The raven's violet eyes flared like struck match heads.
Isolde's face drained of what little color remained. "Impossible," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "You're four months old. The Mark shouldn't awaken for another—"
Inside his infant skull, Alaric's mind raced. He understood every word. He'd understood them for weeks now, listening in the dark, piecing together their language like a puzzle. But a cold, clear thought cut through his panic:
If I speak now—if I show them I understand—they'll know I'm not their Alaric. They'll know something is wrong. And I'll lose the only protection I have.
So he did what any four-month-old would do.
He gurgled. A wet, meaningless sound. He waved his tiny fists in the air, expression blank and unfocused, and let a line of drool escape his mouth.
Isolde's brow furrowed. She leaned closer, studying him. He stared past her, eyes wide and vacant, playing the role of a baby who'd made a random noise.
Good. Keep them uncertain.
Inside, he was screaming.
Isolde sighed, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. "Just a reflex. Thank the gods." She turned to Theo and Seraphine. "But the Mark is still active. We have to move quickly."
Alaric forced his body to go limp, to appear as helpless as he looked. He wanted to ask questions, to demand answers. But he kept his face slack, his eyes wandering, even as his mind sharpened to a razor's edge.
Isolde sat in a high-backed chair, her black hair pinned in a severe bun. Theo stood by the window, arms crossed. Seraphine cradled him in her lap, her violet eyes distant.
"You understand us," Isolde said, her gaze fixed on Seraphine, not him. "The child is beginning to comprehend. We can't hide it much longer."
Alaric made another cooing sound, as if responding to a tone rather than meaning. Inwardly, he memorized every word.
Isolde leaned forward. "Then listen, all of you. We are the Drake family, or what's left of us. Once, we held lands that stretched from the Glass Sea to the Obsidian Peaks. Now we hide in this crumbling manor in the kingdom of Valerion, praying the world forgets we exist."
She gestured around the library, with its empty shelves and mold-spotted tomes. "We are ruined nobility. Exiled. Disgraced. And it is all because of what the child carries."
She reached for Alaric's hand—he let her take it, playing passive—and turned his palm up to show the violet sigil.
"This is the Mark of the Sovereign," she said. "It is not a gift. It is a declaration. It says you are not subject to the laws of man. It says your will can shape reality. And it says the king will hunt you until you are either kneeling at his throne or rotting in an unmarked grave."
Seraphine shifted. "Mother, he needs to understand why."
Alaric wanted to say, I already do. I understand everything. But he bit his infant tongue—literally—and let out a wail of baby frustration instead.
Isolde mistook it for discomfort. She rocked him gently, her voice softening. "There, there. I know it's overwhelming."
You have no idea.
She continued, her tone shifting to the singsong cadence adults use with infants, but the words were anything but simple. "Look at your mother, child. What do you see?"
Alaric looked at Seraphine's violet eyes. He wanted to answer. Instead, he sneezed.
Isolde took it as a cue. "Yes. The violet eyes are the first sign. The Mark is the second. Your mother is Sovereign-Blooded—a descendant of the old line that ruled before the Duskveils usurped the throne."
Theo's voice cut in, grim. "The current king, Roderic Duskveil, has one son. Varyan—the boy whose name you've heard. He is thirteen, and his Mark is just beginning to manifest. Meanwhile, you were born with the Mark already burning in your skin."
Alaric processed this while appearing to chew on his own fist. Varyan. The throne room. The massacre. That was the king's son. And I'm... what? A rival? A backup?
Isolde saw him staring at Seraphine and misread his focus. "She knows the burden you carry. That's why we fled the capital the night you were born. The Inquisitors came for us. They would have taken you. Tested you."
Alaric gurgled again, a sound of baby concern, while internally he was cataloging every detail. Inquisitors. Tests. His mother's hidden grief.
They think I'm their son. They think I'm a prodigy. They don't know I'm an imposter.
"Let me explain the power you carry," Isolde said. "Let me explain Mana."
She closed her eyes, and Alaric felt the air shift. He wanted to ask if she was using it right now. Instead, he yawned. Widely. Obnoxiously.
Isolde's lips twitched. She thought he was bored. Good.
"Mana is the invisible essence that flows through all existence—the breath of the world itself. It permeates the sky, sinks into the earth, drifts through oceans, and sleeps within every living being. Though unseen by ordinary eyes, those who awaken their senses can feel it as a gentle warmth, a crushing pressure, or a whispering current moving through their veins."
Theo took over, his voice clinical. "In nature, Mana gathers in areas of great significance: ancient forests, ruined battlefields, towering mountains, and places touched by gods or calamities. These locations become Mana-rich zones, where beasts evolve, plants mutate, and the laws of reality grow unstable. Prolonged exposure to dense Mana can grant miracles—or madness."
Alaric's heart skipped. The throne room. He remembered the metallic scent, the way reality seemed to warp around the purple-eyed man. That had been a mana-rich zone. He wanted to ask, Was that why he was so powerful? But he kept his face blank, his eyes drooping as if sleepy.
Isolde continued. "Within living beings, Mana resides in a spiritual core or mana heart. It is refined through training, meditation, or bloodline inheritance. Skilled individuals can shape Mana into spells, reinforce their bodies, or bend natural elements to their will. However, misuse or overexertion can shatter the mana core, leaving the user crippled or dead."
She leaned close. "But Sovereigns don't have mana cores. They have the Mark. And the Mark feeds on will, on emotion, on intent. You want someone dead? They die. You want them to suffer? They scream. You want them to never have existed? The world rewrites itself."
Alaric wanted to shudder. Instead, he hiccupped.
"The price," Seraphine whispered, her voice thick, "is your humanity. Every time you use it, you become more like the power you command. Cold. Detached. A god in mortal skin who forgets why mortals bleed."
She set him down gently in his crib. The lavender scent of her hair lingered as she stood.
"Sleep, little one," she said, her voice thick. "Tomorrow, we begin teaching you how to hide. How to suppress the Mark until you're old enough to survive its discovery."
Alaric lay in the dark, his palm burning, his mind finally clear.
He understood everything now. The language. The family. The power. The danger.
He also understood that he was four months old, marked for death, and had no idea how to use the one thing that might save him.
And they must never know I'm not really their son.
He kept his eyes unfocused, his breathing slow and even, playing the part of a sleeping baby.
But inside, Alaric Drake—once Noah, once dead—was wide awake, and terrified, and utterly alone.
The raven tapped its beak against the window.
Once. Twice.
Watching.
---