Chapter Three

J A I L B R E A K : MONTH SIX OF ISOLATION

Mania.

Full, adulterated, mania.

Adam felt like his skin was numb, the kind that shot throngs of pain any time you so much as twitched.

He wanted to fight. To maim. To completely and utterly dominate something.

Anything.

He was finally losing it.

The anger, the little red devil that has followed him since birth reared its head.

This is unfair.

Adam was thirty two when he died.

Dead because no one can take a semi head on and live. Unfortunately.

Adam had specialized in kickboxing at the time, and learned a bit of Taekwondo and wrestling too.

He had lived in the streets when he was sixteen, bouncing from couch to couch, amongst other things. A lot of fighting, a lot of stealing, and a lot of running.

So much running.

But he got through it and met the old man.

Feisty guy full of pride and wrath. He made sure to pass on those traits before he passed.

And I inherited them love.

Adam felt his teeth touch the air, he was smiling.

“Right.”

He was worthy.

Adam went further back, deeper. His earliest memory was when he was three. His mother and father were arguing, dad calling his mom a whore, the classics. His father hit him for the first time that day, it left a bruise in the shape of his fingers on his thigh.

Another memory. Adoption. He was nine when he went in and twelve when he came out. Mother won back custody, or something like that. It was hell on earth, her new man hated Adam, especially since he looked just like his dad.

When he was sixteen his mom found gay porn under his bed and told the step dad. He was beaten black and blue then thrown out like a dog. No time to pack a bag for a fag.

Even before the eviction Adam was already struggling in school. He fought a lot, for defense and because people liked to say stupid shit for stupid reasons.

Most of the reasons were always stupid.

Regardless Adam had to learn to fight, but even with all his practice, in the face of a fully grown adult man, Adam was lucky to even be alive from how mad he was at the time.

Such a big reaction for a little thing.

The man had such weak resolve that a sixteen year old boy getting off to dick endangered his life so much that he had to try and snuff it out.

Madness lingers everywhere, even here.

Adam looked at the flame and orange filled his soul.

Like a fuse was lit, the back of his eyes lit up in fire that made him scream in surprise.

Subsequently the bottoms of his feet popped like a cork. White, hot, blinding light engulfed the room.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

The explosion took half of the building with it.

N O T I C E : A KING’S WOE

The explosion shook the entire grounds surrounding the castle while leaving a white light dancing past the border and towards the city.

King Mikael Von Lux was on the scene in less than a second, mana twirling around his feet like fluttering leaves. The sky was dim and morphed gray with clouds dancing between mana like it was playing about.

Someone has awakened.

The usual suspects are children or teens, and rarely adults. Breakthroughs in mana are harder to achieve after your teen years, so the probability is leaning towards a young adult.

The body down below looked small.

But why would a child be here?

After the initial shock the King was finally able to see. The burst came from down below, bottom floor by the looks of it.

“Casualties?”

“Five and counting.”

The surrounding blast looked to have erupted at an angle pointing up, possible body related. It looked like a giant cut a piece of cake straight through the ground. The edges were rough and torn, unstable. The mana scorched the earth and left not even a single piece of debris behind.

The being was dangerous.

“Who was down there?”

Everyone grew silent.

Then he spotted him. His son. Of course it was his son, not a single soul would have that exact shade of ashen pink hair. He looked near death.

Dread.

The speed in which he managed to get down there, grab his son, and appear in his personal med bay was less than a second.

His sudden appearance spooked the entire staff, but his killing intent lit a fire under their asses.

“Heal him.”

The command was clear.

The King never left and no one tried to make him.

He was the angriest they have ever seen.

Not even when the First Prince broke his arm was his wrath this potent. Many eyes fell on the boy and thought.

The queen needs to know.

“Report.”

The King still sat beside his son by the next day's sunrise. He held his face in his hands, a perfect image of a caring and doting father.

Something he was clearly not.

“It seems Osiris has been locked in solitary since Mercedes’s birthday, my King.”

S i x m o n t h s

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. It seems the guards took your order as prison confinement.”

Traitorous.

“Find them.”

His shadow moved.

After a moment he made sure he was alone before he looked at Osiris again.

He had forgotten about his son.

Teeth creaked in the stagnant air.

He knew he got busy. He knew he was angry, but this angry?

He wanted to cry.

His order was for isolation. Confinement. But when did he ever mention prison confinement?

Clearly someone took advantage of his anger. With not a sound of the boy after that day the King assumed he was dealt with.

The King stared at Osiris as his chest rose and fell.

He was all that was left of her.

A precious being, someone left to him by the only person he has ever loved.

And this is how I take care of him?

Guilt.

The King unbuttoned another opening around his collar. The air hit his skin, cooling his head.

Regret.

All he had left was regret. There was no magic to turn back time. There was no re-due.

Osiris stirred in his sleep.

Deep, crevasses beneath his eyes made him look even smaller than he already was. The King closed his eyes.

He had allowed politics to affect him. After the incident he was terrified of how the people would see him. With his background as the King’s bastard son, Mikael couldn’t handle the thought of his son appearing weak.

Not when his mother was anything but.

Osiris’s mother had warned him about this.

About his pride.

It’s going to weaken you.

With his son laying half dead in bed, the King could not argue against the memory.

Back and forth his mind went.

He had been so worried about Osiris since his mother died. He refused to leave him at their cottage, and brought him home, damned the consequences.

The King stared down at the consequences.

Round and round the funnel went, a spiral of memories spent. A ballad of woes.

A PATHETIC SHOW OF A KING.

Mikael tried to sit up, but one look at his son sent him sagging back into his seat.

He was tired.

Seventeen people were killed that day.