Purple String {EDITING}

Prologue | The Boy

Woe betide beings wrapped in purple string.

Or so the saying went.

The pink-eyed boy didn't care for it though, even as purple as his hair grew and grew until it reached well past his shoulders. He didn't care of what people whispered about him. He cared not that people thought him a bad luck charm. All that mattered was survival, and survival of the streets of Ishgard wasn't particularly easy.

Winters were cold and harsh, food was scarce, and barely anyone wished to associate with the boy with hair the colour of the bringer of misfortune. The bringer of the end. So the boy learnt to be faster. He learnt to be quicker. He kept on learning until he reached soaring new heights.

The Palace of Alasmere was the very heart of the last land not governed over by the alphas, and it was so very easy to sneak into with his skills. No one wanted to see the boy with purple hair and even as dirty and matted as those locks were, the purple colouration was still so plainly obvious. So no one did see the boy with those terrible locks, and then the boy was free to explore.

Until one day he wasn't.

And it was on that day he fled to safer lands – because he saw them. The eyes of the king, and in them they held a secret only a few could grasp. The reason why Ishgard had maintained its independence for so long. Everything was hidden in those pink eyes.

Even the secrets to the boys past.