A little boy stared at the walls, restless. Tracing the deep ivy vines along their winding path, be begins to count the fuchsia flowers along the way. He had been confined to his room for days, feeling the discourse and tension that hummed throughout the commune.
Even his play times had been cut off. Often, his mother and father would find him in the forest, practicing magic of the elements. The fiends were light in the area directly surrounding Guadosalam, and not once did he find himself outnumbered.
But even at such a young age, Seymour was not blind to those around him. The words stung as adults would mumble names like half-breed, abomination, disgusting, sacrilege... The guado would rarely even acknowledge the young boy's existence. And he was beginning to notice the same disgruntled treatment towards his mother.
The use of magic was an outlet, a safe haven he could take out his frustration and anger. Why were the people this way to him? What had he done wrong? As his powers grew, so did the way in which he used them. A few times he started fires in the nearby woods, even electrocuted small wooden creatures. The butterflies of the forest were an interesting way to practice on moving targets, and the locals often spoke profanities for such mindless destruction.
Whispering voices. Scuffling of feet. Then, knuckles as they rapped on the thick wooden door.
Seymour rose from his bed, blinking as his mother entered. "Mother?"
