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He waited in the dark, hand clenched around the ring. But the voice said nothing more. He lay back down, staring at the ceiling, and wondered if he had imagined it.
The truth would come later. Not in a flash. But in the slow, grinding turn of years. Until one day, the voice would return in full. And this time, he would be ready.
The years between ten and fifteen passed like a long, gray season. There were no celebrations. No festivals. No gifts. The midwife's hair turned white, her back bent like the old tree behind the cottage, and her footsteps grew slower with every winter. John took over everything. The cooking. The chopping. The patching of the roof whenever it leaked in the rain. He learned because there was no one else. No one came to help.
By the time he was twelve, the nobles in the manor no longer ignored him.
They began to notice.
It started with glances from the windows whenever he crossed the courtyard with a sack of grain or a bucket of water. Then came the whispers. The laughter. He heard his name spoken behind hands. Bastard. Dirtblood. Cottage brat. Names that dug into him like thorns.
One day, while passing through the back gardens on an errand, one of the elder sons stopped him.
Julian.
Firstborn of the Duke. Tall, handsome, confident. His silver and navy uniform shimmered with magical embroidery. A golden chain hung across his shoulder. Everything about him screamed nobility.
He stepped in front of John with a smirk on his face.
"You walk with your eyes too high for someone born in filth," he said.
John held his tongue.
Julian tilted his head.
"Are you proud, bastard? Do you think your blood gives you rights here?"
John shook his head.
"Then why do you look at this place like it belongs to you?"
Before John could answer, Julian slapped him.
It was fast, unexpected. A sharp crack filled the air. The pain bloomed across John's cheek instantly. He tasted blood at the corner of his mouth.
Julian laughed.
"Learn your place."
That night, the ring pulsed again. This time, it felt warm.
John sat awake, watching the glow in the darkness. No voice spoke. But something stirred beneath the surface. Like a breath held back, waiting for the right moment.
He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in years.
At thirteen, his chores were doubled. The midwife could no longer stand without help. Her breath wheezed when she spoke. Some days she didn't leave bed at all. John took care of her, just as she had once taken care of him.
She taught him old stories when she could. About the founding of the kingdom. The rise of magic. The hearts of men that could forge Circles of power.
"Nine Circles," she said. "Each one a ring inside your heart. The more you unlock, the stronger your magic becomes."
"But I don't have any magic," John had whispered once.
She looked at him then, eyes clouded with age.
"You will."
"How do you know?"
"Because your eyes see the world as it is. That is rarer than power."
She died during a thunderstorm the next spring.
He buried her alone, behind the cottage, beneath the old tree. No funeral. No words. Just a grave marked with stone.
No one from the manor came.
At fourteen, the beatings began.
It was never official. Never in the open. But Julian and the others found excuses. A lost scroll. A broken vase. A noble's robe brushed by dirt. They called him to the servants' quarters, far from the main halls. He learned not to scream.
The servants pretended not to see.
One day he came home with blood dried across his lip and bruises lining his ribs. He lay on the cot in the corner of the cottage, eyes on the ceiling, fists clenched. The ring glowed again.
This time, the light spread across his hand.
A voice stirred in the back of his mind.
Not full words. Just the faintest hum.
He closed his eyes.
"I haven't forgotten," he whispered.
And the light faded.
By fifteen, he was taller. Stronger. His eyes held a different light now. Not hope. Not pride. Something colder. Quiet and sharp like the edge of a blade kept hidden beneath cloth.
That was the year the Duke called him.
He had never heard the Duke speak to him directly before. Not once in fifteen years. But a messenger arrived one morning, dressed in black, and handed him a letter.
The seal was red wax. The family crest pressed into the center. John opened it with steady fingers.
He was to appear in the great hall before the court. Alone.
The walk through the estate was silent. Nobles watched him pass. Servants turned their heads.
He stepped into the grand hall and felt the air shift. The ceilings rose high above, supported by marble pillars etched with mana veins. Red carpets ran down the length of the room. Chandeliers floated overhead, glowing with enchanted crystals.
The Duke sat at the far end, dressed in gray silk robes lined with silver. His face was hard and unreadable.
John walked until he stood ten paces away and bowed.
"You summoned me."
The Duke studied him in silence.
"You have lived under this roof for fifteen years," he said. "Sheltered. Fed. Clothed. Despite your blood."
John said nothing.
"You are not recognized by law. You are not one of my heirs."
Still, he remained silent.
The Duke's voice grew colder.
"Your presence here breeds shame. Contempt. You are a wound the family cannot allow to fester."
He raised one hand.
"You are hereby banished from the House of Evergrove. From this day forward, you are no longer welcome in these lands."
The silence in the room was absolute.
John looked up.
He didn't speak. Didn't beg. His heart beat once, slow and clear. The ring pulsed faintly on his hand.
He bowed once more.
"Understood."
He turned and walked out.
No one followed.
No one stopped him.
Not even Julian, who smiled from his place along the court wall.
As John stepped past the manor gates, the guards closed them behind him with a loud metallic slam.
Clang.
He didn't look back.