In a world split by steel and fate, two boys were born on the same day — but their lives couldn't have been more different.
The first was Kain Sainford.
He came into the world in a shivering shack barely held together by rotten wood and prayers. The stench of mildew mixed with the cries of his mother as she labored alone, her husband passed out in the next room — drunk, again. Outside, the streets of the slums writhed with filth and hunger, and inside, a baby boy took his first breath under a leaking roof.
Born with one arm.
His mother didn't scream, didn't weep — just stared, defeated. Her eyes were hollow, the kind of hollow that didn't come from pain, but from the absence of hope. Kain's father, when he finally woke, took one look at the boy and scoffed.
"Just my luck," he muttered before heading back to the tavern to gamble away their last copper.
Kain grew up in that same rot — his crib a pile of rags, his toys broken bottles and rusted nails. There was no birthday celebration, no warmth. Just survival. Every day was a war with starvation, disease, and the cruelty of men who stepped over him as if he were nothing.
But across the kingdom, in a sunlit castle surrounded by marble statues and velvet banners, another boy took his first breath.
Lucian Drastiose.
Born into nobility. Into power. Into everything Kain never had.
The royal hall echoed with celebration as nobles raised golden cups to the future heir of House Drastiose. His mother, a queen in all but name, cradled him with pride. His father called him a gift from the gods. Before Lucian could even speak, his path had been carved in gold.
At three, he wielded wooden swords.
At five, he rode horses.
At ten, he was defeating grown men in sparring matches.
By fifteen, they called him a prodigy — the kingdom's rising star, the one destined to inherit both legacy and legend.
Meanwhile, at fifteen, Kain held a real sword for the first time. It was chipped, unbalanced, far too heavy for someone with one arm — but to him, it was everything. A dream. A chance. A stupid, impossible fantasy.
When he told his parents, they laughed.
Then, they sold him.
Twelve gold coins.
That's what he was worth to them. Twelve gold coins for a boy with one arm and big dreams.
The buyer was a nobleman with a smile too wide and eyes too sharp — the kind of man who wore silk and reeked of blood. Kain didn't struggle when they shackled him. He didn't cry. He just looked back one last time.
His parents were counting the gold, eyes gleaming. They didn't even glance at him as he was dragged away.
His heart didn't break.
It simply closed.
On the road to his new life as a slave, chained to a caravan full of the broken and unwanted, Kain didn't think of escape. What was there to run back to?
But fate, cruel and twisted, had other plans.