As he silently flew along, Gwenael shook his head in frustration. For the current great gods of Althanas, the Thayne were the most apathetic souls he ever faced. Apathetic and full of pride. He growled in frustration as he landed in front of a sycamore tree, needing to rest. As he placed a hand against the twisted wood, catching his breath, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.

“Gwenael.”

He hastily turned his head. Yellow eyes caught sight of her. Her long, dark robes covered all but her stone cold face. Jomil.

Gwenael could not hide the deep glare that formed, “Now what?”

For a moment, her composure dropped. Her usually clasped hands fell to her sides. Once again, she sighed in exasperation, “Listen, Gwenael, you may be a mistake, but-…” she carefully searched for the perfect words, “… that does not mean I am disappointed in you.”

A rare hint of warmth barely escaped her tone of voice, “I actually am impressed.”

He could of accepted the compliment, yet… something inside him blocked the warmth. Instead, he only felt a bitter chill. Caught in a moment of vulnerability, however, he rode the emotional waves.

“My heart is cold, mother.” His voice was coated in sorrow, “There is a shard of ice that never melts."

She turned away from him, “Your petty problems are not my problem.” Bitterness seeped through her voice as she shut him off, “And do not call me your mother.”

She slipped away.

Left alone, Gwenael bit his lip until it bled, overcome with bitter sadness. Rage encompassed him as he growled. He turned, piercing the tree's bark with his talons and digging in. He ripped wood out in deep agony. Tears filled his eyes as he hissed. Why did his creator hate him so much?

He transformed. A white barn owl with silver edged wings replaced the boy. It let out a woeful shriek, flying away from the Thayne's Dimension for good.