Primordial Heir: Nine Stars

The dream came without warning.

Nero found himself standing in a place he had tried to forget. The mountain was steep, the trees thin and twisted, their branches clawing at a sky that seemed permanently gray. Below, hidden in a hollow of the slope, stood the mansion. It had not been grand, even before time had worn it down. Three rooms, a porch that sagged, windows that let in more wind than light. The paint had long since peeled away, leaving bare wood that drank the rain and rotted in the sun.

This was where he had lived. This was where his mother had died.

He was small. His hands were small, his feet, his arms. He looked down at himself, at the thin legs and the too-large shirt, and understood. He was three years old again. Before the cold had settled into his bones. Before he had learned to stop crying.

The door of the mansion opened, and she stepped out.

His mother.

Her hair was long and blue, the color of deep water, falling past her waist in waves that caught what little light the sky offered. Her eyes were like the ocean after a storm—deep, dark, and filled with stars that seemed to move as he watched. She was beautiful. Even pale, even thin, even with the cough that shook her shoulders and left her breathless, she was beautiful.

She smiled, and the gray world seemed brighter.

"Nero." Her voice was soft, warm, like a blanket on a cold night. "Come inside. I’ve made soup."

He wanted to run to her. His legs would not move. He could only watch as she turned and walked back into the mansion, her steps slow, her hand braced against the doorframe. The dream held him frozen, a ghost watching his own past.

Then the scene shifted, and he was inside.

The kitchen was small, the stove ancient, the pots chipped and black with soot. His mother stood over a bubbling pot, stirring slowly, her face lit by the fire beneath. She was humming—a tune he had forgotten, a lullaby without words. He sat at the table, his legs swinging, watching her.

"Why do we live here?" he asked. His voice was high, childish, innocent. "Why don’t we live in the big house with the others?"

His mother’s hand paused on the spoon. For a moment, she was still. Then she turned, and her smile was gentle, sad, full of a love that hurt to see.

"Because we are different, my love."

"Different how?"

She crossed to him, kneeling despite the pain it must have caused, and took his small hands in hers. Her skin was cool, soft, trembling slightly.

"Different in a way that frightens people. They see us, and they are afraid. Not because of anything we have done, but because of what they do not understand." She squeezed his fingers. "But this difference is not a curse, Nero. It is not a shame. It is simply... a door. A door that leads to places others cannot go."

He frowned, too young to understand. "I don’t want a door. I want to play with the other children."

His mother laughed, a soft sound that turned into a cough. She covered her mouth, waited for the spasm to pass, and smiled again.

"One day, you will understand. And when you do, you will not be afraid. You will walk through that door and see the world as it truly is. And you will be magnificent."

She kissed his forehead, rose, and returned to the stove. He watched her, memorizing the curve of her back, the way her hair swayed as she moved, the soft hum of the lullaby.

The dream shifted again.

He was older now. Five, maybe six. His mother’s bed was pushed against the wall, the blankets thin, the pillow flat. She lay beneath them, her face pale as snow, her breath shallow and quick. The cough had worsened. She could not stand for long, could not walk to the stream to fetch water, could not gather the herbs that had once kept her alive.

He had learned to do those things. His hands, still small but growing stronger, had learned to grip a fishing pole, to recognize the plants that would not poison them, to build a fire in the stove without burning down the mansion. He had learned to be quiet, to move without sound, to avoid the eyes of the servants who sometimes came with meager offerings of bread and dried meat.

He had learned to stop crying.

His mother reached for him, her fingers trembling. He took her hand, held it gently, felt the bones beneath the skin.

"Don’t be sad, my love." Her voice was a whisper, barely there. "I have had more time with you than I ever deserved."

"Don’t say that." His voice was flat, cold, but his eyes burned. "You’re going to get better. I’ll find a way."

She smiled, and it was the saddest smile he had ever seen.

"You have your father’s stubbornness." A pause. "But you have my heart. Never lose that, Nero. Never let the world make you hard."

He did not answer. He could not. He simply held her hand and watched as her eyes grew heavy, as her breathing slowed, as the light in those ocean-deep eyes began to fade.

She died three days later. He was alone in the mansion, sitting beside her body, waiting for someone to come. No one came. He buried her himself, behind the mansion, beneath the twisted tree where she had liked to sit and watch the sunset. He dug the grave with his hands, the soil cold and hard, and he did not cry.

When it was done, he stood over the fresh mound of earth and made a vow.

He would never forgive them. The father who had abandoned them. The clan that had looked away. The world that had let her die alone in a crumbling house on a forgotten mountain.

He would live. He would grow strong. He would explore the world, as she had asked. And he would never, ever forget.

The dream began to fade. The mansion dissolved, the mountain, the gray sky. His mother’s face lingered for a moment, her eyes filled with stars, her lips curved in a gentle smile.

Then she was gone, and Nero woke.

He lay in his bed in the academy dorm, the sheets twisted around his legs, his face wet with tears he did not remember shedding. The room was dark, the window showing a sky just beginning to lighten with dawn. He lay still, breathing slowly, letting the grief wash through him.

It had been years. He had thought he was past this, past the pain, past the memories. But the dream had brought it all back—the love, the loss, the vow.

He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and buried his face in his hands.

"I’ll live," he whispered, the words a promise to a ghost. "I’ll live, and I’ll explore, and I’ll be magnificent. Just like you said."

The sun rose, painting the room in gold. Nero lifted his head, wiped his face, and began the day. The past was done. The future waited.

He would honor her memory. He would keep his vow. And he would never, ever forget. He would crush them, he reaffirmed his will.