold my sister whenever she saw her bullying me. And from that moment on, my sister stopped playing with me.

I didn’t understand why. I never told Mother about it.

After that, I often wandered alone, exploring the temple, curious about everything around me. The intricately carved statues, the thick tomes of magic that my father had written but were never acknowledged. And above all, I loved the divine sheep that my father raised. Their pure white, soft wool was beautiful. I loved stroking them, but Father rarely let me go outside—or rather, never.

Yet my sister was allowed to go. Father would take her to meet other gods. Each time she returned, she would tell me about the wonders she had seen, the extraordinary things out there that I had never touched. And each time, my desire to see the outside world grew stronger. But Father was strict. If he said "no," then no matter how much I pleaded, the answer would never change.

One day…

My sister brought back some plump red berries and a few stalks of golden wheat. I curiously approached, but she immediately chased me away. I felt disappointed, but then I noticed a stray stalk of wheat she had dropped.

"So beautiful," I whispered, holding it delicately in my hand.

But that small joy didn’t last long.

She saw it, rushed over, and snatched the wheat from me. "It’s mine! Not yours!" She stomped away, leaving me standing there, watching her go, my heart full of regret.

She had everything. And I had nothing.

I wearily returned to my room, pulled the blanket over myself, and lay still on the bed, letting time pass. I only got up when a servant came to call: "Lord Elarion… your father has summoned you for dinner."

I silently stepped out of my room, walking down the long hallway toward the family dining table.

"Elarion, you’re five minutes late."

Father’s stern voice echoed as soon as I entered the dining room. I lowered my head, not daring to look at him.

"Mythrion, don’t be too harsh on him. He’s still just a child," Mother defended me, pulling me to sit beside her. I sighed in relief when I saw the plate of food she had prepared just for me—a small comfort in a world where I always felt out of place.

Dinner ended, and everyone returned to their rooms. I clung to Mother’s dress, wanting her to carry me, but Father forbade it. "Elarion, go to your room. Your mother won’t sleep with you tonight."

Father took my hand and led me back to my room.

I lay quietly on the spacious bed, feeling lonelier than ever.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the silent room. I sighed. "Father forgot to close the window again… Lady Sylora is shining too brightly into my room."

I reached out to close the window, but sleep refused to come. Tossing and turning, I finally grabbed some paper and a quill, starting to draw.

I drew Mother. I drew Father. I drew my sister. I drew the flowers that Orinthia had once shown me, though I couldn’t quite remember what they looked like. But in my imagination, they were beautiful.

At some point, I drifted off to sleep, my unfinished drawings scattered around me.

The next morning

Mother woke me up, shaking her head when she saw ink smudges on my face. "Did you stay up late?"

She gently wiped my face, then carefully braided my soft white hair.

"Mother, I drew you!"

Excitedly, I showed her my messy drawing. She looked at it for a moment before laughing and patting my head. "It’s beautiful! Is this our family? I’ll frame it and hang it in your room, alright?"

My eyes widened in surprise, then I eagerly nodded.

Mother kept her promise. She took me to get a frame, carefully placed my drawing inside, and hung it on the wall. I stared in awe at my first artwork, displayed like a treasure.

My small hand grasped hers as she led me outside.

"Orinthia, play with your brother. I have business to discuss with your father."

My sister glanced at me with boredom, then sighed. "What a nuisance."

As soon as Mother left, she shrugged me off and began gathering materials I didn’t recognize.

Curious, I followed her like a shadow. When she picked leaves, I did the same. When she gathered grass, I copied her.

I walked up to her, holding out what I had collected. "Here, for you."

She barely looked at it before swatting it all away. "Go away! I don’t need it!"

She turned sharply and stormed back into the temple.

I crouched down, silently picking up the scattered leaves, my heart heavy. Maybe she didn’t like what I had gathered.

Looking at the scratch on my hand, where golden and red blood oozed together, I sighed softly.

I wanted to help her. But how could I?

There was only one person who could answer my question.

I took a deep breath and stepped toward my father’s throne.

He was busy handling the tasks Yvharos had assigned him.

I stood before the tall steps, looking up at him.

"Father…"