༒ ༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻ Kaelen Moros ༺𓆩☠︎︎𓆪༻ ༒
The cellar was a tomb of shadows, a void so absolute that it swallowed light and hope alike. Thick, suffocating darkness pressed in from all sides, cold as the grave, seeping into Kaelen's bones like an icy shroud. If a sliver of moonlight had pierced the cracks in the floorboards above, he was sure he would have seen his breath curling in the air—a ghostly mist escaping his chapped, trembling lips. Huddled in the farthest corner, his small frame shook uncontrollably, arms wrapped tightly around his knees in a futile bid for warmth. The chill wasn't just in the air; it lived in his marrow, a relentless thief stealing what little strength he had left.
Above, the world raged on, muffled but unmistakable. His parents' voices filtered through the floorboards like echoes from a nightmare. His stepfather's shouts were thunderous, sharp as a whip, laced with venom that made Kaelen flinch even in his isolation.
"You worthless bitch! You and that brat downstairs!" The words reverberated, each one a hammer blow against the fragile peace Kaelen clung to. His mother's sobs wove through them, a softer, more heartbreaking melody—broken whimpers that twisted like a knife in his chest. And then, the
drip.
Drip. Drip.
The rhythmic patter of water onto the cold stone floor, a metronome of despair, each drop a cruel tick of the clock in this endless, frozen prison.
Kaelen sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against his bony knees, which he hugged to his chest like a shield. His stomach growled—a hollow, gnawing ache that clawed at him from within, a reminder of days without food. He hadn't eaten since... when? Tuesday? Or was it longer? The hunger blurred time, turning his insides into a cavern of emptiness. His mother had whispered it was for his protection, a necessary exile from the "bad people" who hunted him. They were after him because of his real father, she said, the man who'd vanished like smoke years ago, leaving her with a child and a burden too heavy to bear. Kaelen didn't like his father much—how could he, when he'd abandoned them to this life?—but he hoped that didn't make him evil. His stepfather, though... he was different. Always angry, always yelling, his face a storm cloud ready to burst. He'd hurt them before, his fists leaving bruises like dark secrets on Kaelen's arms and his mother's face. The cuts stung, the welts throbbed, but his mother cried every time, her tears a silent apology for the monster she'd brought into their home.
A sudden thud from upstairs shattered the fragile rhythm—furniture crashing, perhaps, or a body hitting the wall. Kaelen gasped, his eyes darting upward, though in this pitch-black abyss, up and down blurred into one. Most children feared the dark, whispering of monsters under beds or in closets. But for Kaelen, it had always been a comfort, a velvet cloak that wrapped around him like his mother's arms in those rare, fleeting moments before everything fell apart. He remembered her lullabies, soft and sweet, before the stepfather came and turned their home into a battlefield.
Drip. The sound echoed again, mocking him, pulling him back to the present.
The shouting escalated, a crescendo of fury that made the floorboards vibrate. His mother's voice rose now, defiant yet desperate, muffled through the wood but clear in its plea.
"Please, stop! He's just a boy—spare him! I'll do anything, just... please!" Kaelen's brow furrowed, a knot of worry tightening in his gut. He hated hearing her yell; it meant she was in trouble, that she needed him. He wasn't supposed to leave the cellar—ever. The rules were ironclad: stay silent, stay hidden, or face the wrath. But the worry gnawed at him, relentless as the cold, whispering that he had to help. Slowly, painfully, he unfolded his stiff limbs, ignoring the protests of his body—tired from sleepless nights, aching from the damp chill, starving from neglect. His legs wobbled as he stood, the world tilting in the darkness.
Guided by instinct and memory, Kaelen stumbled forward, his bare feet slapping softly against the stone. He knew this space like the back of his hand: the uneven floor that dipped in the centre, the faint outline of crates stacked against the wall, the musty scent of mildew and forgotten things.
Drip. The sound guided him to the back stairs, narrow and treacherous. He avoided the splintered fourth step—once it had drawn blood from his heel—and the one that creaked like a warning cry. His fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled with the lock on the door. Please, he thought, heart pounding, hoping the outside bolt wasn't engaged. With a soft click, the bar slid free, and he pushed the door open a crack, eyes widening as dim light spilled in from the kitchen above.
The room was chaos incarnate. His mother lay sprawled on the floor, a deep gash slicing through her eyebrow, blood oozing like a dark river into her eye, staining her cheek. She clutched at her side, gasping, her face pale and twisted in pain. Towering over her was his stepfather, a hulking figure with wild eyes and a face contorted in rage. He clutched a twisted, curved blade—a kitchen knife, perhaps, or something worse—that gleamed dully in the flickering light of a single bulb. His shirt was rumpled, stained with sweat and flecks of blood, and his breath came in ragged snarls.
His mother's eyes met Kaelen's, and her face crumpled in horror. Tears streamed anew, mixing with the blood, as she turned pleadingly back to the man.
"No... Kaelen, run!" she whispered, her voice a fragile thread.
But it was too late. His stepfather turned slowly, his calm demeanour a mask for the madness beneath. His eyes locked onto Kaelen, wild and unhinged, like a predator spotting prey.
"Mum," Kaelen whispered, his heart hammering in his chest as the man took a deliberate step closer, the blade's grip tightening with a creak of leather.
"Kaelen," his mother sobbed harder, trying to crawl toward him, but the stepfather kicked her back with a booted foot.
"Dad," Kaelen's voice cracked, panic rising like bile in his throat as the distance closed. The man loomed larger, his shadow swallowing the light.
The blade flashed in a cruel arc, swift and merciless. Pain exploded across Kaelen's face, sharp and searing, like fire tearing through flesh. He fell backward, crashing to the floor, his vision blurring with tears and blood. The world spun, his cheek burning where the cut ran from temple to jaw, blood welling hot and sticky between his fingers as he pressed a trembling hand to the wound.
"PLEASE!" his mother screamed, her voice breaking in anguish, lunging forward only to be shoved down again.
"Dad," Kaelen choked out through clenched teeth, blood dripping down his arm, pooling on the cold floor beneath him in a crimson mirror of the cellar's drips.
Drip. The sound mocked him now, his own life ebbing away.
"You should never have been born," his stepfather spat, his voice cold as the cellar, devoid of warmth or mercy.
"A mistake. Just like your worthless father."Kaelen watched in horror as the older man raised the blade high, the shadows in the room deepening like a shroud, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the stench of fear.
Then, with a sickening crash, the blade came down.
That was the last time he called his stepfather Dad.
Drip.Drip.Drip.Dri-
-ip.Kaelen jolted awake, his eyes snapping open like shutters in a storm. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, chest heaving as if he'd just sprinted through a nightmare-laden forest. He bolted upright in bed, heart pounding against his ribs like a caged beast, and frantically scanned the dim room. He knew, deep down, that there was nothing there—no lurking shadows, no echoes of the horrors that haunted his dreams. Yet, he searched anyway, his gaze darting from the cluttered dresser to the cracked window, desperate to anchor himself in reality and quell the frantic whirl of his mind. Nothing. Just the familiar, mundane shapes of his belongings, their outlines twisted by the play of moonlight into grotesque phantoms that mocked his paranoia. He exhaled a shuddering sigh, pressing the heel of his palm against his left eye, fingers tracing the jagged, raised ridge of his scar—a permanent reminder etched into his flesh like a brand from some forgotten battle. Still there. All of it, painfully real.
With another heavy sigh, Kaelen collapsed back onto the rumpled sheets, staring up at the shadowed ceiling as if it held answers to the chaos swirling in his head. Another nightmare. That's what he got for daring to sleep at night, when the world was quiet and his defences were down. Restlessness always crept in first, gnawing at him like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch. That led to exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that frayed his temper into something sharp and volatile. And then came the anger—the raw, primal fury that made him... well, him. Gods forbid he ever managed a full night's sleep. He'd probably wake up a changed man. Or Lycan. Or whatever the hell he was supposed to be in this twisted existence. Either way, he wasn't willing to risk it. The unknown terrified him more than any dream ever could.
His stomach growled then, a low, insistent rumble that shattered the silence of the room like a thunderclap. Hunger. Another force he couldn't afford to ignore, lest it spiral out of control. He had a sinking feeling he'd never live it down if he let it consume him—literally or figuratively.
"Fine," he growled, his voice a gravelly whisper, unsure if he was addressing himself, the mocking shadows, or the rebellious organ in his gut. Either way, he wasn't pleased. With a reluctant grunt, Kaelen rolled out of bed, his bare feet landing on the cold floor with practised silence—a natural instinct honed over years of necessity, when staying unseen meant survival. It was second nature now, as effortless as breathing.
He moved to his dresser, pulling on a pair of dark, black jeans that hugged his lean frame, worn shoes designed for swift, silent running, a sturdy leather belt that cinched his waist, and a loose white shirt that offered comfort without restriction. His hair, perpetually tousled, defied any attempt at taming; there was no point in trying. It added to his rough charm, he told himself, a wild edge that matched the storm brewing inside him. Muttering a string of curses under his breath, he slipped from his room like a ghost, eyes darting left and right, ensuring solitude. He wasn't in the mood for unwanted company or probing questions—not tonight, when his mind was still frayed from the dream's grip.
Outside, the cool night air greeted him like an old friend, crisp and invigorating, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. He breathed it in deeply, feeling the hair on the back of his neck prickle with a mix of alertness and exhilaration. Gods, he loved this—the raw freedom of the outdoors, the vast expanse that made him feel less trapped, less like the monster his nightmares suggested he was. His stomach growled again, a sharp reminder pulling him back to the present. Right. Food.
"Where's Vitek at?" he muttered aloud, letting his feet guide him instinctively through the shadowed streets. Vitek was a fellow newblood, like him—another soul navigating the murky waters of their shared curse. Naturally, Kaelen felt compelled to size him up, to understand the man he might one day call ally or foe. And for someone who trusted no one, a bit of subtle stalking seemed like a damn good way to learn what he needed. That, and it had the added bonus of irritating the big guy, which Kaelen found oddly satisfying. But hey, that's what friends were for, right? Or at least, that's what he told himself in his more cynical moments.
"Probably at that bar," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he rolled his shoulders, savouring the satisfying pops and cracks of muscles and bones releasing built-up tension. He could use a drink to dull the edges of his thoughts, a hearty meal to sate the gnawing hunger, and maybe—just maybe—a genuine smile from spending time with the other man. Vitek's presence had a way of grounding him, pulling him out of his own head. So, for now, that was the plan: track down Vitek and let the night unfold. Unless something more intriguing crossed his path, of course. The city hummed with possibilities, and Kaelen was always ready to chase them.
