Dragon summoner

"Dad..."

His father's warm, worried eyes locked onto his.

In one swift motion, he stepped in and closed the door behind him with a firm click. The moment the latch clicked shut, Vishu felt it—the cold, creeping unease in the air retreated. Like something unwelcome had been pushed out.

His father knelt by the bed and pulled him gently into a tight embrace.

"You're safe now, my son," he whispered, holding him like he'd almost lost him.

"No one's going to hurt you again."

Vishu didn't speak. He didn't know how. But in that moment, for the first time in what felt like forever, he believed it.

Sudden shouting and furious cursing shattered the fragile silence, pulling Vishu out of the warmth of his father's comforting embrace. He jolted upright, disoriented, his heart pounding. The chaos outside grew louder—voices raised in anguish and rage, echoing through the corridor like distant thunder.

"What's going on out there?" Vishu asked, his voice trembling. "Why are they screaming? Who... who was murdered?"

His father's face stiffened. The color drained from his cheeks, and for a long, haunting second, he said nothing. Then, a strange blend of relief and disbelief washed over his expression. He took Vishu's hands tightly, almost desperately.

"I knew it," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I knew you couldn't have done this. You've never hurt a soul in your life. You cry when you see a bird with a broken wing... You'd rather go hungry than let a rabbit starve. There's no way you killed someone. No... you didn't murder him. You didn't kill Luice... tell me you didn't."

Vishu's eyes widened in horror. His pulse raced, cold sweat breaking out across his forehead.

"What?" he gasped. "Me? Kill Luice? What are you saying, Dad? Why would anyone think I did that?"

A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken dread. Somewhere beyond the door, a woman screamed again—"He'll pay for this! He has to pay!"—and Vishu felt the floor beneath him tilt, the world beginning to collapse under the weight of a truth he hadn't yet remembered.

Vishu's father placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and said softly, "I'll take you home first… then we'll figure everything else out. Your mother must be worried sick about you."

Mother. The word twisted like a blade in Vishu's mind. A bitter laugh almost escaped his lips, but he swallowed it, his face a mask of silence. Worried? No—his mother wasn't capable of worry, not for him. If anything, she'd rather see him vanish, erased from her perfect world like a smudge on glass.

She doesn't love me. She never did.

In his mind, her voice echoed—sharp, cold, dripping with disdain. "Don't touch that. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't embarrass me." That was the mother he knew. The one who wore silk smiles and poisoned words. The one who clung to his father like a parasite dressed in pearls—feeding off his kindness, craving only his wealth, his name, his empire.

She played her role well: the devoted wife, the nurturing mother. But Vishu saw through the mask. He had always seen it. Her affection was a performance, staged for his father's eyes alone. Behind closed doors, her true self emerged—cruel, cold, calculating. She wore motherhood like a costume and resented every second of it.

She wants me gone, he thought, the truth settling in his gut like ice. She wants to erase me from the picture, to have Father all to herself, unchallenged, undistracted… But she couldn't. Not yet. Not as long as his father loved him. That love is the only shield Vishu had left

As the door creaked open, the world outside came crashing in like a storm.

Smoke still lingered in the corridor, charred walls bearing the scars of a night no one would forget. The scent of ash and grief hung heavy in the air. Faces turned—one by one—every eye locking onto Vishu with a mix of horror, hatred, and disbelief. A deadly silence fell for a heartbeat… and then came the murmurs, like the buzz of angry bees, swelling into curses.

"There he is…"

"Murderer…"

"Monster…"

Then—out of the crowd—a woman pushed forward. Her clothes were stained with soot, her eyes red and swollen, as if sleep had been a stranger to her for days. Her trembling hand pointed at Vishu, but it was her voice—sharp, broken, and laced with unbearable pain—that sliced through the air.

You!" she cried, her voice cracking. "You killed my little Lui!"

Her knees buckled as the weight of her grief dragged her down. She sobbed into her hands, raw and unrestrained, but a moment later, she rose again—like a storm rebuilding itself.

Tears still falling, her face twisted in fury. "You think being underage will protect you?" she screamed. "You think the law won't touch you because you're a boy? No. No! I will not rest until you pay for this. I will make sure you do."

She stepped closer, trembling with rage, eyes blazing. "I don't care how young you are. You took my child from me. My innocent little Lui… You stole his future."

Then her voice dropped, cold and venomous:

"You won't be spared. Not by me. Not by the world. I'll make you suffer like I do, every second of every day."

Vishu stood frozen, words caught in his throat, as if his soul had fled from his body. Her agony pierced through him deeper than any blade. He wanted to deny it, to scream that it wasn't him—but a part of him, the part beginning to remember, stayed silent.

And in the crowd behind her, no one moved to defend him.

No one looked away.

They just stared.

As if they were watching a murderer in the body of a boy.

After what felt like an eternity of chaos, Vikram finally forced a path through the furious crowd. Shouts echoed behind them, but he didn't stop. He gripped Vishu's arm tightly, shielding him like a soldier pulling a wounded comrade from the battlefield. People pushed, cursed, spit—but Vikram didn't flinch. His only focus was his son.

When they finally reached the car, Vikram yanked the door open and practically shoved Vishu inside. His hands were trembling as he slammed the door shut and jumped into the driver's seat. For a moment, he just sat there, knuckles white on the wheel, breathing hard.

Then he turned, his voice desperate—cracking under the weight of helplessness.

"I'll fix this," he said. "I swear to you, I'll do everything. You trust me, right? Tell me you trust me, son."

Vishu didn't said anything but he know that his father was the only person he trusted fully . He trusted him more than himself.

The engine roared to life, and they sped away—leaving behind the burning stares, the screams, the grieving mother. But not the guilt. That stayed with him, heavy like chains around his chest.