The training chamber was nothing more than a hollow stone vault buried beneath the estate's western wing—windowless, airless, and merciless.
Master Elros made it his kingdom.
He stood over me, cane in one hand, his gaze devoid of sympathy. Each lesson bled into the next, indistinguishable from the last. Each failure earned the same reward: pain.
"Again."
I pushed my palm forward, trying to focus on the page from the old tome—some ancient spell circle burned into my vision—but nothing came. Not a flicker. Not a tremble.
Nothing.
Elros's cane slammed across my shoulder.
"Magic is not breath, boy. You do not simply exhale it. It is an iron gate. You must force it open."
I gritted my teeth, biting back the tears. I wouldn't cry in front of him. Not again.
"Again!" he barked.
My fingers curled into fists. I inhaled. Exhaled. Visualized the surge, the light, the wave that had burst out of me on the night of the assassination. But the heat I remembered—boiling, pure—was nowhere to be found.
Only silence.
His cane struck again.
"You're not trying!" he snarled. "Where is it? Where is the thing that tore a man in half?"
"I don't know!" I shouted, voice hoarse. "I don't know how I did it!"
"You were forged for this," he growled. "You don't get to be confused. You don't get to fail. You will become what we need, or you will break trying."
And for days—weeks—it continued.
Elros tried every tactic: spells, runes, mock battles, emotional triggers. He insulted my mother, taunted me with my isolation, even threatened to have Finesse removed from her healing chambers.
Still—nothing.
Until, one evening, even he relented.
The room was dim. My legs trembled beneath me. My robes were torn at the sleeves, blood seeping from my shoulder. I collapsed to my knees, chest heaving.
Elros stared down at me with a frown—not of disappointment, but of confusion. For the first time, even he seemed unsure.
"Perhaps…" he muttered, "it only awakens to fear."
He turned away.
I felt it too. The end of something. An invisible door closing in front of us both.
And then…
It happened.
No footsteps announced her arrival. No servant dared open the door for her.
Lady Veyra simply appeared.
"Still no results?" she asked, her voice smooth as silk and twice as cold. "How very unfortunate."
Elros inclined his head but didn't speak. His eyes darted to me, then to her—then away.
She approached slowly. Her heels echoed through the chamber like falling stones.
"And here I had such high hopes for our little monster," she said with a smile. Her ringed fingers brushed my chin. I flinched, too tired to rise. Too proud to ask for help.
Then she stepped back.
I didn't understand what I was feeling—until it hit me.
A pressure.
Not from within, but from her.
It wasn't mana. It was killing intent—dense, refined, honed like the edge of a blade drawn across my neck. My breath hitched. My vision trembled.
I looked up and saw her hand raised, a spell sigil forming beneath her palm.
"Let's see what awakens when death kisses your throat, boy."
It was instinct.
Not training. Not logic.
Just instinct.
My heart stopped for a moment.
And then it erupted.
A soundless pulse cracked the walls. The chamber shook. Dust poured from the ceiling.
A grey aura surged around me—dense, blinding, alive. It coiled like smoke, but shimmered like steel. My limbs moved on their own. My eyes, once dim, now glowed like twin moons, lit from within by something vast and ancient.
Lady Veyra's smile vanished.
Her spell shattered in her palm like brittle glass.
Elros staggered back, eyes wide. "By the heavens…"
The aura grew, wrapping around me like a cloak. But it wasn't chaotic. It didn't lash out or destroy.
It was controlled—furious, yes—but precise.
I stood, body weightless, every inch of me crackling with quiet force.
Lady Veyra raised her hands—not to attack, but to defend. Her jeweled rings sparked to life, layers of defense spells forming around her like petals of a shield.
But I didn't move.
I just looked at her.
And she lowered her arms.
Because in that moment, she understood: I wasn't a weapon yet.
But I was no longer a child.
The aura faded slowly, like twilight melting into night.
I collapsed, sweat soaking my tunic, chest burning with each breath.
Elros crouched beside me, watching with something that might have been awe—or fear.
"I saw it," he whispered. "I saw its face."
Lady Veyra knelt too, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"Now we know," she said softly, voice thick with satisfaction. "You don't bend to will. You answer only to survival."
I said nothing.
I was too tired to speak.
But deep inside me, something had shifted. The cage had cracked. The gate had opened.
And whatever had been sleeping… was beginning to wake.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////
The fire crackled low in the hearth of the manor's secret library, where few dared tread and fewer still were welcome. Shelves rose like ancient cliffs around Lady Veyra, casting long shadows across the dark stone floor. She sipped her spiced wine slowly, her golden rings clinking softly against the crystal goblet.
Before her stood two cloaked retainers—loyal, quiet, and invisible in all the ways that mattered.
"I suppose," she began, voice like silk over thorns, "it's time the boy learns what blood truly flows through him. Even if not from my mouth... then eventually from another."
She gazed into the fire, as though reading secrets in its dancing embers.
"The Kira family—illustrious, old, gilded in reputation—was never meant to fracture. But it did. Because of a single decision made under the veil of smoke and ambition."
She paused, swirling the wine.
"There were once two brothers: Augustus Kira, the elder, born noble but ordinary in talent. And Darius Kira—the boy's father—gifted in magic, battle-hardened, a prodigy by all standards. Everyone believed Darius would one day rise to claim the crown... not through heritage, but through sheer merit."
"But fate," she said bitterly, "lacks elegance."
She stood and moved toward the large portrait above the fireplace—one of the royal family, draped in crimson and gold. The king's face looked down with soft eyes, but the paint could not hide the hollowness behind them.
"Augustus was chosen as King not because he was the better man... but because he was the safer one. The Magic Emperor of that time believed Darius's strength could destabilize the already fragile harmony among the Great Families. Too much magic. Too much pride. And so, they made their choice."
She tapped the side of her goblet with one red-painted nail.
"The Kira bloodline split that day. Officially, of course, Darius accepted his role—head of the lesser branch. Still noble, still respected... but a dog kept behind gates."
Her gaze sharpened, her tone lowered.
"But a dog with fangs is never truly safe. They knew this. That is why the Kira family's current structure exists as it does: The royal line watches. The noble line broods. And both sides wait for the other to make the first move."
She turned toward the two listeners, her eyes gleaming.
"But now… the boy. Born of that hidden branch, cursed from birth, feared by his own kin. And yet—he holds power none of them can define. A force they cannot name, yet dare not ignore."
She smiled, sharp and knowing.
"It's no longer about politics. It's about blood—and who controls it. The throne was stolen once. Who's to say it cannot be claimed again?"