Kieran woke to the stench of smoke and blood.
His fingers twitched first. Then came the ache—a deep, bone-heavy throb spreading through his limbs like he'd been used as a weapon and left to rust.
He opened his eyes.
His chamber was silent. Still. No light filtered through the stone slats above. The torches had burned out.
How long had he been unconscious?
His shoulder still bled, the fabric of his tunic stiff with dried crimson. But the real question—the only one that mattered—struck him as he rose shakily to his feet.
Where was the body?
The wall remained cracked from the impact. Claw marks were etched into the stone beneath it, unmistakable and raw. But the assassin? Gone. No blood trail. No cloak. No knife.
His head swam.
Had he imagined it?
No. His shoulder wouldn't lie. And neither would the voice still echoing faintly at the edge of his mind.
"Sid."
He whispered the name aloud, voice dry.
Nothing answered.
But somewhere deep in his chest, a hunger stirred again—and smiled.
Before he could dwell further, a knock shattered the silence.
Three soft raps. Deliberate.
Kieran moved slowly to the door, pulling it open just enough to see a boy in silver-laced formal courtwear standing there. A herald, not a servant.
He held a scroll, sealed in deep red wax bearing the Lion of Aetheria.
"You are summoned," the boy said, his voice rehearsed. "For the First Bloodline Trial. You are to present yourself in the Eastern Courtyard by the third chime of morning."
Then, after a slight hesitation:
"...You… are Kieran Velis?"
"I am," Kieran replied evenly, hiding the tremor in his bones.
The boy blinked at him for a long moment—eyes drawn to the blood staining his collar—then turned and walked away without another word.
By the time Kieran stood at the archway to the Eastern Courtyard, the sun had barely crested the palace towers. The air was sharp with frost, and a crowd had already formed.
House banners flapped above grandstands where nobles and judges sat in elevated thrones of gold, silver, and obsidian. Each House's heir stood in formation on a pale mosaic floor—thirty boys and girls, no older than nineteen, all wearing ceremonial cloaks. Silk and arrogance dripped from them like perfume.
Kieran took his place at the very end.
Eyes turned.
Sneers followed.
"...That's the Velis boy," someone whispered behind a fan.
"He's not even registered. Isn't he a servant?"
"They let that into the Choosing?"
He kept his gaze straight ahead.
Let them whisper. Let them laugh.
The last time they saw him kneel, he smiled.
This time, they wouldn't see the smile coming.
His vision blurred. The air felt thicker than smoke, like the very world had turned to syrup. Sound stretched out, warped and distant—laughter turning to wails, whispers dragging like blades across glass.
Kieran's breath hitched.
He didn't feel pain. He didn't feel heat or cold.
He felt... detached.
Like his body was no longer his own.
"Let me in," the voice whispered again, calm and hollow.
Then—stillness.
Kieran's heartbeat stopped for half a second.
And in that space between moments, something slipped through.
A fog poured through his mind. Pale, weightless, infinite.
From the corner of his vision, the world split.
His irises turned pale white, and his pupils vanished.
The chill that followed him wasn't just cold.
It was fate being rewritten.
"The next heir," the High Priest called out, standing atop the ceremonial dais. "Step forward. Kieran Velis."
Gasps echoed across the courtyard like falling glass.
"He's not even a noble."
"Why is he here?"
"This is a disgrace to the Court."
Kieran heard none of it.
His body—now moving with ethereal grace—walked to the center of the ritual circle. Cloaked heirs stepped back. Even the judges leaned forward, suddenly silent.
The Sigil Flame awaited him.
It was an ancient relic: a floating brazier of ever-burning fire, fed not by wood, but by the bloodlines of the kingdom. When a chosen heir placed their hand upon the basin, the flame would react—blue for wisdom, silver for legacy, gold for purity, crimson for power.
Kieran reached out with one pale-glowing hand.
He made contact.
The flame did not change.
It died.
The brazier hissed out, smoke rising in a violent spiral.
The marble beneath him cracked with a thunderous noise. The ritual circle shattered into runes and floating script. The silence broke into chaos.
And then—
Black flame erupted from the basin.
A color not seen in centuries.
The priests reeled. One collapsed. The High Priest took a step back, muttering prayers under his breath.
The glowing sigil on Kieran's neck—long dormant—flared open like a second mouth, carved into flesh by the will of something older than man.
It bled light instead of blood.
Symbols no one recognized floated into the air. They burned, rearranged, and began to spin—forming a wheel above his head.
"What... what is that?" someone gasped.
"Stop the trial!"
"Get the guards—!"
And then—he spoke.
Not Kieran.
The one within.
Elias.
"Time folds," Elias said, voice devoid of emotion. "The lion falls. The court will drown in its own crown."
No one moved.
Not even the guards.
His voice echoed without wind. It sank into every stone, every noble heart. And it didn't stop there.
Children in the crowd began to cry.
The judges gripped the arms of their thrones.
One heir collapsed to his knees, sobbing.
"You're cursed!"
"That's forbidden magic!"
"He must be destroyed—!"
Elias turned.
His white eyes settled on the Crown Prince seated above, flanked by banners and guards.
Prince Aurelian did not flinch.
But his jaw was tight.
He watched.
Closely.
Then, the light shattered.
The flame blinked out.
The script vanished.
The sigil faded.
And Kieran collapsed forward, landing on one hand, gasping as if drowning.
His violet eyes returned—dull, overwhelmed, burning with sweat.
He blinked up at the brazier.
Cold.
Silent.
Normal.
The ceremony resumed as if nothing had happened.
Except the entire courtyard was quiet.
No one dared speak first.
Until the High Priest stepped forward, his face pale, voice trembling.
"…He has been judged," he said. "And chosen."
End of Chapter 2