Bab 1: Chapter 1
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In the dark alleyways of a sprawling city, a young child slipped unnoticed from one shadow to the next.
A stick was slung over their shoulder, and a bag of cloth was tied to the end. In it, all the child's meagre possessions were stored.
They were still at the age where it was difficult to tell their gender. Their hands and feet were scabbed and bruised, and a mop of tangled, dirty hair hung from their small head.
It was only when a stray ray of moonlight penetrated the thick canopy of tiled and thatched roofs that something extraordinary was revealed - from underneath all the dirt and grime, silver gleamed, the true color of the child's hair.
It was better that they kept themselves hidden. Such an extraordinary feature would only attract unwanted attention.
The child was an orphan, and had been under the care of a local orphanage ever since they could remember. In some ways, their fate was better than most. They had bread to eat every week, even though it was often dry and mouldy.
But work was hard, and beatings were frequent. There was also no future here. And, deep within a corner of the child's heart, a seed had sprouted. Sometimes they would forget, but when the late afternoon sun-rays dyed the city in a golden light, they would look up and remember.
Perhaps it was only something like that which could set the smoldering coal of hope aflame – a dream. Eventually that feeling grew too powerful to ignore. What they wanted couldn't be found here. They had to leave and so they did.
Once at the city's outskirts, they looked over their shoulder at what lay behind them. In the distance, white stone walls glowed in the moonlight, and great spires reached upwards as if to touch the heavens. A mighty castle stood there in the middle of the city - beautiful, majestic and perfect.
The child bit on their lower lip, their eyes shining with resolve.
'I must have it - my own kingdom!'
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For a child to travel alone was difficult.
They were forced to eat whatever they could find - acorns, the soft roots of plants, insects and small animals.
They avoided the main roads whenever they could and mostly travelled at night. The only thing more dangerous than starvation or the unforgiving weather was other humans. They knew this from their life in the city.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. They had managed to stay alive, travelling alone as they were.
Then winter came.
The plants died, so there were no more acorns or roots to eat. The insects also disappeared. Birds went south as the seasons changed, and the rodents retreated into their burrows. Survival, which had been difficult, became impossible.
There was no other recourse. They had to resort to stealing.
It was a skill they'd picked up in the past. One they'd prefer not to resort to, if given the choice. It would be too terrible if they were ever caught. Unfortunately, choice was a luxury they did not possess.
At first, they only stole small things.
From a traveler, they stole a string of leather to chew on.
From the kitchen of a local lord, they stole some discarded scraps.
From an isolated farm, they stole a few handfuls of chicken feed.
They found that they were rather adept at it and, as their skill grew, they grew bolder. They started stealing more important things.
They stole a pair of gloves from a city merchant, to keep their hands warm.
They stole the cloak of a sleeping mercenary, to use as a blanket.
They stole the boots of a travelling statesman, to protect their toes from the cold.
In some ways, their lot became better during the winter than it had been during the summer. Crime did pay, as long as one was skilled enough at it.
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There wasn't much for them to do during the time when they weren't stealing. The trail towards their dreams had both literally and figuratively gone cold.
Their favorite pastime was spying on the local noble's daughter – a happy girl with curly, brown hair. It became an obsession, to observe and compare the girl's life to their own.
They were so different.
She had everything and worried about nothing, while they had to struggle daily just to survive.
It was as if they were different creatures. The girl was like a butterfly, while they were a worm crawling in the dirt. If both were human, why were their lives so far apart?
Resentment and jealousy grew in their heart.
The noble girl's birthday was fast approaching, and her father was arranging a grand party for his precious daughter.
The whole town was helping to prepare. Decorations were carved, sewn and woven. Goods were brought in from neighboring villages. Candles burned in every window long after the sun had set as the villagers scrambled to prepare for the anticipated day.
The silver-haired child watch this from afar, waiting for the completion of the birthday pie.
It would certainly be delicious.
They, of course, would never get to taste it. So, they would ensure nobody else would get to taste it either, particularly not the noble's daughter.
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Marianne was having trouble sleeping.
Tomorrow was to be her birthday, and she was terribly excited for it. She knew her daddy would give her many presents, and she couldn't wait to receive them.
After rolling around for ages, while not managing to fall asleep and only crinkling her blankets, she heard a soft knock on her door.
"Come in." she spoke.
She welcomed any company. It would serve to distract her from her predicament.
The door opened, revealing the figures of her parents, bathed in the light of an oil lamp.
Her father, a sturdy man with a salt and pepper beard, stepped forward, holding a parcel in his hands. Her eyes, widening, immediately latched onto it.
"Your mother and I decided that, since you've been such a good girl this year, you should open one of your presents early." He said, smiling at her with affectionate eyes.
Immediately overwhelmed by excitement, she leapt from her bed and grabbed the present from his hands. She didn't even think to thank them until she was halfway done opening it.
"Mother, Father, thank you very much!"
Her parents smiled first at her, then at each other.
The wife rubbed her husband's hand lovingly in her own. Only she knew how much time and money he'd spent to prepare her gifts.
Wrappings laying discarded to one side, the girl lifted up a pair of glass slippers in her hands. They weren't true glass slippers, like from the fairy-tale she loved so much, only decorated to look like it.
Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly as she stared at the footwear. Neither of her parents could guess how she felt.
The wife looked at her husband, a little concerned how he'd react if the gift were to be rejected.
Her smile turning strained, she opened her mouth, intending to tell her daughter just how hard her father had worked to prepare for her birthday.
However, before she could say a word, a loud noise erupted from somewhere in the manor. A rush of voices followed soon afterwards.
The lord was the first to react.
"Stay here, I'll get to the bottom of this."
He stormed out of the room, his face the picture of displeasure.
The wife walked over to their daughter and held her protectively in her arms. She watched the disappearing back of her husband, not feeling too worried. Their land was far from the frontline, so it was likely that a common intruder causing the ruckus. They'd more than enough armed guards to deal with something like that.
Marianne looked at her mother with a conflicted expression. She glanced at the slippers in her hands before speaking.
"Mother… these aren't real glass slippers."
Hearing the words, the mother felt a faint headache forming. She felt sorry for her poor husband. How miserly hadn't he been with the fiefdom's budget to gift these to her?
Perhaps it was possible that they had spoiled their daughter a little too much…
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"It was this one, lord Brandenburg."
The master of the house, Friedrich von Brandenburg, stood in the manor's kitchen. In front of him, one of his loyal house-guards was restraining the thief who'd broken into their home.
It was a young child, dressed up in a cobbled-together outfit too large for their figure.
The lord's formidable moustache trembled in displeasure.
His gaze avoided the thief, grunting in pain from having their arm twisted behind their back, staring at the face of the guard instead.
The fellow, recognizing the look in his master's eye, felt a drop of cold sweat slide down his neck.
"My sincere apologies for disturbing you, my lord! Rest assured, I have the situation handled. There is no need for your lordship to burden yourself with this matter."
He tightened his hold on the brat to prove his point, eliciting another squeal of pain in the process.
Anger swelled in the guard's chest as he thought of the possibility of being punished over this. He was responsible for the security of this area, and the intrusion had happened under his watch.
The lord looked at him for a long moment.
"Very well."
His intimidating figure then glanced at the small crowd of household servants gathered in the hallway outside, drawn by the commotion.
"Disperse."
Hearing their master's command, they trembled, lowered their heads and fled from the scene. They knew his temper well, as well as the consequences for disobedience.
When he saw that his subjects had left, the lord turned and departed in silence, leaving only two individuals to remain in the kitchen - the guard and the thief.
The guard felt his shoulder muscles relax, seeing that he had been spared from any punishment, at least for now.
He gritted his teeth and reached over to grab at the rat's nest that sat on top of the child's head.
Like little animal, they struggled futilely in an attempt to escape the man's strong grasp. Unfortunately, it was to no avail. The burly guard had served as a soldier for many years before retiring to this cozy post, and would have been able to restrain a grown man, never mind a starving orphan.
Sounds of muffled grunts and growls emerged from the little fellow's mouth, but no words could be heard. The guard had stuffed a kitchen floor-rag into it.
The guard dragged the child out of the kitchen, one hand curling around their arm while a fist gripped their hair.
They struggled mightily in the man's grasp, but could only do so much without dislocating their own shoulder.
The man drove the child's head into a brick wall forcefully. Taking advantage of their concussed state, he dragged them unceremoniously over the floor, not caring one bit about the blood that flowed from their wounded scalp.
The child blinked dazedly as a drop of the warm, sticky liquid fell into their eye. The pain in their shoulder turned into a numb, warm feeling as they were dragged out of the manor.
Once they were far enough away, the man knocked the child's legs out from under them and slammed them down into the frozen winter soil.
The air was knocked from their lungs, and they tried in vain to draw a breath. Unfortunately, the man had placed a metal-tipped boot on their chest and put all his weight on it, preventing them from doing so.
Clear snot, dyed red by flecks of blood, flew from the child's nose as a foot slammed into their side.
A lance of excruciating pain shot through their body. If their lungs weren't devoid of air, and their mouth not stuffed, they would have screamed loudly enough to make the mountain peaks tremble.
The man finally said something to them, but they couldn't hear him. A tinny whine sounded in their ears and stars swam in their vision. They experienced a sense of vertigo. It felt as if they had become a stone, sinking rapidly into the depths of the ocean.
One last blow, this time targeting their face, sent their consciousness toppling over the edge, and soon they knew nothing but darkness.
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The short moments of clarity made them long for the soft embrace of oblivion.
Wakefulness became synonymous with suffering and bitter struggle. Their body felt wrong, like they had been taken apart and reassembled incorrectly. Every breath was hard fought for and made their chest rattle painfully. Sometimes the cold would hit them and they would be overcome by shivers powerful enough to be seizures.
It was impossible for them to tell the passage of time. They lived in a state of constant delirium.
Clutching desperately onto a wooden stick, they pulled their moth-eaten cloak tightly around themselves.
A memory flashed in their mind, that of an old woman with a kind face handing them a bundle before a shout from somewhere nearby chased her away.
Their jaw, painfully swollen and stiff, moved up and down as they chewed on a piece of rock hard bread.
They heard a crack, and then felt an emptiness within their mouth.
Feeling around with their tongue, they found a bloody tooth and spat it onto the iced dirt. It glistened a crimson red color, forming a stark contrast against the white snow.
They stared at the object with uncomprehending fascination, as if it were an esoteric artifact that'd been dug out of the earth.
A spark of familiarity and recognition flashed in their mind.
One hand went to their neck, grasping at the keepsake that was supposed to be there. A feeling of relief flooded their chest when their hand enclosed the familiar shape, its surface somehow feeling both hard and soft to the touch.
Having confirmed that their most prized possession was still with them, they swallowed the last morsel of bread, paying no attention to the bloody taste.
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The sun was setting, and there was not a single sign of civilization nearby.
They found themselves face-down in the snow with no clue of how they got there. Their body felt like lead. They tried to stand up, but managed only to twitch a single finger.
They watched the snowflakes settle onto the tip of their nose, noting for the first time how intricately designed they were.
Out of the corner of their eye, they saw the sun slip beneath the horizon.
A faint light gilded the edges of the white treetops.
A sense of loss emerged within their heart.
A sound slipped out from between their dry lips, a sound of desperation and longing.
Somehow, they managed to lift their torso up from the ground. They didn't have the strength to stand. They could only half crawl, half toss themselves forward.
One heave, one yard.
Two heaves, two yards.
Three heaves… three yards.
But that was their limit.
Even the most powerful will wasn't able to overcome the limits of the human body. They could only watch as the last rays of sunlight disappeared, leaving them in darkness forever.
They lay there in the snow, powerless and empty. The last dregs of flame that had kept their desire alight was fading fast. Soon there would be nothing left.
Was everything going to end here when they hadn't even started yet?
For the first time in their life, they considered praying. They had done it before, but it had always been for show. They looked inside of themselves, searching for anything that could resemble a heartfelt prayer.
They found nothing.
A foggy exhale left their mouth. Their eyelids fluttered closed. That was all they could do now.
But…
They cracked their eyelids, almost frozen shut, open again. Their sight was fuzzy, but… indeed, they did spot a faint glow in the darkness.
There was no way they could make it that far. They had hardly managed to crawl forward a couple of steps before collapsing. Their body was spent, used up. There was simply no way they'd be able to live through tonight. It was already impossible for them to have survived until now, given the state they were in.
And yet…
Their fingers circled tightly around their wooden stick. Their good arm, numb of all feeling, lifted upwards and dug the stick into the snow.
They started advancing forward once more, dragging themselves over the blanketed dirt.
Silence filled their ears. Only the faint light of a campfire, like a candle in a blizzard, guided the way forward.
If anyone were there to see them, they would have surely paled from the sight.
Time passed as they continued to draw closer, but then… everything turned dark.
Their abused body was starting to shut down.
They had lost their sight, either due to their injury or the cold.
However, the light of that fire, growing ever larger, had practically been burned into their mind. Despite being unable to see anything, a preternatural sense of awareness guided their way, reassuring them that all was not lost.
But then… their movements stopped as well.
A low, despairing moan slipped from between their lips.
They were spent; completely emptied. Even the last dregs of flame in their chest had disappeared.
But there was one last thing they could do, something their addled wits, for some reason, hadn't been able to come up with until now.
'I'll shout… for help.'
But every shout they gathered within their chest dissipated into nothing more than a puff of air as soon as it left their mouth. The sound was pitifully soft, even to their own ears. Would someone even be able to hear them, or would their voice be carried away by the wind?
As time passed, their efforts proved to be useless. Eventually their moans had to cease, the freezing air having glazed their vocal cords over with ice.
Drops of water beaded on their cheeks. Soon they turned white, crusting like salt.
They bit down on their tongue, tasting a hint of blood. They barely felt anything, the muscle laying dead and numb inside their mouth.
Unbeknownst to them, a drop of crimson liquid fell past their lips and onto the red fetish hanging from their neck. It started changing, the originally featureless lump morphing into something eerily resembling a face.
It grew hotter, like a stone thrown into a pot of boiling water.
It started trembling, slightly at first, but then more powerfully as seconds passed. It was almost like it was an egg, with whatever was inside of it desperately struggling to hatch…
A second eye joined the first one, then a nose beneath that, and then finally a mouth at the bottom. Its featureless surface had morphed into something disturbingly lifelike.
The egg's expression contorted into one of absolute despair, tears of ruby blood flowing down its cheeks.
It opened its mouth, showcasing rows of little white teeth. Its uvula trembling in its throat as it sucked in an enormous breath. Its gaze was alarming. There was an insanity there that wanted to swallow the world.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the scream was silenced before it could begin.
Instead, a different sound reached the child's ears - the sound of snow being crunched underfoot.
Unable to lift their head, they could only turn their unseeing eyes towards the direction of the noise.
Using the final remnant of their strength, they squeezed a cracked, hacking wheeze from their raw lungs.
It barely counted for anything, but this time… it was enough.
Someone exclaimed loudly.
They couldn't make out the words, but they could hear the surprise and urgency in their tone. A scuffling sound soon followed, heralding their approach.
Within a handful of seconds, the footsteps arrived at their side.
There was that voice again. To their ears the words sounded like they were being spoken from underwater. Yet, they heard the emotion behind them as clearly as a church bell, so emphatic and full of concern.
Gloved hands curled underneath their armpits, gripped firmly, then pulled.
'Not that shoulder. It's no good.'
They knew the state of their own body, despite the lack of pain.
The person seemed to notice that there was something wrong. There was more give on that side of their body than normal. They quickly adjusted their grip, their arm moving to support their side, circling their ribs.
That proved to be the wrong move.
The child immediately felt a sense of wrongness in their body. Their breathing, which had been irregular and labored, was blocked off.
The inside of their mind, which had been chaotic and unstable, became silent and clear like the surface of a lake. They saw their own thoughts reflected in it, like a sky full of countless stars.
The fetish around their chest reverted back to normal, the transformation reversing as quickly as it had started. Within seconds, it appeared once again to be nothing more than a lumpy red stone.
The corner of their swollen mouth twitched and their unseeing eyes closed at last.
One last thought, like a comet hurtling through the night sky, was left behind.
'It feels nice – to be held like this.'
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Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone