Have you ever watched your own mother be whipped by canes of leather and fire?
With thorns and nails as thick as dragon claws?
Under a rain of embers?
Under the heat of the seventh sun?
I bet you haven't seen your mother bleed before you, screams of agony tearing from her throat. Her back peeled away, flesh by flesh, until her ribs were visible, her muscles raw, almost exposing her visceral organs.
Yet here she was, bleeding before him.
They made him watch as she knelt on a board of nails.
They crucified her for the sins of her son.
His throat tightened as the rain of fire fell heavily from the heavens—a common weather in a land where only fire existed.
Things like him were abominations.
If his mother survived the lashes, he would be grateful. But she would never be the same.
Her crime was grave—a sin against His Majesty and the Court of Lords.
His tears flowed endlessly, streaking his face with streams of anguish. His eyes were puffed and red, his heart wrenched with a pain he could not voice.
He could not save her.
He was nothing more than a powerless boy.
A bitter laugh churned in his chest as his heart froze into the very thing the nation feared—ice.
He was born with this curse.
His first cry marked him as cursed.
Beyond his father's love, he and his mother were constant targets of the jealous queen and her conniving concubines.
Did his mere existence warrant their hatred?
He wept bitterly as the last strike of the cane tore through the air, eliciting a scream so harrowing it etched itself into his soul.
Finally, they allowed him to approach her.
He sprinted, his lungs burning, his vision blurred by tears. He fell to his knees and cradled her fragile body.
"Momma, Momma! Wait, you'll be fine. Help! Somebody help me, see?" he screamed desperately as she coughed up blood.
A team of physicians rushed to her, lifting her onto a stretcher. He followed them, his steps heavy with dread.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted something—a fleeting figure.
His father.
Emerging from another woman's chambers.
While his mother, the woman his father claimed to love, bled to death, he was busy entertaining another whore.
Rage churned in Cage's heart, colder than ice, fiercer than fire. The air shifted as cold winds swept through the blazing palace.
But he was only twelve. He knew better than to act rashly. Acting now would seal both their fates.
He inhaled deeply, quelling the frost threatening to escape his soul. The flames resumed their heat, as though mocking his momentary defiance.
His father's fiery gaze locked onto him, dark and scorching. What was that look? Pity?
Cage clenched his fists.
One day, he would reduce the Fire Nation to a frozen wasteland, its embers buried beneath ice and ashes.
He walked away, his steps heavy, to his mother's abode—a palace of flowers and butterflies, a stark contrast to the cruelty of the world outside.
She was too kind, too peaceful for this world. A woman too pure to bear the burden of a cursed son.
For twelve hours, he watched as the physicians worked tirelessly to sew her torn body back together.
"You may not enter," the guard said firmly.
"A gift for the Duke," a soft voice replied.
"Let her in," Cage commanded, his attention fixed on the procedure.
"Your Lordship, this gift—" she began, but he raised a hand to silence her.
"You may go," he said without turning.
She left swiftly, her presence as insignificant as the vase she left behind.
He stared at his mother, haunted by memories of her suffering. The pain she endured for him weighed heavily on his soul.
His body burned, his insides roiled as if sharing her torment.
Then, it hit him—a sharp constriction in his chest. He turned his head sluggishly toward the vase.
Dandelions.
Satan's poison.
His lungs constricted, his skin swelled with hideous red bumps. He convulsed, foam spilling from his mouth as his vision blurred.
The light grew unbearably bright.
"The Duke is dead!"
The cries echoed through the palace, a chilling requiem for a life stolen too soon.