Prologue

The wind howled like a banshee, a relentless December wind that seemed to claw at the very walls of St. Jude's Orphanage. Inside, a young woman, barely more than a girl herself, lay on a cot, her body wracked with pain. Her name was Elara, and her hair, the color of spun moonlight, cascaded down her pale face like a fallen halo. Her emerald green eyes, once vibrant, were dull with exhaustion and a flicker of fear.

Elara wasn't supposed to be here. She was supposed to be a world away, safe and loved. But fate, a cruel mistress, had dealt her a hand of misfortune, leaving her abandoned and alone on this frigid December night. Now, on a cot in a dreary orphanage, Elara was giving birth.

The matron, a stern woman with a perpetually pursed mouth named Mrs. Hawthorne, hovered nearby. Her face, etched with years of caring for the unwanted, showed a flicker of something akin to pity. Elara reached out a trembling hand, her fingers seeking comfort.

"Please," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "Let me see him."

The cry of a newborn shattered the silence. A tiny mite, pale and wrinkled, entered the world with a squawk. Mrs. Hawthorne placed him gently in Elara's thin arms. The touch of his downy head against her chilled skin brought a flicker of warmth to Elara's face.

"Arthur," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Arthur Everhart."

Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks like icy rain. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, my sweet boy," she murmured, the words barely audible. "Forgive Mommy for not being able to stay with you."

With that final whispered plea, Elara's hand went limp. The life that had flickered so valiantly for Arthur, flickered out, leaving behind a chilling emptiness. Mrs. Hawthorne, her face grave, took the newborn from Elara's lifeless arms. Arthur, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that had just unfolded, continued his cries.

(Time-Skip)

Seven winters had painted St. Jude's Orphanage a familiar shade of grey since Arthur Everhart's arrival. Unlike the other children, who bore the weight of their abandonment in their eyes, Arthur seemed to carry a different story. His hair, the color of spun moonlight, contrasted sharply with the drab surroundings. His emerald green eyes, though often shadowed by a hint of melancholy, held a spark that set him apart.

He grew quickly, not just in stature but in intellect as well. While the other children struggled with their lessons, Arthur devoured them. He aced his studies, absorbing knowledge like a sponge. He wasn't terrible at sports either, possessing a natural grace that surprised everyone, including himself.

But these gifts came at a cost. Arthur's unique appearance and academic prowess made him an anomaly in the rough-and-tumble world of the orphanage. The other children, a ragtag bunch bound by shared misfortune, saw him as an outsider – a porcelain doll in a world of chipped toys. He became the target of their frustration, the recipient of taunts and shoves.

One crisp autumn afternoon, as Arthur sat under his favorite oak tree, nose buried in a well-worn copy of "Treasure Island," a shadow fell across the page. He looked up to see Michael "Mighty Mike" O'Connell, the self-proclaimed leader of the older boys, flanked by his usual posse. Mike, a hulking boy with a perpetual scowl, snatched the book.

"Fancy pants over here reading again," Mike sneered, flipping through the pages with rough fingers. Arthur felt a stab of anger, but years of experience had taught him to keep it bottled up.

"Can I have my book back, please?" he asked politely, his voice barely a whisper.

Mike's scowl deepened. "Sure, princess," he mocked, holding the book just out of reach. Arthur's fists clenched at his sides. He hated the nickname, but more than that, he hated the helplessness that washed over him. He wouldn't give Mike the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

Before Arthur could formulate a retort, a fist connected with his stomach. The air whooshed out of his lungs as he doubled over, landing on his knees. Mike's laughter grated on his ears. Rage, hot and primal, surged through him. If only I had the power... I would have broken his hand for daring to hit me.

A shove from Mike's foot sent Arthur sprawling onto his side. But something inside him snapped. In that instant, a jolt of energy, unexpected and powerful, erupted from within him. Mike, who had been leaning in to deliver another taunt, went flying backward as if struck by an invisible force. He landed with a sickening thud against a nearby tree, a strangled cry escaping his lips. Arthur could have sworn he heard a bone crack.

Panic replaced rage. Had he done that? Before he could react, the orphanage staff came rushing out, alerted by the commotion. Some hurried to Mike's side, who was now screaming in pain. Mrs. Hawthorne approached Arthur, her face etched with concern.

"Arthur," she began gently, "what happened to Michael?"

Arthur was still reeling from the shock. His voice barely a whisper, he stammered, "He... he was claiming the tree as his, Mrs. Hawthorne. I told him not to, but he wouldn't listen, and then he slipped and fell."