Atelion Abdryth Maetyr Aurelion learned early that strength unseen was strength preserved.
The eastern training yard echoed with steel as he concluded another controlled exchange.
His opponent—a senior knight capped deliberately at Five-Star Aura pressed him hard enough to look convincing, never hard enough to force revelation.
Atelion yielded ground, corrected stance, absorbed pressure.
He lost—cleanly.
Applause followed.
Mild. Dismissive.
"A prince of discipline," one noble remarked.
"Reliable," said another.
"Not dangerous."
Atelion bowed and withdrew.
Beneath the palace, where politics could not hear, discipline became cruelty.
Captain Rhydan Stormvale corrected Atelion's footing with a sharp strike of his staff.
Aura flared contained, compressed beneath the third star.
"Again," Rhydan said.
Atelion complied without complaint.
Hours later, Elyndor Vaelis took over.
Mana circulation.
Orthodoxy only.
No shortcuts.
No deviation.
"You are progressing faster than you should," Elyndor noted.
"Yet you restrain yourself."
"I must," Atelion replied.
"Eyes are on me."
"Because of the engagement," Rhydan said.
"Yes."
Princess Eniola Kemyra Solaryn Nyxveil.
A name that carried invasion, tyranny, and eventual self-destruction—though none here knew that yet.
Elyndor spoke carefully.
"Her family situation is… unstable."
Atelion opened his eyes.
"Two elder brothers," Elyndor continued.
"Azharel and Vaelion.
Both favored.
Both cruel.
A younger brother, Lyrion—ignored."
Rhydan's voice was cold.
"The emperor himself is diminished."
"Enchanted," Elyndor corrected.
"A persistent mental shackle. Subtle.
Masterfully done."
Atelion absorbed this silently.
An empire ruled by brothers who despised weakness.
A princess shaped by neglect and quiet cruelty.
A king who was no longer entirely himself.
He did not yet know the name Morvessa Noctyra.
He did not yet see the Umbral Synod's shadow.
But the pattern was emerging.
"This marriage," Atelion said, "is not about peace."
"No," Rhydan agreed.
"It is about containment."
Atelion resumed meditation—mana sealed, aura restrained, both growing independently under iron discipline.
No fusion.
No miracle.
Only preparation.
Far away, beneath black banners, Princess Eniola stood silent as her brothers argued over succession, power, and her worthlessness.
Above them, unseen, magic tightened its grip around a weakened king's mind.
The world moved toward catastrophe.
And for the first time, fate had something standing in its way.