No one congratulated him.

No word, no glance, not even a whisper worth noting.

As if his emergence from the river had never happened…

As if what stepped out wasn’t human at all.

Severin sat silently by the courtyard wall, watching the training sessions without participating,

Like a shadow no one noticed… or dared to touch.

But on the fourth day after the river rite,

The silence broke.

> “Hah… look who they dragged into training. The little pup survived after all?”

A harsh voice, soaked in mockery.

Kryos of the Kangal Hounds stood tall, puffed-up as always—

Five years old, broad-chested, walking as if the courtyard itself had been made for him.

Beside him was Zalk of the Kalyan pack,

Slender, sly-eyed,

Always laughing when someone mocked—

Laughing harder when someone fell.

And behind them, slow-footed, thick-shouldered…

Liorn, a boy with no middle name,

No clear lineage, and little mind to spare.

He walked like a moving boulder,

Smacking stones with a wooden stick as if nothing spoken around him made sense.

The three approached Severin.

> “Heard he passed out in the river,” said Zalk.

“Guess the river couldn’t handle him!

And yet… he came back! It’s shameful to share the same batch with him!”

Kryos reached out and roughly brushed the dust off Severin’s shoulder.

> “Maybe the water washed away all his worth.

Or maybe… it washed out his blood entirely.”

Severin said nothing.

He didn’t even look at them.

He simply sat there, still—

Tying a coarse strip of cloth around his forearm,

As if their voices came from another time.

> “Let me knock him down, Kryos,” Liorn growled.

“Let me break his jaw!”

Zalk suddenly stuck out his leg…

Severin stumbled, dropped to one knee.

But he rose again—without hesitation,

Without even a glance back.

Kryos stepped forward.

Raised his hand—

And slapped the back of Severin’s head.

It was a simple slap.

Not one meant to drop someone.

But it shattered the silence.

Everything froze.

Severin remained standing.

No reaction. No scream. No protest.

But his face… wasn’t the same.

There were no tears.

No anger.

Only… a smile.

Faint.

Calm.

Featureless.

> “Is he… smiling?” Zalk muttered.

Kryos stared at him for a moment.

He felt something he couldn’t explain…

As if Severin’s eyes weren’t looking at him—

But through him.

As if something was behind that gaze…

Deeper than thought.

Older than words.

Kryos raised his hand again—

But didn’t strike.

> “Forget it,” he muttered. “He’s just a lunatic… let’s go.”

They backed off, one by one.

Severin sat again where he was.

He touched his cheek gently.

He didn’t feel pain—

But something else.

A pulse.

As if his blood was moving differently.

Faster.

Deeper.

As if… preparing for something to come.

And in his heart, where no one could see—

A small voice beat with every throb:

> “Remember the faces… don’t forget the names.”

Then came the silence.

Not the silence of peace—

But the silence before the storm.

He closed his eyes…

And the memories blazed.

The screech of the guillotine.

Heunkel’s contemptuous smile.

The murmurs of the crowd at the execution square.

The taste of iron in his mouth…

And the echo of that final voice in his mind:

> “Traitorous dog…”

He clenched his fists.

His nails dug into his small palms.

His lips did not move—

But inside, he screamed:

> “I will return…

I’ll tear apart everyone who smiled at my death.”

> “I will never be a dog again.”