Before he was called Kael Draven, he had another name.
Ethan Cole.
It was an ordinary name, belonging to an ordinary boy who had learned far too early that the world was not built to protect children like him.
Ethan never knew his parents.
According to the government records, his mother died shortly after giving birth.
His father was listed as unknown.
There were no photographs, no letters, and no relatives who came looking for him.
His entire past fit inside a thin brown folder stored in the office of Saint Marrow’s Children’s Home.
Ethan read it once when he was thirteen.
The file contained two pages, three official stamps, and less information than most people received on a hospital bill.
He returned it without saying anything.
After that, he stopped wondering what his parents had looked like.
Questions without answers were only another form of pain.
Saint Marrow’s stood at the edge of Greybridge, a city covered in concrete towers, dirty rain, and advertisements promising better lives to people who could afford them.
The orphanage housed nearly eighty children despite having space for fewer than fifty.
Beds were shared.
Meals were small.
Winter coats were donated after they had already been worn thin by someone else.
Whenever wealthy couples visited, the staff cleaned the main hall, hid the damaged furniture, and dressed the youngest children in their best clothes.
The children would line up and smile.
They all hoped to be chosen.
Ethan stopped lining up after he turned eight.
People wanted babies.
Sometimes they wanted cheerful little girls with bright eyes.
Occasionally, they wanted polite boys who smiled easily and knew when to lower their heads.
Nobody wanted a quiet child who watched adults as though he expected them to lie.
By ten, Ethan had accepted that Saint Marrow’s would be his home until the government decided he was old enough to survive alone.
Then Milo arrived.
He was four years old, painfully thin, and holding a red toy car with only three wheels.
Milo cried throughout his first night.
He cried during the second night as well.
On the third night, Ethan threw a pillow at him.
“Stop making noise.” Milo stared at him from the bed across the room.
His eyes were swollen, and his cheeks were wet.
“I want my brother.” “You don’t have one.” Milo’s lips trembled.
For a moment, Ethan thought the boy would start crying again.
Instead, Milo climbed down from his bed and walked across the cold floor.
He stopped beside Ethan, still clutching the broken toy.
“Can you be my brother?” “No.” “Why?” “Because I said no.” Milo frowned as though Ethan had given him a complicated puzzle.
Then he lifted the blanket and climbed into Ethan’s bed.
Ethan stared at him.
“What are you doing?” “Sleeping with my brother.” “I said I’m not your brother.” Milo closed his eyes.
“You can say yes tomorrow.” Ethan should have pushed him off the bed.
Instead, he moved closer to the wall.
When morning came, Milo had both arms wrapped around his chest.
That was how Ethan gained a little brother.
Not through blood.
Not through law.
Through the stubbornness of a lonely four-year-old who refused to accept no as an answer.
From that day onward, Milo followed him everywhere.
When Ethan went to the library, Milo sat beside him and studied picture books upside down.
When Ethan repaired broken appliances for the orphanage caretaker, Milo handed him the wrong tools with great confidence.
When older boys stole food from younger children, Ethan fought them.
When Ethan was punished for fighting, Milo slipped biscuits under the door.
“You’re going to get caught,” Ethan whispered once.
Milo pushed another biscuit through the gap.
“Then eat faster.” Ethan taught Milo how to read.
Milo taught Ethan how to laugh.
Years passed.
Their shared dream was not grand.
Ethan would find work.
They would rent a small apartment.
Milo would go to school.
And someday, when they had enough money, they would buy a dog.
“A small one,” Milo always insisted.
“Small dogs still eat,” Ethan told him.
“We’ll teach it not to.” “That isn’t how dogs work.” “Then you’ll work harder.” “You’re shameless.” Milo grinned.
“I learned from you.” By most people’s standards, their dream was miserable.
A cheap apartment.
Long working hours.
Second-hand furniture.
A small dog they could barely afford.
To Ethan, it sounded like heaven.
When he turned eighteen, Saint Marrow’s discharged him.
The administrator handed him a plastic bag containing his clothes, several forms, and enough financial assistance to survive for a few weeks.
Milo was thirteen.
Ethan was not allowed to take him.
“You are not his legal relative,” the administrator explained.
She sat behind a polished desk in an office warmer than any room where the children slept.
“I’m the only family he has.” “That may be how you feel, but the law does not recognise emotional relationships as legal guardianship.” “I raised him.” “You were both residents of this institution.” “I protected him.
I taught him.
I know what food he hates and what makes him wake up at night.
What else does a family need?” The administrator sighed.
It was the sigh of someone inconvenienced by another person’s desperation.
“You need stable employment, suitable housing, financial security, and official approval.” “How long will that take?” “Several years.” Ethan’s hands tightened.
“He could be transferred before then.” “That is possible.” “Then don’t transfer him.” “That decision is not yours.” For one violent moment, Ethan wanted to reach across the desk.
Then he saw Milo standing outside the office window.
The boy held the same red car he had carried into Saint Marrow’s nine years earlier.
Ethan had repaired it twice, but one wheel was still a different colour.
Milo smiled at him.
Ethan forced his hands to relax.
“Give me the forms.” From that day onward, he worked.
He carried cement at construction sites before sunrise.
At night, he cleaned kitchens after restaurants closed.
On weekends, he stacked boxes in warehouses and repaired cheap electronics for anyone willing to pay.
He rented a single room in a building where the pipes rattled and the walls smelled of dampness.
He slept four hours when he was fortunate.
Every Sunday, he returned to Saint Marrow’s.
Milo always waited near the gate.
For almost a year, Ethan believed effort would be enough.
That was another lie the world enjoyed telling poor people.
Milo first became sick during winter.
It began with a cough.
The orphanage nurse called it seasonal flu.
He was given medicine and told to rest.
Three days later, his fever worsened.
A week later, he collapsed in the dining hall.
Ethan received the call while carrying bags of cement.
He dropped everything and ran.
By the time he reached Greybridge Public Hospital, Milo was lying on a narrow bed in a crowded emergency corridor.
His breathing was shallow.
Each breath sounded wet and painful.
“What happened?” Ethan demanded.
A tired doctor checked the chart without looking at him.
“Severe bacterial pneumonia.
The infection progressed before he was properly assessed.” “Then treat him.” “We are treating him.” “He can barely breathe.” “The intensive care unit is full.” “Move him somewhere else.” “The orphanage insurance covers public treatment only.” “I’ll pay.” The doctor finally looked at Ethan’s dirty work clothes.
“Private care is expensive.” “I said I’ll pay.” Ethan emptied his savings that afternoon.
It was not enough.
The private hospital demanded a deposit before admitting Milo.
Ethan showed them his employment records, his guardianship application, and his bank statements.
They refused.
Because he was not Milo’s legal guardian, the transfer also required authorisation from Saint Marrow’s administration.
The administrator was attending a charity banquet.
A banquet raising money for disadvantaged children.
Ethan called seventeen times.
No one answered.
He begged the private hospital.
He offered every future salary he would earn.
He promised to sign anything they placed in front of him.
The receptionist repeated the same sentence.
“Without payment and official authorisation, we cannot proceed.” Milo died shortly after midnight.
Not inside an intensive care room.
Not surrounded by specialists.
He died in the public hospital corridor beside a vending machine whose mechanical humming was louder than his final breaths.
Ethan held his hand.
Milo looked smaller than he had in years.
“Ethan?” “I’m here.” “Did you get the apartment?” The question tore through him.
“Almost.” “What about the dog?” “We’ll get one.” Milo’s cracked lips formed a faint smile.
“A small one?” “The smallest one in the city.” “You promise?” Ethan tightened his grip around the boy’s cold fingers.
“I promise.” Milo relaxed.
The heart monitor released a continuous tone.
Ethan waited for doctors to come running.
No one did.
A nurse eventually approached, looked at the screen, and lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” Ethan did not cry.
He sat beside Milo until morning while doctors, cleaners, patients, and security guards walked past them.
The world continued.
That was the cruelest part.
The system that had failed Milo did not collapse beneath the weight of what it had done.
The administrator kept her job.
The private hospital continued demanding deposits.
Politicians continued making speeches about protecting children.
Saint Marrow’s placed Milo’s belongings inside a cardboard box.
The red car rested on top.
Ethan carried it home.
Something inside him remained in that corridor.
His trust.
His mercy.
Perhaps even part of his humanity.
From then on, he believed in only one thing.
Family.
And his family was dead.
For three years, Ethan lived like a machine.
He worked.
He ate.
He slept.
He avoided friendships because friendships created expectations.
He avoided kindness because kindness often demanded repayment.
Some nights, he dreamed that Milo was alive.
They sat together inside a tiny apartment while a small dog slept near the heater.
Other nights, Milo asked why Ethan had not saved him.
Ethan never had an answer.
His own death came on a rainy evening.
There was no hidden conspiracy and no great purpose.
A delivery truck lost control while approaching a crowded crossing.
Ethan saw it sliding toward a woman and her young son.
For one second, he did nothing.
The world had not saved Milo.
Why should he save anyone else?
Then the child turned.
He had frightened eyes, messy hair, and one hand wrapped around a small red toy.
Ethan moved before he could think.
He crossed the distance, pushed the woman and child out of the truck’s path, and felt the impact strike his body.
Pain exploded through him.
The road vanished.
The rain vanished.
For a moment, he thought he heard Milo laughing.
Then there was silence.
Ethan expected death to be empty.
Instead, he heard crying.
His own crying.
His body felt tiny and weak.
He could not lift his head or control his hands.
Warm air touched unfamiliar skin, and bright light stabbed into his newly opened eyes.
A woman held him against her chest.
Her silver hair clung to her tear-covered face.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispered.
A broad-shouldered man stood beside her, trembling as though he had survived a battlefield.
“Our son,” the man said.
Ethan did not understand their language.
But he understood the emotion in their voices.
Love.
Immediate.
Unconditional.
Terrifying.
He tried to pull away.
His newborn body barely moved.
The woman kissed his forehead.
“Kael,” she whispered.
“Our little Kael Draven.” That became his new name.
His second life began beneath a sky with two suns.
Yet Ethan did not accept this new family.
Not at first.
As an infant, he rarely cried unless he needed food.
Whenever the silver-haired woman held him, his body became stiff.
She never became angry.
She simply held him more gently.
The man often placed Kael against his chest and spoke in a deep, calm voice.
Kael did not understand the words, but he felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
He waited for them to abandon him.
They never did.
When Kael was two, the man carried him on his shoulders through a crowded festival.
Kael gripped his hair tightly, secretly afraid he would be dropped and left behind.
The man only laughed and held his legs more securely.
When Kael was four, he became sick.
The woman remained beside his bed for two days.
Every time he opened his eyes, she was there.
She changed the wet cloth on his forehead, measured his fever, and whispered stories about heroic kings and queens who transformed into legendary beasts.
Kael waited for her patience to end.
It did not.
Eventually, he learned their names.
Marcus Draven.
His father.
Elara Draven.
His mother.
He did not call them that for years.
The words felt dangerous.
Names created bonds.
Bonds created loss.
Then Lyra was born.
Kael was six when he stood beside her cradle.
He told himself that she was only another child living in the same house.
Then she wrapped her tiny fingers around his.
Kael cried for the first time since Milo’s death.
He hid afterward, furious at his own weakness.
But the walls around his heart had already begun to crack.
At eight, he called Marcus “Dad” without thinking.
At nine, he hugged Elara after she returned safely from a research expedition.
At eleven, he broke another boy’s nose for pushing Lyra into a fountain.
At twelve, he realised that the Draven house was no longer merely where he lived.
It was home.
Then Noah was born.
Kael stood outside the hospital room, unable to enter.
A little brother.
The world had given him another little brother.
It did not feel like kindness.
It felt like a threat.
Marcus found him alone in the corridor.
“You don’t have to hold him,” his father said.
Kael stared at the floor.
“What if something happens to him?” Marcus was silent for a moment.
Then he placed one large hand on Kael’s shoulder.
“Then we protect him.” Kael’s jaw tightened.
“I might not be strong enough.” “You won’t be alone.” Marcus smiled.
“We protect him together.” Together.
Ethan Cole had never possessed that word.
Kael entered the room.
Elara placed Noah into his arms.
The baby opened his eyes and wrapped one tiny hand around Kael’s finger.
The memory of another child holding his hand in a hospital corridor nearly crushed him.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Kael whispered.
It was an impossible promise.
He made it anyway.
Ten years later, Kael stood on the eve of his sixteenth birthday.
Tomorrow, he would attend his Beast Soul Awakening.
In this world, every human received the power to transform into a beast at sixteen.
Most awakened creatures native to the world.
Some became wolves, bears, birds, reptiles, or sea beasts.
The fortunate awakened magical species linked to flame, ice, wind, metal, light, and countless other elements.
The rarest possessed Legendary Beast Forms.
Those bloodlines ruled kingdoms.
Kings and queens did not hold their thrones through politics alone.
They could transform into creatures powerful enough to defend entire nations.
Kael had told his family that he expected an ordinary awakening.
He knew that was impossible.
For months, he had dreamed of three ancient monsters.
A colossal predator walked across a prehistoric land beneath a burning sky.
An enormous marine beast ruled an ocean untouched by human hands.
A winged reptile glided over mountains from an age long forgotten.
Kael knew them.
They were creatures from Earth.
Tyrannosaurus rex.
Mosasaurus.
Quetzalcoatlus.
They should not exist in this world.
Yet he could feel them sleeping within his soul.
And beneath those three, something else waited.
It was black.
Patient.
Female.
An elongated crown rose from its head, while a second jaw rested behind rows of silver teeth.
Kael did not know why he recognised it.
He only knew its name.
Xenomorph Queen.
The three prehistoric beasts constantly fought one another inside his dreams.
The tyrant demanded dominance.
The sea predator desired endless territory.
The sky ruler refused every chain.
But whenever the black Queen moved, all three turned against her.
Earth, ocean, and sky formed a prison around death.
Still, Kael could hear her whispering.
She spoke with Ethan’s voice.
Trust no one.
Protect the family.
Hide what we are.
Destroy anything that tries to take them away.
On the night before his awakening, Noah fell asleep beside Kael on the sofa.
Lyra argued with Marcus in the kitchen while Elara tried to stop them from ruining dinner.
Their voices filled the house.
Warm.
Loud.
Alive.
Kael looked at them and felt the black Queen stir inside him.
Ours.
For once, he did not reject the word.
Yes, he answered silently.
Ours.
Tomorrow, the world would see his Beast Soul.
But it would not see the truth.
Somehow, Kael knew the Queen could conceal it.
She could wrap the shape of a king in the skin of something harmless.
The thought should have frightened him.
Instead, he felt relieved.
Because Ethan Cole had learned one lesson the hard way.
Power attracted attention.
Attention brought greed.
And greed destroyed families.
Kael lowered his gaze toward Noah.
He had failed to save one little brother.
He would not fail again.
No matter what he had to become.