Living on Isle Veni was exciting and entertaining. At six years old, the world was so impossibly large to Jean. The isle itself was an adventurous world of its own that never seemed to end, boundless in its offers of mysteries and fun. Because the isle was warded, it wasn't uncommon for him to explore on his own. He enjoyed being alone, sometimes. It gave him time to think, to recharge from the studious life as a young child in the Lowell family and the future leader of the Lowell Hunters.

Lessons and learning of the inhumans of the world, memorizing names of spells, training to lead the family's hunters; it could be exhausting. But even then, in the end, he normally ended up enjoying what he learned.

On the isle, one place he enjoyed in particular was the forest near the Cellar. Everyone knew he was there. Everyone knew it was the only place he went to be left alone.

He ran through the forest as if an inhuman was on his tail. Dodging and weaving through the trees, he glanced back at the hellhound. It was fortunately a young one; he would have needed to ask for help, otherwise. He knew it was safe to admit that. Looking forward, he jumped over a fallen trunk and rolled on the ground.

Going into a crouch facing said monster, he lifted his gun while the creature was suspended in the air from its own jump. Before it could land, he gave it a shot, then rolled out the way. The hit landed! Right in the mouth. It gagged and whimpered, lying on its side on the ground.

Not giving it a chance to attempt recovering, he swiftly neared it and unsheathed his sword, stabbing it in the neck. It immediately went still, dead in a second. That was the power of his consecrated sword. He recalled from his lessons that ordinary blades were normally never enough against several Infernals.

Standing, he swung his sword of the blood before sheathing it at his side. "Mission accomplished, men," he said into his headset. "The hellhound is down. How are you handling the imps?"

Just as he opened his mouth to speak again, he heard movement nearing him. He turned to see a blond woman in long skirt-like pants quickly approaching. He immediately froze, his imagination dissipated. The woman's expression was a calm, calculating yet menacing stare, and she was looking directly at him.

He dropped his rocks and stick. "M-Mother," he said softly, the sudden blooming warmth of terror spreading through his body.

What did he do? Divine Creation, what did he do? He never saw an expression like that on her face before. Rarely did he ever even see her.

Instead of answering, she slowed when she came to him. He initially looked at her face, but after a moment, he lowered his head so he didn't have to see her terrible expression.

Suddenly, his arm was taken, and he was pulled back to where she came from. He didn't dare question her. He didn't dare speak. He didn't know her very well, but she was still his mother. His retainers always told him to obey her, no matter what, without question. He only glanced up, walking quickly to catch up with her urgent strides. She was looking straight ahead, not so much as acknowledging him.

There was a horse waiting at the edge of the forest. Only one. He would have to ride with her. Wordlessly, she sat him on it before climbing up behind him. He kept his hands on the horse's neck, staring forward as dread continued to grow within him.

They arrived at the Cellar. He remained still even when she brought him down from the horse, then was dragged into the outpost. He remained quiet even when he saw his father lead his brothers down the stairs ahead of him. Ulrich was evidently clueless; it was obvious in his eyes. Tristan didn't seem nearly as scared as Jean knew he was.

Down to the first basement they went. His and his brother's small footsteps pattered in a staccato after the clicks of their mother's shoes and the thumps of their father's boots. The brown hall seemed to darken in his mind as they reached their destination. The closer they came to the entrance of the arena down the second staircase, a place he wasn't allowed to enter, he began to feel sick.

Something wasn't right.

"Wh-what's happening?" he asked in a soft voice, focusing his question to his father. His father would answer, right? "Did...I do something wrong, Father? M-Mother?"

Silence was the response, though Tristan turned to look at him as they walked ahead.

His brother looked just as terrified as he did.

Something was wrong.

The warm browns, creams and whites of the previous floor abruptly gave away to stark grey and bright white light. It felt cold, unwelcoming, dangerous. The floor seemed to be made of a type of smooth metal, causing the clicking of heels to resound louder. A smell reached his nose the moment they entered the upper arena. It smelled of something foreign, but he knew it wasn't good. It wasn't strong, but it nonetheless permeated the air.

They walked down a ramp. Things that looked like cages and enclosed rooms with a single window were ahead. He had never been here before.

He didn't want to be here.

Shouting reached his ears. He perked up in alarm. It sounded like his uncles Friedrich and Alfred. Why were they shouting? Where was he?

"Mother," he said, tears forming in his eyes, "I...I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, b-but I'm sorry."

"Hush, child," she snapped, her voice hard. "You and your brothers must witness this."

He caught the glance of his father, which wasn't as cold as his mother's. Instead of rage, it merely seemed empty. Detached.

His father looked ahead again.

Somewhat hopefully assured he didn't do anything wrong, he tried to hold back his tears and went quiet. Regardless, whatever it was he had to see, he didn't want to see it.

Finally, they turned a corner from a hall of isolated rooms and cells to a large one that was occupied. Friedrich was already there. Jean's grandparents, Leigh and Kaarlo, were already there. An unfamiliar woman in black was there, standing further from the others. His uncle Alfred was there, but...

As they came to stand in front of the cage-room, he could only stare. Terror welled within him, so much he swallowed the urge to vomit. He knew that wouldn't be tolerated, not here, despite the innate knowledge what he was looking at was distressing.

Chains and hooks dangled from the ceiling. A red barrier made from magic surrounded the center of the space where, hanging from one of those chains, his hands held over his head, was Alfred's nude body. The man's already pale, bruised and bleeding face blanched even more when his gaze met Jean's.

"No...Gwendolyn! How...how could you?!" he shouted, his voice wheezy and faint. "They're only chil—"

Perhaps it was because he was stupefied that he didn't see her move, but Jean's mother somehow went from standing nearer to him to standing before Alfred, smacking him so hard his head violently turned sideways.

This time, tears did fall from Jean's face. He didn't make a sound. He knew what this meant as he watched his mother shout at Alfred.

"You words mean nothing unless they are repentance, Alfred," she hissed.

Her brother breathed deeply, looking hard at her, but said nothing.

Jean always heard the stories, always proudly and loudly proclaimed what the punishment was for associating with inhumans in his family. Never did he actually consider a member of his family would be so foolish to do such a blasphemous thing. Alfred knew the consequences. They all did.

Shakily, he inhaled. His uncle wasn't tainted...was he? Moments of laughter and kindness, wise words and well-meant scoldings raced to the front of his mind. Were they all lies...?

"For the last time, Alfred," said Leigh, "tell us where the creature is."

"Repent!" Gwendolyn shouted, still standing before him.

Defiant blue eyes stared at her. "I will...not." His voice was lower than before, weaker.

Kaarlo shook his head with a deep exhale. "Very well. Intira."

The woman in black stood within the barrier. When she moved, the sound of chains was heard. Only then did Jean realize she was tightly shackled in glowing white chains and barefoot. She appeared to be bruised, purple welts over her face, hiding her possible beauty. Her expression was grim and angry. She hissed at Kaarlo, a sound that sent chills down Jean's back. It wasn't a sound a human should make.

In retaliation for this, Friedrich hauled a blue orb of magic at her that threw her back against the interior of the barrier. The attack dissipated, but the barrier held without so much as a flicker from the force. The clattering of chains resonated through the space, a harsh sound in Jean's ears.

The woman didn't even groan, but she did continue hissing. With visible effort, she moved to her feet. Turning to Alfred, who appeared wary of her, her eyes flashed red.

He abruptly threw his head back, a strangled cry emitting from his open mouth. It was such a sound that made Jean jump, and he watched in horror as his uncle began to writhe. It didn't take much for him to realize the woman was doing something to Alfred from how the depths of her eyes glowed red and how she stared so murderously at him.

Another choked cry emitted from the man, his head quavering, his eyes rolling back. While watching, Jean's lower lip trembled. He wanted to know what was happening, but he didn't want to know. His eyes then widened when blood began to trickle from out of Alfred's nostrils. A sadistic smirk formed on the woman's face, whereas the expressions of the other Lowell family members remained stoic and grim.

"Tell us, Alfred," said Leigh, her arms crossed over her chest. Despite the cries of her son, she seemed uncaring and callous. "Tell us where this creature is. Redeem yourself."

A look of worsening horror formed on Jean's face. Why would his uncle associate with an inhuman? Why?

"N-no..." Alfred's head shook to the sides and lowered, revealing his eyes were bloodshot. They stared downward, devoid of emotion. "I...I won't."

As if expecting this response, Leigh neared him to reach out and backhand him. While his head snapped to the side, this act seemed to have set off another, deeper pain, as Alfred's entire body convulsed before going still.

Eyes darting from his grandmother to his uncle, Jean swallowed. Alfred had gone still too easily, too suddenly. Was he...?

"Do not kill him," Kaarlo ordered, causing the black-clad woman to scowl.

"If you keep hitting him, it'll make that difficult," she sneered.

Friedrich stepped forward, clearly about to hit her again, but he was held back by Kaarlo.

"What do you see?" Gwendolyn's voice was terse.

Intira's eyes narrowed. "He's still resisting. I'm actually impressed..." She briefly glanced at the others. "It seems not all of you Lowells are so half-baked after all."

"Why you—" Friedrich growled when his father held him back again.

Kaarlo's mouth opened to say something when Alfred suddenly, hoarsely gasped. He then took in deep breaths of air with evident difficulty. From his mouth, blood dripped down to his chin.

Shaking her head, Intira made a soft scoff. Her eyes returned to their natural dark color. "He has resisted my mental assault. Barely."

"Then go deeper," Leigh demanded. "Internally. Whatever it takes to make him confess."

Intira made a low, irritated growl, glaring at her. Before anyone could react, a white chain broke through the barrier and smacked across her face, causing her to sprawl onto the floor.

Friedrich pointed at her. "Look at my mother like that again and I'll kill you, witch."

Swallowing, Jean stared upon the woman with a new sense of horror. Witches. They were a rare type of magic-user, proficient in darker arts and terribly powerful. Or so it was said. Going by how this Intira was shackled and beaten, she must have been weakened.

Without prompt, Alfred's head snapped back as a scream ripped from his mouth. Once more, Jean jumped, and more tears poured down his face when liquid trailed down from between his uncle's legs, dripping to the bloodied floor.

This time, reddish tears began to spill from Alfred's eyes, his screams plaintive, piercing the heart and mind. Searing. Agonized. Jean wanted to look away, cover his ears. But he knew better than to do so. The dark, hardened expressions on the faces of his elders only struck him as cruel, even with their dogma. Why didn't they just stop? Why didn't they just...kill him?

Wasn't that what they were supposed to do to those who associated with inhumans?

A moment after this thought, he suddenly swayed on his feet, nearly losing consciousness, as a force pushed against him. It was powerful. Deadly.

As he continued to sway, feeling his body steadily attempt to free him of the visions and sensations, something pressed against his back to keep him steady. Without even looking, he knew it was his father.

Everything after that was almost hazy, dreamlike. Screams. Such pained screams. Pleas to make the pain stop. All went ignored.

All the while, questions were shouted at Alfred over his screams. All he needed to do was confess, to tell them who the inhuman was, what it wanted, why he associated with it.

They're like us, he cried. They are not all evil.

Blasphemy.

Blasphemy.

Inhumans were creatures of the Dark.

That very Darkness licked at Jean's body. Somehow, he knew that's what it was. The witch Intira was standing again, staring deeply at Alfred as they interrogated him. Her expression was one of hate, of disgust. Her breathing was steadily increasing, her shoulders steadily rising.

Jean could feel it. A power charged within her. It was dark, unlike anything he had felt before. He wanted to say something. Anything. A warning. He wanted to scream.

Make it stop.

He felt his father's hand move to his shoulder to steady him as he nearly stumbled on his feet.

"What's happening?"

Somehow, mingled in with the screams, he heard his grandfather's voice. Alfred was thrashing, his wrists raw and bleeding, his eyes completely rolled into his head, and saliva and blood dripped profusely from his chin, eyes, ears; a harrowing sight. A harrowing sound. A murderous sound.

Make it stop...!

From the mouth of the witch came a sudden shriek, shattering the shield that protected them from her magic and the shackles that bound her.

All at once, everyone moved. Jean and his brothers were grabbed and lifted into their father's arms; Gwendolyn and Leigh erected smaller shields around themselves; Friedrich and Kaarlo moved to stop Intira.

Jean never looked away.

He didn't look away, even when great spurts of blood spewed from Alfred as his body was cut into, shredding him, by some power and force.

And the screaming stopped.

Everything that happened next was a blur to Jean. Shouting, rushing, blasts of gunshots, magic clashed, making him feel sick, and he and his brothers were suddenly in a corner, shielded by Gwendolyn and Leigh.

The only screams came from Ulrich, who clung to Tristan. Like Jean, the older boy was deathly silent. Jean leaned heavily against the wall, sheet white and breathing rapidly. Words were muffles, and he could only stare at his uncle's limp body.

The cuts in Alfred's flesh were deep. Jean could see the whiteness of bone.

And the blood.

There was so much blood.

It leaked out of every orifice, running like streams down his body. From his body, they poured onto the slightly slanted floor to disappear down a drain.

Jean had seen blood before and lots of it. But this...This was something else.

How could a person have so much blood in them...?

He didn't even notice the sudden quiet that descended in the room, save for Ulrich's cries. The witch was gone, as were their father, grandfather, and uncle. There was a distant commotion, something about the witch getting away.

But that meant nothing.

All that mattered was the blood. The blood, and the limp body that shook from raspy breaths.

Alfred was still alive.

Leigh and Gwendolyn moved to stand near him.

A soft, withered murmur echoed in Jean's ears. He watched his grandmother shake her head.

"No. The man I knew as my son is long gone, taken by the influence of inhumans," she said.

Jean didn't know where his mother obtained a long dagger, but it was suddenly in her hand. "I will do it," she said. "I must do it. Let this be my duty as the future matriarch of this good family."

Leigh only nodded.

"Om chia a zol de olapireta," they murmured together.

The words hung in the air, even with Ulrich's steadily lessening cries. They cut through the noise, reaching Jean's ears too clearly. They resonated within his mind, sunk deeply into his soul.

We are the Hands of Light.

His trembling lips parted to repeat the words, yet no sound came from his mouth.

Light cut through Darkness. Light destroyed Darkness. Light was the eternal enemy of Darkness, and Darkness was its nemesis.

All who swayed were cut down.

He didn't even flinch when his mother's hand moved, the dagger's sharp edge slicing through skin, flesh, and jugulars.

There was no gagging, no choking. Only more blood.

Leigh looked away. She said something to Gwendolyn, who shook her head while dropping the dagger.

She turned to look at Jean and his brothers.

Jean felt Darkness. He now knew Darkness. But there was a unique darkness in his mother's eyes that bore into him as she kept eye contact. Calmly, she approached him and his brothers. Her hands were immaculate, free of blood despite her role in killing her brother.

Jean watched as the horror he called mother kneeled so she was closer to his and his brothers' eye level. She placed one hand on Tristan's shoulder, the other on his to shake him.

"Promise me," she said. Cold blue eyes stared into his, then turned to look at his brothers before returning to stare pointedly into his again. "Promise me you will never repeat his mistake."

The world became clear to Jean in that moment. The haze cleared up; his breathing gradually eased. Behind his mother, the bloodied image of his dangling uncle slightly moved from the force that had been inflicted on him.

His heart hardening, his eyes emptying, Jean's mouth moved automatically. "Yes, Ma'am."