Connor Pallitan isn't normal, he's known that since the day he was born. Left alone in the woods, cloaked in protective fire, its a wonder the boy survived for a year. But eighteen? A miracle.
But then, all hell breaks loose, and it's up to Conner t...
⠀⠀⠀⠀ Opening his eyes was difficult, the lids of his golden irises felt like real gold was laced in his blood, making them heavy, aching with every twitch. But still, he forced himself to stay awake, fearful that if he even blinked his eyes shut, they would never flutter open. "Emile!" Someone shouted to him, their voice echoing into his cell, and still, even with the voice as faint as the breeze, the noise made his head ache and throb.
"Mother," he groaned leaning his head against the wall he was sitting against, his chest bare, and he could feel the wall sizzle against his back. He looked up at the roof, it's exterior cracking, and he could see the dark midnight sky from the depths of hell. Looking up at the starless sky gave him a hint of comfort before the door of his cell open, and his mother walked in, a woman right behind her, her forearm burned, sizzling, and his mother's hand was clasped against it.
"Heal her!" His mother demanded, "we stopped the pulses just so you could do this, now get it done!" Her tauntful voice was gone, replaced by the tone Emile knew all too well. Harsh, demanding, cruel, monstrous. She was a perfect example of what the humans saw mages as. A stereotype, fueling the stigmas, the fears, the cruelty.
Emile lifted a weak hand, placing it on the wound his mother had inflicted on his, he hadn't noticed how it had completely healed, how the pulses had subsided to a dull thud pounding on his chest, shaking his rips. "We..?" He croaked, and began to cough up a disgusting mixture of mucus and blood.
It was becoming very apparent that he was dying, getting so weak, it became a difficult to breathe, his vision often would get hazy, and he had very faint lucid periods in between each pulse, where he could feel his senses shutting down. "Heal her now, or suffer the consequences." His mother threatened, and Emile glanced at the deep, deep purple smoke that started surrounding her hands.
Emile didn't seem to react, and only glanced up at his mother, "I'm not some child you can manipulate, Edith. Not anymore." He smiled weakly as he watched his mother's face contort to an indescribable anger, her magic surging to a boiling point, only stopping because of the woman in front of her, who blocked her from attacking the man.
"Look," she said as Edith backed away, her voice reeked of false sympathy and compassion, "I understand why you're scared, by what my father and I are doing is for the greater good." She promised, her face getting closer to his.
Emile stared into her eyes, as if he could see the entire world through her glimmering green irises, her cool, slender hand reaching out towards his, and he got closer, and closer.
His lips puckered as soon as she was close to him, bent down to his slouched, but muscular physique, and he spat in her face, the mixture of blood and saliva landed just below her glabella, and he grasped her forearm. He didn't know what he was going to do, but he wanted to hurt her.
