After that day, Rannith seemed to have never existed in that manor again. Both servants and staff ignored his presence, which was only kept alive by the worried glances his sister gave and her own insistence that he be cared for. In a haunted home about usefulness and purpose, there was nothing he could ever do that would ever be good enough—a statement that would go on for years.

To Rannith's and Kahlia's parents, their son remained at the bottom of a never-ending waterfall of disdain and grief. Time and time again he has crumbled, tried to confess the truth of what truly happened just so that he could continue to have food to eat, a roof over his head, and a bed to sleep in each night, only to fall on deaf ears. Every time, his sister only stood there frozen as tears streamed down her cheeks at the sight of the pain she caused to the only person who had stood up for her, unable to witness the physical harm that they lashed out on him or the cold nights he had to weather outside. The pain their parents delivered because they could only believe his insolence was an attempt to tear down his sister, non-the-wiser about their children’s secrets. 

-

17

Rannith was only 17 years old when he was thrown out before the early morning sun could grace the horizon. He was officially recognized as a legal adult the year prior, the only blessing he was given in that house.

His parents had completely forgotten his existence, long enough that he had only a year to find anything he could, desperate, scrambling for help or guidance or a cause that could let him stay by his sister’s side, in his childhood home. But nothing is ever good enough for the impossibly high standards. Nothing was ever good enough when no matter what he did, he would always be just a failure.

Rannith wasn't woken not by any sound but instead by the tight grip on his arm. He sat up with a start, bleary-eyed but fully alert to identify who had grabbed him; who was it that didn’t give him the chance to understand or ready himself. He was ripped out of his bed and dragged out of the comfort of the sheets. Only mere moments were enough for him to collect himself to his feet and hold up his knife to this person’s neck. His father slowly turned to him, disgust and rage burning in his eyes whispering through a spiteful wrath. “If you try that boy, I’ll kill you before you even have the chance.”

He hurried the knife back into the strap of his pants, fully clothed from the day prior. He had never worn sleepwear since the incident at that point, with too many vulnerabilities, and weaknesses, and not enough pockets or places to hide things. He always needed to be prepared, always waiting.

“Where are we going?” He asked before instantly being hushed. “Keep your voice down. There will be no 'we’. I don't care where it is, but you'll be going anywhere but this manor.”

Rannith's heart began racing out of his chest, not unexpected but there was still a great deal of fear. “No, but- this is my home. I did everything for you and mother. I protected Kahli-” “And there we go again.” His father interrupted, gripping tighter as he dragged his son down the stairs. “I will not have you here in my house, dragging down my daughter. You have no place here.”

The front door stood solid and imposing as it approached closer and closer. Rannith dug his heels back against the cold marble floors, twisting to pull away from the iron grip. The volume of his voice rose with his fear. Who was going to continue to protect Kahlia? Not just from knives and intruders but from the wolves of society, their cruelty and manipulative ways that their parents certainly would not protect her from. Sure they would protect their own name and reputation but not Kahlia.

The cold night air blasted through the opening doors like a gaping maw ready to swallow any and all into the dark air of the night. “I've done everything I can for this family! I've protected, I've fought, I've worked for, I've studied and acquired accolade after accolades! Please!” He pushed back against the shove his father gave, direct center of his back.

Heels on the hard floors echoed as his mother approached from down the stairs. Stoic, put together even in her nightgown. Disdain was written clearly across her face as well to match her husband's at their biological son's futile pleas. “Try and keep it down. If I can hear your miserable sobs from the master bedroom then our daughter most certainly could if you woke her up.” She said calmly as a matter of fact while descending to her husband's side. “Try and act like you have manners and leave when you're told.” She drones on, bored of the scene already.

Rannith's heart shattered because somewhere inside deep had always held out hope. While Rational said that he knew better, he still had an ember of hope for his parents. Hope that they would have accepted him too. I hope they won’t completely abandon him.

The head of the manor kicked his son in the back of the knees, taking advantage of the stupor and let the latter drop to his hands and knees. Rannith didn't recover in time as the second kick landed firmly into his stomach, sprawling him out into the mud, and racking his head against the slick but hard surface.

His world spun and he scrambled to grab hold of a starting surface and recover the air that was knocked out of him. As his vision settled there was something he saw, he didn't see before he could now see clearly. Past the legs before him, on the landing of the stairs and almost completely descended stood Kahlia, wide-eyed and agape.

How much had she seen? How long had she stood there? What was she ever thinking as she took up such a pained expression? She's hardly talked to him for all these years. Never said anything to their parents in his defense tho either. He knew she was scared, she always has been.

It's the same face she's always made when she was picked up when the knife went through the hitman's neck. He knew she was scared but he needed her to do something, to say something, anything, after all this time. Just move, do something, look away, turn her back on him, reach out, or take a step forward even once. He just needed a sign from her, anything.

She stayed frozen in the staircase while her brother clawed into the ground to try and get up. He reached for her, lifting his head begging her, not his parents, not the Heads of the Steelingfleet name but his sister, who he spent his life standing up for. “Please…” he wheezed out “Kahlia-” was all he could say before the toe of a fine wood and leather dress shoe flew up and landed square against his chin.

-

He barely woke up at the sound of his own feet dragging against the ground. The only thing he could distinguish was an aching throb in the arm he was being dragged in a cold metal hand, half-conscious.

When he fully regained his senses, he was outside on the street. In front of the building he once called home but now stands as a presence of nightmares. 

Leave, they said. He recalled to himself, over and over as he picked himself up, taking in the scratches, scrapes, and bruises he didn't have any memory of acquiring.

There was only one option Rannith knew that he would go to and he started walking. If he needed to go somewhere, it would be anywhere except here, this city, country, nation, continent. He needed to leave and never come back completely. So he went to the Adventurer's Guild.

-

The receptionist was kind and caring to the teenager who stumbled in off the streets, less than an hour before the sun started rising. She wanted to help, he clearly needed it but he didn't seem to want help. Instead, he insisted on somewhere to go, somewhere to leave to.

Of course, many places would be a nice safe haven to take in a street kid but the unsecured and non-inconspicuous knife at his side gave her a different idea. Before her shift, she had fallen asleep in front of the TV to a new broadcast of something exciting as a storm of media coverage began to flood the channels. Turning to him she asked inquisitively. “How do you feel about tournament competitions?”