The eastern wing of the palace stood cloaked in the kind of silence that bred paranoia. The heavy carpets muffled footsteps, and the stone walls seemed to breathe with secrets. Kaelian moved slowly through the corridor, his expression unreadable, his senses on edge. Since the public humiliation of Prince Théor, whispers had multiplied like vermin in the palace halls.
Not admiration. Fear.
He had wanted to send a message—to establish his presence in a court that considered him a mistake of blood. But perhaps he had moved too quickly. The ripples were now waves, and the currents beneath were shifting. His victory had not made him untouchable. It had made him visible.
And visibility, in a den of wolves, was often the first step toward extinction.
Eyes in the Shadows
He had overheard two servants earlier that morning in the courtyard garden.
—"That bastard prince… there's something wrong with him. The way he looks at you—it's like he's reading your thoughts."
—"I heard he crushed Prince Théor with a single sentence. That's not natural. It's dark magic. Has to be."
Kaelian had passed by without breaking stride, but his mind catalogued every word. The court was turning. Some saw a prodigy. Others smelled danger. And soon enough, the whispers would reach the ears that mattered.
The Queen's. The Archmage's. Théor's.
The Queen Moves Her Piece
That evening, Kaelian found a letter slipped beneath his chamber door. The parchment was fine, the ink laced with a faint scent of imperial amber—Virella's signature fragrance.
"You play with fires that burn even kings. Leave now, before the Court decides you are a demon wearing princely skin."
No name. No threats, just suggestion. But it reeked of manipulation. Virella had not made her move in public. Not yet. She was testing him. Feeling for weakness. Calculating if he was a problem to eliminate—or to break.
At dinner, she smiled at him over her goblet of wine.
"Dear Kaelian," she said sweetly. "Your little display during the duel was… rather theatrical. Have you considered a future as a court orator?"
He bowed his head slightly, concealing the twist in his lips.
"I merely obey the voice of my blood, Your Majesty. Even if it flows with impurity, it appears to carry ambition."
The air grew colder. Théor stiffened beside her, his jaw tight with barely contained rage. The Queen's hand clenched faintly on her spoon. Her smile no longer reached her eyes.
The Spy Tutor
Three days later, the king—on the Queen's advice, no doubt—assigned Kaelian a new personal tutor: Master Varrion. An aged scholar with soft eyes and a gentler voice, Varrion introduced himself with gracious humility.
And immediately began probing.
—"Do you prefer ancient texts or military treatises, young prince?"
—"Have you ever read the lost doctrines of transmigrated souls?"
—"Do you find blood magic fascinating? Theoretically, of course."
Kaelian played the fool. He answered with vague amusement, hiding his mind behind a veil of childish curiosity. But he recognized the pattern. Varrion was no tutor. He was an interrogator with a scholar's tongue. Whether he reported to the Queen or the Archmage, Kaelian couldn't yet tell.
So he dimmed the light of his intellect. Let them see sparks, not wildfire.
Let them think he was dangerous, not apocalyptic.
An Unexpected Offer
It was Dorn Valek who approached him next. The gray-eyed royal advisor rarely spoke publicly, yet held sway over half the noble council. One afternoon, Kaelian was summoned discreetly to the private archives below the palace library.
The door closed with a whisper behind him. Valek stood by a shelf of ancient scrolls.
"You are not what you appear to be, Kaelian," he said without preamble. "And anomalies in court… well, they are either dissected or weaponized."
Kaelian didn't flinch.
"I assume you're not here for the dissection."
Valek smiled faintly.
"No. I'm here to assess the weapon. You embarrassed Théor. You shook the noble sons. That makes you dangerous. And in this world, danger has value—if properly directed."
Kaelian tilted his head.
"And what direction would you suggest, Lord Valek?"
"Toward survival. For now."
He was offering an alliance. Temporary, transactional—but potentially powerful. Kaelian didn't trust him. Not yet. But he knew the rules of the game. A false ally was still a shield. If held carefully.
Lyssa's Warning
That evening, Kaelian found Lyssa near the old abandoned greenhouse, where the glass ceilings had long shattered and vines grew unchecked. She was the only one in the entire palace who spoke to him without weighing every word. She was also the only one who had seen the real him—just enough to be frightened.
"You need to leave, Kael," she whispered. "You've stirred a nest of vipers. They'll strike soon."
"I didn't come here to run."
"This isn't a chessboard. It's a den of killers."
Kaelian's eyes gleamed faintly in the moonlight.
"Then it's the perfect place for someone like me."
She looked at him—truly looked—and her voice trembled.
"I don't know what you are. But I know this court eats monsters for breakfast."
He touched her shoulder gently.
"Let's hope I'm not the monster. Let's hope I'm worse."
The Blood Answers
That night, he returned to the hidden corner of the palace archives. Buried beneath a stack of forgotten tomes, he had found a manuscript sealed with runes. When he touched it, the glyphs flared crimson.
It recognized his blood.
The page revealed symbols that twisted and reformed, shaping themselves into an incantation. He spoke the first syllable aloud.
The world fractured.
A glowing circle surged around him. In the center, a silhouette formed—draped in fire, bound in golden chains. A voice—echoing with power and grief—spoke from the vision.
"You were not brought back by chance, Kaelian. You are the answer to a vow made in blood."
Then the light died.
The manuscript turned to ash in his hands.
He stood there, heart racing, not with fear—but with confirmation. The power within him wasn't accidental. It wasn't a byproduct of nobility or a quirk of birth.
It was destiny. Forced. Designed.
Someone had brought him here.
And that someone had enemies in this world still walking.
The Arrow of Warning
Morning came with birdsong and cool air. Kaelian walked alone through the inner gardens, mind turning over the vision, the clues, the possibilities.
Then a sharp whistle split the silence.
An arrow struck the statue behind him, embedding itself an inch from his neck. Not a killing shot. A message.
He ducked, rolled, positioned himself behind a marble pillar. The garden fell still. No second shot came.
He turned to the shaft. A silver-threaded parchment was tied to it.
"The next one will aim for your heart. Stay in your place."
Kaelian crushed the note in his fist.
So. They were done with whispers.
The real game had begun.
End of Chapter 11 – Next: Chapter 12 – Partial Revelation of Magical Powers
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