The first thing I notice is the sound. A deep, masculine rumbling.
The language is unfamiliar to me—completely foreign—and yet the meaning lodges itself in my head like a parasite.
I try to force my eyelids open. The world is a smear of blinding white and agonizing clarity. I am swaddled in silk, the warmth returning to my limbs.
Then, I am passed along.
My vision settles, and I see her. Pale. Drenched in sweat. Exhausted.
But it's her eyes that stop my breath—burning emeralds that seem to glow with an inner, unnatural fire. Her hair isn't grey; it's the color of fresh snow. She smiles, a fragile, trembling thing, and for the first time in two lives, an instinctive tether snaps into place.
Mother.
A shadow looms over us. Taller. Harder. He has the same snowy hair, pulled back with military precision, and those sharp, verdant eyes.
But there is no warmth in his gaze. He doesn't look at me with love; he looks at me with the cold, detached appraisal of a man inspecting a new weapon.
A man steps closer. Taller. Broader. His hair is also white, tied back. He has the same green eyes, but his are sharper. Calculating.
He places a hand on the woman's shoulder and looks down at me. Not with love. Not with joy. With... evaluation.
I analyze his face. The scar above the eyebrow. The rigid, military posture. This man is used to giving orders.
My father, then.
He only grunts in agreement as the doctor explains something. I let myself sink into the warmth of the blankets. My body is weak. Powerless. Helpless.
That will change.
The beginning of this life is pure torture. For months, I can do nothing but lie there, stare, and process data.
The foreign language sounds like static noise at first, but with each passing day, I decode more. The God didn't lie: As an infant, my brain is a sponge. I soak up the new language faster than any normal child could.
I learn our names. My mother is Maelis. My father, Daemon.
And I am Kael. Kael Aranthor.
A name I have never heard before. That confirms my suspicion: this is a world built on magic and bloodlines.
The voices in my head are quieter here, perhaps due to the undeveloped brain. But they are there. A whisper at the edge of my consciousness.
I reach for my medication with my mind. It lies hidden in... a pocket dimension? I don't know where exactly. But I can feel it. Summon it.
My priority now: Master the language. I need to grasp the situation quickly.
Time crawls. When I can finally wobble on two legs, I begin to observe. I stand in the courtyard, watching the guards train. Wooden swords clash, sweat flies.
Maelis sits on a bench under a tree, a servant beside her. I play with a wooden toy, pretending not to listen.
"He speaks so well already," Maelis says. Worry lingers in her voice. "Is that... normal?"
The servant smiles politely. "Some children are early bloomers, My Lady. Especially in families with strong Mana."
Mana. That word again.
"But he is so... quiet," Maelis continues. "As if he is thinking. Watching." "Sometimes I look into his eyes and... they look so cold. So empty."
My heartbeat accelerates. Not good. Not good.
"Children are riddles, My Lady," the servant soothes her. "Give him time. He will open up when he is ready."
I drop the toy. Crawl over to Maelis. Lean against her leg. I look up at her with big, innocent eyes.
"Mama."
Her face softens. She strokes my hair. "My little Kael."
I smile. A perfect, childlike smile. Damn close to genuine.
I have to be more careful.
My siblings don't make things easier. My sister, who is four years older than me, annoys me with her constant attempts to play with me. +1
And then there is Eamon, born only a few months ago. A screaming bundle with zero strategic value yet, but he binds Maelis's attention. Good. That gives me peace.
But Cassian, my oldest brother, is different. He is ten, tall, and possesses the calculating gaze of our father.
On my third birthday, he approaches me while I am studying the knights in the garden. I am dissecting the flaws in their swordsmanship when his shadow falls over me.
"You don't talk much," he says. "Tired," I answer simply.
"Liar."
His gaze is sharp. "You aren't tired. You are watching. Always. Like Father." I force my small body to stay relaxed.
"I don't like you," Cassian states calmly. "You feel... wrong. But Father says family is important. So I won't betray you." He leans forward. "But I will be watching you."
He walks away, leaving me with a bitter realization: He's clever. That's going to be a problem.
To survive, I need knowledge. One night, about a year later, I sneak into the library. There I find Orin, an older servant whom no one else pays attention to.
"Orin," I say.
He flinches. Turns around. "Young Master Kael! What... what are you doing here? It is late—"
"I can't sleep." I step closer, my voice calm. "You come here often, don't you?"
He hesitates. "Yes, My Lord. I clean the library every evening."
"Can you read?"
Silence. Then, quietly: "Yes. My father was a scribe. He taught me before he died."
I nod slowly. "Good. I need your help."
"My lord?"
"I want to learn. About this world. About magic. About everything. But I can't read well enough yet." I fix him with my new, intensely green eyes.
"You will read to me. Every night. And you will tell no one."
"My lord, I… that's impossible," he blurts out. He falters under my direct gaze. "The books are private. And if the lord finds out that I am using his library for… well, for lessons, I will lose my position."
"The risk is known. So is the price." I pull out a small gold coin I stole from Daemon's desk.
In my childish hand, it looks enormous. "This is the first payment. More than you earn in three months. And there will be more every week—as long as you remain silent."
Orin stares at the gold. Then at me. My childlike appearance does not match the icy determination in my eyes.
"That is bribery," he mutters hoarsely. "The price of betrayal is too high, my lord."
My voice drops to a near-whisper. I lean forward slightly, my posture that of an adult humoring a lesser being.
I use the sharpest weapon I possess: the truth about his miserable existence.
"The lord will learn nothing, Orin," I say quietly. "No one will." "You are already a ghost in this house, aren't you?" "No one sees you when you sweep the floors. You are invisible. And that invisibility is exactly what I need."
I let the coin fall into his hand. Then I fix him with my cold, demanding stare once more.
I say nothing. I allow the silence to finish the work.
"As you wish, young master," he says, his voice thick with fear.
In the nights that follow, the world unfolds before me. Orin reads while the scent of old parchment fills the air. I trace the map with my finger.
Aeloria lies at the center—the primary kingdom, bold and self-satisfied. Supposedly, five races live there in harmony. I snort softly.
Harmony is just another word for strict control.
Farther south lies Thul, the Shadow Desert. Even on paper, it looks hostile.
"Orin," I ask without looking up, "have you ever been there? To Thul?" "No one goes there willingly, Master Kael. It's a graveyard for the soul."
"I'm not a child, Orin. Don't give me ghost stories. Give me facts."
Ignoring his discomfort, I slide my finger eastward to Sylverne, where the elves isolate themselves, then west to the jagged coastlines of Olyndra. Pirates. Spies. Trade. Chaos.
Chaos creates opportunity.
I open the next book. The Mechanics of Mana. Complex diagrams of mana currents resembling veins. Fire. Water. Earth. Air. The fundamentals are simple.
But there is more. Marginal notes on deviations. Blood manipulation. Metal. Lava.
A tingling sensation crawls through my fingertips. Which of these sleeps within me?
I get my answer on my fifth birthday.
The hall of Morhenhall smells of roasted pheasant and expensive wine, but the atmosphere is ice-cold. This feels less like a celebration and more like a livestock inspection.
I sit stiffly in my cushioned chair, legs too short to touch the floor, and let my gaze wander across the long table.
Aurora laughs at some stupid joke at the far end. Cassian watches everything with his usual bored expression. Eamon, the youngest, sits beside Maelis in a high chair.
Still a toddler, yet he fits the image perfectly—patting the table with small hands, white hair and green eyes an exact, innocent copy of us all.
Father—Daemon—speaks with a guest, a lord from a neighboring city. Political small talk.
It is grotesque.
Dozens of faces, all wearing the same mask: alabaster skin, snow-white hair, emerald-green eyes.
We are not a family. We are a product line.An army of cloned porcelain dolls bred for a single purpose: mana purity.
I sit still. Waiting for it to end.
A servant refills my cup with water. I reach for the goblet—then stop.
It does not begin with pain. It begins with a sound.
A high, vibrating hum—not in my ears, but deep in my marrow. The air around me thickens, charged with static like the moments before a storm. The fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
What is this? Then the heat explodes in my chest, as if I swallowed molten lead.
"Kael?" I hear Maelis ask in alarm. I gasp. The goblet slips from my numb fingers—but it never reaches the ground.
Crack.
The crystal glass shatters midair, pulverized by an invisible pressure wave radiating from me.
Instant silence. No screaming. Aranthors do not scream.
Thirty pairs of green eyes turn toward me in perfect unison.
"Mana awakening," Daemon says quietly. Not surprised. Not afraid. Analytical. "Earlier than expected."
He strides toward me. He does not run. He strides through the chaos like a general crossing a battlefield. There is no pity on his face. Only the cool nod of a man whose experiment has succeeded.
"Breathe," he commands.
His hand clamps onto my shoulder. Suddenly, a foreign power invades me—his mana.
It is crushing.
A massive tidal wave of ice that smothers my wild mana completely. Violent. He forces my power back into its core without restraint, like kicking a feral dog into a cage.
I slump forward, gasping. Sweat soaks my collar.
Daemon leans down, his face inches from mine.
"Good," he whispers, like a verdict. "It begins."
Later, in the dark of my room, I lie staring at the rafters. My body is a hollowed-out shell, yet I can feel it—the power humming beneath my skin like a live wire.
I am no longer a victim.
A smile tugs at my lips, but it dies instantly.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. The sound is inside my skull.
The shadows in the corner begin to writhe, stretching into long, jagged fingers. "He thinks he's special," a wet, shrill voice giggles in my left ear.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. The hatred in the voices is physical. "He's trash. Filth. They will see," growls a second voice.
YOU ARE WEAK. THEY WILL DISSECT YOU. THEY WILL SEE THE MONSTER.
With trembling hands, I reach beneath my pillow. My fingers close around the cool surface of the white box.
A knock at the door. I shove the box back into the dark.
"Come in."
Daemon enters. He doesn't ask how I feel. He doesn't care.
"Your training begins tomorrow," he says. His voice allows no argument. "Be ready."
He leaves.
I remain. Alone with the voices.
And with the question: What kind of magic sleeps within me?