The Bound Demon

Elyon blinked, the vision of the silver-haired figure fading into the gray walls of the classroom. The storm that had curled in his mind was nothing more than a cloudy day, the skies outside dull and unremarkable. His pencil hovered over the half-drawn flower, the petals curling softly, almost as if they too had wilted in the mundane reality.

"Just a daydream," he thought, shaking his head. His lips curved into a small, rueful smile. Elyon had always been too imaginative, too lost in dreams for his own good.

He forced himself to focus on the chalkboard, where the teacher's droning voice filled the air. Numbers and equations blurred together, and he struggled to keep up, his mind still clinging to the fragments of that vision—the silver hair, the red eyes, the weight of an ancient sorrow.

"Who was that?"

A loud smack jolted him back to the present. His notebook was knocked off the desk, fluttering to the floor. Elyon flinched as rough hands grabbed his collar, pulling him up from his seat.

"Hey, orphan," a voice sneered close to his ear. The classroom seemed to melt away, the students watching with detached interest, none willing to intervene. "Still daydreaming, huh?"

Elyon's green eyes widened as he was shoved against the wall, the plaster cool and unforgiving against his back. His heart pounded, and he pressed his lips together, refusing to speak. He knew from experience that words only made things worse.

A group of students surrounded him, their faces twisted into cruel smirks. The leader, a boy with short-cropped hair and a chipped tooth, leaned in, his breath hot against Elyon's cheek.

"Still think you're better than us, huh?" he taunted, his fingers curling into the fabric of Elyon's uniform. "You don't even know where you come from. Your parents probably left you because they knew you'd be a useless freak."

The words hit him like stones, but Elyon remained silent, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His knuckles, already bruised, turned white under the strain.

"Say something!" the bully growled, shoving him harder against the wall.

Elyon's lips parted, but no sound came. His mind raced, flashes of those red eyes and silver hair brushing the edges of his consciousness. Why did he keep seeing that man? Why did he feel a pull toward something—or someone—he couldn't remember?

The bully's patience wore thin. He raised his fist, and Elyon braced himself, closing his eyes.

But then, a voice echoed in his mind, soft yet unyielding.

"Find me. I will always find you."

The blow never came.

When Elyon opened his eyes, the bully had paused, his fist trembling in midair. The room had grown colder, a strange pressure settling over them. The other students shifted uncomfortably, their laughter dying in their throats.

Elyon exhaled shakily, the moment breaking as the teacher returned, her sharp voice scattering the group. His notebook was kicked back to him, pages crumpled and dirty.

As the lesson resumed, Elyon slid back into his seat, his fingers tracing the half-drawn flower. His mind buzzed, filled with echoes of dreams and shadows of memories he could not quite grasp.

Every night, he dreamed of a world filled with fire and silver moonlight. He saw a man with white hair and red eyes, standing alone amidst fields of flowers. The man would turn, his expression pained, his lips moving to speak—but the dream always ended before Elyon could hear his voice.

Elyon did not remember Zephriel. But somewhere, deep within his soul, he felt the empty ache of something—or someone—missing.

And as the clouds outside began to clear, a single ray of sunlight broke through, casting a gentle glow over the flower on his page.

Would you like to continue with more of Elyon's life on Earth or bring Zephriel's perspective into the story next?