There had been so much pain, so much suffering. And he had caused some of it, unable to see how wrong it was at first. After all, his father had told him he was better and that it was right that everyone knew it; that his blood was purer than any of theirs could be and that it didn't matter if theirs was split.
But now, as he saw what everything had become he wondered if that was the truth. If they were so powerful, why was there fear in his father's eyes? If he was an adult, why did he feel so helpless at times, like a child unable to stand on his own?
There was no getting out of it now, and wishing for anything different was dangerous, but sometimes, when the screams of those in detention echoed through the dungeons, he wondered if maybe, just maybe, that boy could change things.
He hated him and hated his friends, the way he would do anything he wanted and never let danger and fear stop him. Of course, he wasn't so reckless and could see the rewards of that by comparing their times spent in the infirmary. He hated the way they all looked at him, like he was something to be pitied and looked down upon. He hated it, but he couldn't really shrug it off the way he used to, confident in his family's strength.
Now as he tried to act tough, confident, chosen, he felt empty inside, going through the motions of everyday life, putting on a façade so no one would see how his world had been crumbling for over a year. He could only hope that it would end, and that he would somehow be safe with his family.
