My father summoned a wall of shimmering light, a defensive spell I'd never seen before. The assassin's daggers cracked against it, sending sparks like fireflies. My father grunted, blood trailing from his shoulder. The shield trembled.
He was going to die.
Something in me screamed.
The heat inside me didn't burn—it detonated.
A shockwave of raw energy burst from my skin. No color, no sound—just pressure, like the breath of a god. The assassin was hurled through the air, crashing into a marble column with a crack that made my bones shudder.
Then silence.
The guards arrived seconds later and finished the job.
"What in the abyss was that?" my father said, his voice trembling.
He wasn't speaking as a noble, or a soldier, or a brother of a king.
He was afraid.
I didn't answer. I was staring at my hands. They were shaking—but not from fear.
From hunger.
The study doors slammed shut behind us.
My father stood above me, one hand pressed to his bandaged shoulder, the other glowing with mana.
He didn't waste time.
"Speak," he growled. "Since when could you wield magic?"
"I—I don't know," I stammered. "I didn't mean—"
"Enough!" His hand surged with light, a crackling blade of energy forming at his palm. "Don't lie to me, boy."
I stepped back instinctively. The wall met my back.
"You think I won't do it?" he hissed. "You're a cursed thing. I should've ended you when she—"
A voice cut through the air.
"That's enough, Lord Darius."
Lady Veyra stepped into the room, her heels clicking softly across the floor.
"You forget yourself. He's no longer just a burden." Her sharp eyes flicked to me, calculating. "He is now an asset."
My father lowered his hand, slowly, reluctantly.
By dawn, I stood in the High Hall of the Kira estate.
The elders surrounded me like wolves around a wounded deer. My magic had been confirmed, but its nature... eluded them.
"His mana pool is immense," muttered Elder Orin, peering at a crystal sphere that throbbed with light.
Lady Veyra leaned forward. "And yet... no elemental alignment. No signature. No school. It's as if the magic doesn't belong to our world."
"It's dangerous," hissed Elder Dain. "Uncharted power is a threat—especially in a child."
My father, standing behind me, didn't speak.
"Or an opportunity," Veyra replied smoothly. "This is not just a talent—it is a weapon. And with the right training, a key."
"A key?" Elder Orin raised a brow.
"To the throne," she said softly. "Do not forget, Lord Darius is a brother to the king. What he lacks in claim, this child could provide in strength."
Whispers filled the room like poison smoke.
"Then it's agreed," Veyra said at last. "He will be trained."
That evening, my new tutor arrived.
Master Elros was a man carved of bone and iron. His voice was cold, and his eyes colder.
"You have power," he said, offering no greeting. "That does not mean you have worth."
He placed a spellbook before me.
"You will learn control. Or you will become the storm that kills you."
I clenched my jaw. "What if I don't want to be your weapon?"
He didn't blink.
"Then you will die. And another will take your place."
He said it like a fact, not a threat.
Behind him, I saw Lady Veyra watching from the shadowed hallway.
And in her smile, I saw the truth: they were not training me for protection. Not for pride. Not for honor.
They were sharpening a blade.
And I was the steel.
/////////////////////!/////////////////////////
The chamber was dim, lit only by a single hovering mana lantern. Pale moonlight bled through the high arched window, casting cold silver across the marble floor.
Finesse lay curled on the silk-covered bed, her breaths shallow and wet. Each exhale came with a cough, and with each cough—blood.
Her father, Lord Calmreich, stood at her side, hands clenched behind his back, shoulders tight with helplessness.
The doctor—a thin, grizzled man in dark healer's robes—wiped his stained gloves with a cloth already soaked through. His voice trembled, not from fear, but exhaustion.
"She's worse than last time, my lord. Far worse."
Calmreich didn't look at him. He only stared down at his daughter, her skin almost translucent, veins glowing faintly beneath the surface.
"The energy inside her... it's too much," the doctor continued. "It's not merely a vast pool of mana—it's active, unstable. Her body can no longer contain it. If we do nothing… she'll last a year. Two at most."
Silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by Finesse's ragged breathing.
The doctor hesitated, then stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"There is one path left," he said. "A forbidden one."
That made Calmreich turn. Slowly.
The doctor met his gaze, swallowing hard. "A transfer. A vessel strong enough to receive the burden. It must be someone compatible, someone with both the physical fortitude and a high tolerance for dense magic. The process is… old. Dangerous. It would require a cursed rite known only to the fallen Queen of Curses."
Calmreich's eyes narrowed.
"She's dead."
"Yes. But her tome… still exists."
The implication lingered like poison in the air.
Finesse coughed again, harder this time. More blood. Her eyes fluttered open—glazed, but aware.
"Papa…?" she whispered.
Calmreich leaned over her, brushing a strand of silver hair from her face.
"I'm here," he said, voice hoarse. "You'll be alright. I promise."
But his hands trembled at his sides.
Because both men in that room knew the truth.
Without the forbidden rite… Finesse would not live to see her Tenth year.