The banquet hall shimmered with golden candlelight, its high-arched ceiling glinting with jewels set into the stone. Velvet banners bearing the royal sigil—the Lion of Aetheria—hung proudly above, watching with stitched eyes as nobles whispered behind polished goblets of blood-red wine.
And at the center of it all…
He knelt.
Kieran Velis. Son of no name. Blood of no value. A servant with royal-colored eyes.
The marble floor beneath him was cold, cleaner than it had ever been, scrubbed just for this occasion. A boy's humiliation made better by spotless stone and grand applause.
"Look up," a voice sneered. It belonged to Lord Ansel Vortain, one of the king's advisors. His robes were sapphire silk and shimmered like a peacock's pride. "Let us see the face of House Velis. What's left of it."
Kieran looked up. His violet eyes reflected the light—bright, defiant, but utterly still.
The nobles chuckled. One woman even clapped.
Perfect, Kieran thought.
He bowed his head again, the torn hem of his banquet robe fluttering faintly at the base of his throat. It had once belonged to his mother, a noblewoman stripped of her title and buried without one.
A second voice entered his mind—soft, hissing, ancient.
"They will all kneel to you one day."
He blinked. The voice wasn't his own. And for a moment, he swore the sigil branded on the back of his neck—dormant since birth—burned.
One of the younger nobles threw a piece of bread at him. It hit his shoulder and fell to the ground.
"Come now, dear sir," Lord Vortain cooed. "A smile for the court?"
Kieran raised his head once more, lips curling at the corners.
He smiled.
But it wasn't one of weakness. It wasn't one of shame.
It was the smile of someone who knew that every person in this room would one day beg at his feet.
The hall quieted, the laughter thinning. Some nobles sipped from their goblets, masks of boredom returning to their powdered faces. They had gotten what they came for—a glimpse of the last Velis reduced to dust.
Kieran lowered his eyes again, the smile vanishing just as quickly as it had come.
Let them believe I've accepted this. Let them believe I've broken.
A bell chimed somewhere above, the sound rippling through the room like a thread being drawn taut. The King would arrive soon.
"Back to your post, filth," Lord Vortain hissed, waving a jeweled hand as if brushing away a fly. "Don't bleed on the floor."
Kieran stood with perfect grace, as if he had rehearsed this humiliation. He bowed slightly—not too deep, never too deep—and stepped back into place against the wall with the other serving boys, none of whom would meet his gaze.
The sigil on his neck throbbed faintly, unseen beneath his collar. He could feel something pressing outward, like a whisper curled into the base of his spine. It wasn't pain. Not yet. Just pressure. Like the world wanted to crack him open.
A page boy stumbled past, too frightened to slow. He dropped a folded scroll, which skittered across the marble like a fish on ice. No one moved to help him.
Kieran bent down, picked it up, and placed it back into the boy's trembling hands.
The boy looked at him with wide eyes. "T-thank you, sir."
Kieran gave no reply.
The royal horn sounded—three low notes followed by one sharp, bright blast.
Everyone in the hall turned. Doors of whitewood and gold swung open, and the King of Aetheria entered, followed by his entourage of High Magisters and shield-bearers. He was cloaked in dark crimson velvet, his crown an obsidian curve that resembled a flame.
But Kieran did not look at the King.
He looked at the boy beside him.
Crown Prince Aurelian. Blonde-haired. Eyes like polished bronze. The people called him "The Sunborn." Kieran called him something else.
The dagger that slit my mother's name from the world.
Aurelian didn't spare Kieran even a glance. He moved with the air of someone who never had to look down. But as he passed, Kieran noticed something.
The sigil on his neck—the Royal Court Sigil that marked him as heir—was glowing stronger than ever. It pulsed in rhythm with Kieran's own.
A reaction?
A warning?
The Tome had once whispered that power draws power. Perhaps this was the beginning.
The King took his place at the head of the long, glimmering table. Nobles returned to their seats, servants scurried to refill goblets, and the banquet resumed with forced cheer. Kieran returned to his wall.
"Do you feel it?"
The voice came again. This time, it was clearer—less like a whisper and more like a breath against the back of his skull.
Kieran flinched, subtly, but didn't move. His jaw tightened.
He wasn't alone in his mind anymore.
The evening wore on. Roasted pheasant, fire-roasted squash, saffron rice, glazed figs. Wine. Laughter. Toasts to the health of the Crown Prince. All meaningless noise.
Kieran watched. Listened. Memorized. Names. Insults. Positions at the table. Allies. Enemies. Threats masked as toasts.
And when the last course was cleared and the final toast made, the King rose from his seat.
"Tomorrow," the King declared, "the choosing begins."
A hush fell across the hall.
"The royal court will test the young bloodlines of each House. We seek not only heirs... but successors. Protectors. Strategists. The future of this realm."
His gaze swept across the room—and for a moment, it paused.
Paused on Kieran.
No longer kneeling. No longer broken.
Just watching.
The hall emptied slowly, heels clacking across marble, the air still thick with perfume and spilled wine. Kieran lingered behind the other servants, waiting until the nobles' laughter had vanished into the far corridors.
Then he turned.
He walked the servant's route—through the gilded double doors and into the cold belly of the palace, where torches hissed low and footsteps echoed like whispers.
His chamber was a small room behind the southern wing. No guards. No windows. No comfort.
Just a bed. A basin. A mirror.
He entered.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Too quiet.
He froze.
In the reflection of the mirror—something moved.
A shadow—not his.
Then came the pressure. A soft shuffle of fabric. The sharp gleam of silver.
Killing intent.
The blade came down toward the back of his neck.
But Kieran didn't flinch.
His body moved before he could think—spinning low, grabbing the edge of the assassin's cloak and driving his elbow into the attacker's ribs. The figure stumbled back with a sharp wheeze.
"You're quick," the masked man hissed, lunging again.
Steel hissed through the air.
This time it connected—scraping across Kieran's shoulder and biting deep.
Pain bloomed like fire across his nerves.
And then… something else rose.
Hunger.
Inside his mind, a voice growled—low, guttural, feral.
"Mine."
Kieran staggered to the side, hand clutching his wound. Blood leaked through his sleeve. The assassin closed in fast.
But Kieran's lips parted… and another voice answered.
Not his.
"You broke the wrong boy."
His eyes flared crimson.
The air around him dropped in temperature.
And in a single blink, he moved—too fast to follow.
The assassin never saw the kick. Just the explosive impact that slammed him into the stone wall hard enough to crack it.
The masked man coughed blood, gasping.
"Wh-what are you?"
Kieran stepped forward, his body now standing differently. Looser. Wilder. Shoulders lowered, hands flexing.
Clawed.
"Sid," he said, voice deeper, distorted. "And you're done."
To be continued...