The corridors of the Royal Academy buzzed with a muted excitement. On the eve of the Silver Solstice, the noble bloodlines prepared for the Heirs' Gathering, a tradition stretching back three centuries. It was held once every decade, behind the sealed doors of the Moonspire Hall—an event cloaked in prestige and secrecy, reserved only for the scions of powerful houses.
It was where alliances were whispered, vendettas solidified, and futures carved in invisible ink.
Kaelian was not on the guest list.
But Kaelian had never relied on invitations.
From a concealed alcove high within the Restricted Archives, Kaelian watched the nobles move through the grounds. He had cast a concealment rune across the archway, masking even the faintest sound of breath. His fingers moved silently across a stolen parchment, eyes scanning the guest names. House Virell, Elphérium, Tharnoss… all present. And of course, Prince Théor, his half-brother, the golden heir with venom in his veins.
Kaelian's mouth tightened.
It wasn't enough to watch from the shadows. Tonight, he would stand among them.
Three nights prior, in a forgotten bindery beneath the western tower, Kaelian had spent hours dismantling a broken mimicry sigil—a banned magical relic that allowed for short-term transformation. He'd enhanced it with blood-rune scripting, infusing it with an identity he could assume for hours at a time: Aron of Solvemire.
Aron, an absent noble son with a reputation for excess, was known for skipping events and drinking away his inheritance. Kaelian had caught him passed out in the lower district's gambling den, removed a sample of his blood, and memorized his mannerisms. The young fool hadn't even noticed.
Now, Kaelian possessed his voice, his ring, and—most importantly—his blood seal.
At sunset, the Moonspire Hall shimmered with ancestral runes. Only those bound by the blood of noble lines could pass the archway, guarded by ancient ward-keepers: spectral knights forged from the kingdom's magical core.
Kaelian approached, clad in midnight robes lined with Solvemire's signature blue thread. His heart thrummed like a war drum as the ghostly sentry stepped forward.
"Lord Aron of Solvemire?" the guard asked, voice hollow.
Kaelian nodded.
The sentry pressed a black crystal against Kaelian's palm. A flicker of red.
Accepted.
He stepped through.
Inside, the chamber was otherworldly—its walls curved like the inside of a massive egg, alive with illusions of bygone wars and victories. Each noble crest hovered in silver flame along the stone, pulsing with power. At the central crescent table stood the heirs of the realm, glimmering like a pantheon.
Prince Théor sat at the head, unmistakable even in a black ceremonial robe. His features were refined, his posture relaxed, but his eyes scanned the room like a predator. Flanking him were other elite heirs—some clever, others brutal. Kaelian's entrance was discreet, but one pair of eyes locked onto him with quiet calculation.
"Aron?" a melodic voice called.
He turned slowly. Standing there was Ysara of House Elphérium, famed for her alchemical skills and uncanny perception. Her silver hair flowed over her bare shoulders like mercury. Her smile was polite, but her gaze was razor-sharp.
"You've emerged from the mists of Solvemire? Have the mountain spirits whispered new truths into your ears?"
Kaelian offered her a smile—calculated, cold, perfectly in character.
"Even mists cannot hide the moonlight forever."
She blinked. That was a proverb native only to Solvemire—rare, obscure. He had memorized it from a poem buried in the Solvemire vaults.
Satisfied, she extended a cup toward him.
"Drink with me. Let's see if you're truly the Aron I remember."
A test.
Kaelian didn't hesitate. He murmured a counter-poison charm—Mireclov ne'faren—under his breath, forming an invisible shield around his throat and stomach. He raised the cup, drank it in one smooth motion, and handed it back without flinching.
Ysara's lips curved.
"You've changed. I approve."
For hours, Kaelian navigated the aristocratic maze. Their laughter was false, their alliances fragile, but beneath the velvet tones and jeweled masks lay the gears of a shadow war. He listened to conversations loaded with hidden meanings—coded phrases about succession, rumors of the King's declining health, and threats of purging the Academy of "corrupted bloodlines."
His name was whispered. Kaelian, the bastard prince. A threat. A nuisance. A rising star that needed to be extinguished.
Worse still, he learned of an ancient awakening ritual—one said to unlock the dormant power of royal blood. Théor had, supposedly, acquired a fragment of the lost Regalia of Eldros. A tool once capable of commanding the skies themselves.
Kaelian's mind raced. If Théor completed the ritual… no one would be safe.
He needed more.
Later in the evening, Kaelian trailed Théor into a quieter passage leading to the Moonspire's inner sanctum. He adjusted his tone, straightened his posture, and stepped forward.
"My prince," he said with practiced ease. "I've heard whispers of a grand design. House Solvemire would like to… assist."
Théor turned, skeptical. "You? Solvemire? I thought your kin preferred illusions and riddles."
Kaelian inclined his head. "All the better to obscure your enemies while you strike."
Théor laughed, but his eyes narrowed.
"Fine. If you're serious, prove your worth. There's a bastard in this Academy who believes himself clever—Kaelian. Find him. Discredit him. Bring me his secrets."
Kaelian's spine stiffened—but he bowed.
"It will be done."
Back in the hidden chamber beneath the Tower's west wing, Kaelian peeled the mimicry sigil from his skin. His face returned to its natural shape—his real one. Sweat pooled at the base of his neck.
He had danced with wolves and survived.
But now he had work to do. He called for Lyssa, the only person he trusted with fragments of the truth. A healer by title, a mystery by nature, Lyssa was sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. He needed her help to decode the magical references he had overheard—especially the name of the artifact: Crown of the Skyborn.
"We don't have long," Kaelian told her. "If Théor completes this ritual, we lose our last advantage."
Lyssa nodded, worry clouding her gaze.
"Then let's steal the storm before he learns to command it."
Before dawn, Kaelian slipped a letter into the chamber of Archmage Elgorn, his most dangerous observer within the Academy. He left no signature—only the sigil of House Solvemire and a single sentence:
"If the crown awakens, who shall remain to bear witness?"
He watched from afar as Elgorn read it. The Archmage's brow furrowed. His eyes flicked toward the north.
The game had changed.
End of Chapter 41 – Suspense
**
Teaser for Chapter 42: Formation of the Inner Circle
Kaelian handpicks three gifted students from different castes to form his secret elite unit. But trust is a scarce commodity, and one of them carries a secret that could shatter everything he's built…
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