𝕓𝕚𝕠𝕙𝕒𝕫𝕒𝕣𝕕

01 - and never look back

Word Count: 406

Somewhere in the dark universe, a boy bends over, white hair damp with perspiration. He heaves, breath coming slowly back to him as his flushed face, tense with pain and effort, slowly loses its bright hue.

He glances upwards after a few seconds of recovery, into the unforgiving black and white mask of a witch. There is no expression to be seen, yet still, the boy cannot help but feel the disappointment rolling off the woman before him in waves.

"His sensitivity is minimal," she reports, voice rough as sandpaper and deadly as poison. His father's face, hardly visible in the shadows of the boy's vision, remains impassive as if he expected this outcome all along. He falls to the floor, exhausted from the intensity of the trial he's just been through.

What he's being tested for is no secret. He's heard stories from before he was born, how his father, still kind and benevolent, married a beautiful Altean genius. Together, they created life, a child conceived out of nothing but love.

But now Altea is dead, and he is nothing but a weapon.

There had been great hopes for him, a child created from two of the strongest races in the universe. A hope for the ferocity and tenaciousness of a Galran soldier and the magical prowess of an Altean sorcerer rolled into one deadly being.

But so far he has been failing on both fronts.

"We must try again," his father says, voice deep and chilling. Another attempt to create the perfect soldier. Once a natural entity is created, the witch will be able to recreate it artificially — they only need one success.

"A second trial will be underway within the phoeb," the witch confirms, robe billowing behind her as she moves to clear the room.

The boy understands with all the wisdom of a child, which is to say, not very much at all. To him, the lack of success here means no more tests, no more quintessence, no more electric, stabbing bursts of pain while the witch's face loomed over him. He is right about this much at least.

His father calls for him, sharp and impatient and reflexive of his rule over the universe. The boy pauses for one final moment, catching a last bit of breath. But his father calls once more.

"Lotor!" And the boy scrambles to his feet, head high as he follow his father's long steps.

End Notes: 

Chapters after this will be much longer, continuation will be based on read count and interaction.