Weeks stretched into months, and Severin's recovery advanced at a pace that appeared natural to the palace physicians while quietly shaping expectations around him.
He allowed weakness to linger without worsening, accepted assistance without dependence, and learned precisely when to pause as though short of breath and when to steady himself as if fatigue were habitual rather than alarming.
Within the Imperium of Solcarin, the image settled quickly, reinforced through repetition until it ceased to provoke concern, and Prince Severin became a familiar, unremarkable presence, the sickly third son whose condition was acknowledged briefly before attention moved elsewhere.
He moved through the palace corridors with a book often in hand, his steps careful rather than unsteady, his posture mild, his presence easy to disregard. Beside Crown Prince Aurex, whose authority asserted itself through physical certainty, and Prince Cassian, whose intellect commanded recognition despite its limitations, Severin occupied no position that required evaluation.
Tutors softened their demands, servants spoke freely, and courtiers spoke as though he were absent even when he stood among them, a circumstance Severin neither corrected nor resisted.
His attention settled gradually on Cassian, not through admiration or affection, but through recognition.
Cassian embodied everything Solcarin admired in theory and punished in practice, a mind sharp enough to dominate the Academy's discourse paired with a mana capacity insufficient to satisfy the empire's reverence for magical abundance.
Praise followed his work reluctantly, often accompanied by comparison, and Severin observed how Aurex's contempt required no disguise, how disappointment from the court arrived cloaked in civility rather than silence.
Cassian endured this with discipline rather than acceptance, defending his work precisely and without apology, yet the restraint demanded constant effort, visible in the rigidity of his posture and the care with which he measured his responses.
Severin adjusted his approach accordingly, placing himself nearby without intruding, listening without correcting, and asking questions that invited explanation rather than defense.
He allowed Cassian to instruct, to elaborate, and to dismiss lesser minds aloud, and accepted correction with seriousness rather than pride.
Over time, familiarity replaced distance, and Cassian began to speak in Severin's presence without the guarded calculation he reserved for others.
The Imperial Academy provided the moment when that familiarity became attachment.
The courtyard was active with training when Severin stepped outside under the excuse of needing air, his pace slow enough to attract no attention, and it was there that he noticed the cluster of students gathered near the sparring grounds.
At their center stood Lord Varrick's son, holding Cassian's journal loosely in one hand while addressing not Cassian himself, but the audience that had formed around him.
"You are remarkably persistent," Varrick said, turning a page with careless fingers, his voice pitched for effect. "One would think effort alone could compensate for what you lack."
Cassian's reply was controlled, his voice even despite the tension evident in his stance. "If you cannot follow the premise, you should not be handling the material."
"That premise requires power you do not possess," Varrick replied, smiling broadly as laughter followed. "You dress inadequacy in clever words and expect applause."
Severin observed how Cassian's hands tightened without rising, restraint maintained through deliberate effort rather than indifference, and he approached slowly, his expression uncertain rather than confrontational, his attention fixed on the journal rather than the insult.
"Excuse me," Severin said quietly. "That belongs to my brother. You may damage it."
Varrick turned, surprise flickering briefly before irritation took its place. "This does not concern you, Prince Severin," he replied. "Stand back."
"I was only worried about the binding," Severin said, stepping closer, his footing careful rather than assertive.
Varrick exhaled sharply, annoyance overtaking amusement, and his gaze swept dismissively over Severin's slight frame.
"Must we clean every insect that crawls into our path?" he said, his tone casual, as though the words carried no weight.
Before anyone could respond, he pushed Severin aside with one hand, the motion impatient rather than violent, but Severin, already off balance, stumbled and fell against the stone.
The impact knocked the breath from him, sharp enough to split his lip, and he remained where he landed, stunned more than injured, his breath uneven, blood visible against pale skin.
The room fell abruptly silent.
"Did you just push him?" a young noblewoman demanded, stepping forward without hesitation.
"He barely said anything," another student added. "What was that for?"
Cassian was already moving, kneeling beside Severin and steadying him with controlled urgency. "Severin," he said tightly. "Can you sit up?"
"I lost my footing," Severin replied after a moment, his voice quiet and strained. "It was my fault."
"That is not true," the girl said immediately, her gaze fixed on Varrick. "You shoved him."
"He's still recovering," someone else said. "Everyone knows that."
Varrick stiffened as attention converged on him. "I touched him," he said defensively. "He stepped too close."
"You called him an insect," another voice said sharply. "We all heard it."
Murmurs spread quickly, disapproval replacing amusement, and Cassian ignored Varrick entirely as he helped Severin sit upright, his jaw set with restrained fury.
At that moment, the Academy principal entered the courtyard, his presence cutting through the noise without raised voice or haste. "What is the meaning of this?"
Several students spoke at once, overlapping accusations filling the space, and the principal raised one hand, his gaze settling immediately on Severin's bloodied lip before shifting to Varrick.
"You," he said calmly, "will come with me."
Varrick opened his mouth to protest, then closed it under the weight of the principal's stare, and allowed himself to be taken by the arm and led away, the crowd parting without resistance.
Cassian guided Severin from the courtyard as the whispers continued behind them, concern following rather than curiosity, and more than one student watched them leave with open disapproval directed elsewhere.
The Grand Archive of Solcarin became Severin's refuge in the days that followed, not for comfort, but for clarity. He returned to the same alcove beneath the stained-glass windows, arranged innocuous texts in plain sight, and requested restricted materials without resistance, the librarians' courtesy softened by sympathy rather than suspicion.
It was there, among records and commentaries, that Severin articulated the reasoning he had never spoken aloud.
Cassian was perfect.
Not as a brother, nor as an ally, but as a narrative construct the empire revered instinctively. The overlooked genius burdened by inadequacy, the future ruler shaped through suffering, the mind destined to triumph once endurance was rewarded. In any conventional telling, Cassian would rise, outlast mockery, surpass Aurex through merit, and claim authority justified by intellect rather than strength.
Severin understood this structure precisely, and he understood how fragile it was.
Cassian's longing for recognition made him receptive to validation offered without rivalry. His resentment toward Aurex, tempered by restraint, ensured loyalty could be redirected rather than confronted.
His belief in reason over force made him trust those who appeared harmless.
Severin had not chosen Cassian because he cared for him.
He had chosen him because Cassian was the ideal protagonist, and protagonists were easiest to dismantle once they believed suffering guaranteed reward.
Severin would support him, defend him, and elevate him, allowing him to believe that perseverance ensured triumph, while quietly arranging the conditions under which that belief failed.
Cassian would rise believing he had earned everything, and when the moment came, Severin would remove him with precision rather than spectacle, not as a rival defeated, but as a story disproven.
Cassian found him in the Archive later that evening, his presence announced by tension rather than sound. Severin did not look up at once.
"You should have stayed away," Cassian said. "They turned on you too quickly."
"It resolved itself," Severin replied, closing the book with deliberate care. "Public spaces rarely tolerate visible cruelty."
Cassian exhaled slowly. "You were hurt."
"Briefly," Severin said mildly.
Cassian studied him in silence, uncertainty replacing irritation. "You should not involve yourself in my disputes."
"I did not," Severin replied. "I asked for an object to be returned."
Cassian turned away without responding, the shift in his expression subtle but decisive, and Severin recognized it as reliance rather than agreement.