Beautiful Sin (Beautiful Sin #1)

Prologue

The boy knelt before the ancient scroll, small fingers hovering just above its surface, not quite touching.

He couldn’t have been more than five years old, yet there was something timeless in his dark eyes as they traced the faded images—four magnificent creatures encircling a figure in flowing robes.

“What are they, Māma?” he asked, his voice soft as cherry blossom petals falling on still water.

His mother knelt beside him, her own beauty a mature reflection of his delicate features.

In the dim light of the secluded shrine room, their pale skin seemed to glow with an inner luminescence, black hair cascading like liquid silk down their backs.

The boy wore traditional white garments that were far too formal for a child his age, yet they suited him in a way that seemed both unnatural and perfectly right.

“They are the guardians,” she answered, her finger pointing to each creature in turn. “The golden dragon, fierce and protective. The white tiger, loyal and strong. The white snake, wise and patient. And the black cat, playful and true.”

The boy’s eyes widened with wonder. “And who is this?” He pointed to the central figure—a person with flowing black hair dressed in ceremonial robes, surrounded by the four creatures.

His mother’s expression softened, tinged with something that might have been sorrow. “That is the vessel. The one chosen to connect our family to the guardians.”

“Like in the stories you tell me?” The boy leaned closer to the painting, fascination evident in every line of his small body.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just like in the stories.”

From the corner of the room came a derisive snort. An older boy, eleven, sat cross-legged with an ancient text spread across his lap, its pages yellowed with age.

“Don’t fill his head with more nonsense,” the older boy said, though his tone lacked true annoyance. “He’s insufferable enough already.”

“Respect the traditions, my son,” their mother chided gently. “They are our heritage.”

“Traditions that keep us prisoners,” the older boy muttered, turning a brittle page with careful fingers. “Traditions that keep him locked away from the world.”

The younger boy seemed not to hear, entranced by the painting. “When will I meet them?” he asked, reaching out to touch the golden dragon, his small finger finally making contact with the ancient silk. “My guardians.”

A strange wind stirred through the room, though all the doors and windows were sealed against the mountain cold. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

“Soon,” his mother said, a curious mix of fear and hope in her voice. “Fate has ways of bringing together those who belong to each other.”

“And then you’ll be even more insufferable,” the older boy added, but his eyes held a protective fierceness as he watched his little brother. “Clinging to them like a burr, no doubt.”

“Will they like me?” the younger boy asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice for the first time.

His mother gathered him into her arms, the ceremonial robes crinkling between them. “They will love you,” she whispered into his hair. “They will love you so much it will terrify them. It will consume them. It will become their everything.”

The older boy closed his book with a snap. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

“It is our way,” their mother said firmly. “It has always been our way.”

“Our way is crumbling,” the older boy retorted, gesturing around the small, shabby shrine room. “Look at us. Once we were part of something great, and now we’re hidden away in the mountains, guarding him like some precious jewel while the family grows poorer each year.”

“The cycle must continue,” their mother insisted. “The guardians—”

“The guardians are myths,” the older boy interrupted. “Stories to keep him obedient. To keep us all obedient.”

The younger boy looked between them, confusion clouding his perfect features. “But I can feel them,” he said softly, pressing a small hand to his chest. “Here. They’re waiting for me.”

Silence fell, heavy with meaning. The older boy’s expression softened as he looked at his brother.

“I know you do,” he finally said, his voice gentler. “And maybe that’s the most dangerous part of all.”

Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing the isolated mountain compound in pristine white. The boy turned back to the painting, his dark eyes reflecting the golden dragon as if seeing beyond the faded silk to something ancient and powerful. Something waiting.

“They’re coming,” he whispered, a smile spreading across his face. “I can feel it.”

His mother and brother exchanged a look over his head—concern meeting resignation.

Neither disputed his words.

They couldn’t.

For in this family, the boy’s feelings had always been prophecy.