The sun bled across the horizon, casting long shadows over the temple as the bell tolled for dusk prayers. Most disciples were meditating or sweeping fallen petals from the inner courtyards. Kieran, however, was not among them.
He was in the back gardens, barefoot in the frost, balancing atop a narrow bamboo beam that swayed with every breath of wind.
"Again," he whispered to himself.
His body moved in slow, deliberate arcs—hands tracing invisible circles, his feet barely making a sound as he flowed through the Third Form of Wind-Drawing Step. He wasn't trying to master it in a single day. He knew better. What he was doing was... listening.
To the wind.
To the breath in his lungs.
To the rhythm that pulsed through his body—faint, yes, but real.
The feeling had begun days ago. A subtle change in his senses. Like the world around him had started humming in a different key. The leyline beneath the temple grounds pulsed stronger now, and sometimes, when he moved just right, he felt it… shift.
Like it recognized him.
"You're improving."
He nearly slipped off the beam. "You really need to stop sneaking up on me."
Damon stood behind him, arms folded, a hint of amusement on his normally indifferent face.
"You're the one standing in the garden like a meditating crane. Kind of hard to ignore."
Kieran stepped off the beam, brushing frost from his tunic. "You could say hello like a normal person."
"Normal is overrated."
Their easy banter had become routine over the past month. Even if Kieran pretended otherwise, he looked forward to these moments. Damon's presence was a strange comfort—steady, familiar, challenging. Dangerous, perhaps. But also… real.
"Why aren't you at dusk prayers?" Kieran asked.
"I hate incense. Makes me sneeze."
Kieran rolled his eyes. "That's not very noble of you, Lord Arclight."
Damon smirked. "You call me that again, I'm throwing you in the koi pond."
"Try it. I already mapped its depth. You'd slip first."
The way Damon's eyes lit up—sharp, wolfish—sent something fluttering in Kieran's chest. He turned away quickly, hoping his blush wasn't visible.
---
The next morning brought disruption.
A golden carriage creaked up the mountain path, pulled by four spectral white deer whose hooves didn't touch the earth. The temple bells did not ring, but everyone knew something important was happening. Even the monks looked tense.
Kieran stood with the other students near the central courtyard, curiosity gnawing at him.
The carriage door opened.
And out stepped the most beautiful boy Kieran had ever seen.
Hair like burnished copper tied in a high imperial knot. Skin like sun-warmed bronze. Lips curved in a permanent smirk that oozed confidence. He wore a crimson cloak fastened with a phoenix feather clasp, and his eyes—slanted, golden, hungry—swept over the temple grounds like he owned the place.
Which, Kieran suspected, he almost did.
"Who is that?" he whispered.
Damon didn't look at him. "That," he said flatly, "is Prince Rhael."
"The emperor's—"
"Second son. Unofficial. But no one dares question it."
Kieran's eyes widened. "The Crimson Prince."
Rhael's gaze paused as it moved over the crowd—and stopped on Damon.
Then, slowly, deliberately… it moved to Kieran.
And stayed there.
Kieran felt his stomach twist.
---
Later that day, the temple hosted a welcoming ceremony.
Kieran tried to disappear into the back rows. It didn't work. Halfway through Master Syen's recitation of the ancestral scrolls, he felt a presence beside him—and turned to find Prince Rhael standing next to him, completely ignoring the seating arrangement.
"Nice spot," the prince said, voice low and silky. "You get a good view of the back of Damon's head."
Kieran blinked. "I wasn't watching him."
"Sure you weren't."
The prince smiled like a cat toying with a mouse.
"You're the ghost boy everyone whispers about. The one who learns forms in a day and solves puzzles before they're spoken."
"I just… study a lot."
"I study too," Rhael murmured. "People. Movements. Power. You learn interesting things when you watch."
Kieran wasn't sure how to respond. So he didn't.
The prince leaned in slightly. "What's your name?"
"Kieran."
"Hmm. Doesn't sound noble."
"It's not."
"Even better," Rhael said, and then turned away—leaving Kieran flustered and uncertain.
---
That night, Damon found him again, this time in the sparring courtyard.
"I saw him talk to you."
Kieran turned. "Who?"
Damon didn't answer.
Instead, he crossed the courtyard, picked up a practice staff, and tossed one to Kieran.
"Spar with me."
"Now?"
"Now."
They didn't speak as they circled each other.
The first strike came fast. Damon's reach was longer, but Kieran ducked low, spun on his heel, and forced him to retreat. Blow for blow, they danced across the courtyard in a silent storm of motion and impact.
For a moment, the world narrowed.
Kieran forgot the prince. The prophecy. The novel.
There was only the rhythm of combat. And Damon's gaze locked with his.
But as their staffs locked together, Damon whispered, "He always takes what he wants."
Kieran faltered. "What?"
"Rhael," Damon said, low and flat. "Don't let him get to you."
The words lingered in the air like smoke.
And in that pause, Kieran realized: Damon was worried. Not about power or politics.
About him.
And that terrified Kieran more than anything else.
---
Prince Rhael didn't wait long.
The next day, he requested Kieran personally to assist him in the Flame Archives—a request no disciple could refuse. Master Syen had no choice but to agree.
Kieran arrived early, heart pounding. The archive was a domed chamber beneath the mountain, lined with glowing glyphs and fireproofed scrolls. It pulsed with old, potent magic.
Rhael was already there.
Lounging on a silk cushion like a lion bored with the hunt.
"You're punctual," he said.
"I was told this was important."
"It is. I needed someone clever. Someone… interesting."
He held up a scroll. "This is a lost formation technique from the Ember Wars. Even Master Syen can't read it. But I hear you can."
Kieran frowned. "I haven't seen that before."
Rhael tossed it to him. "Take a look. I'll wait."
Kieran opened the scroll.
Ancient script, indecipherable to most, flooded the parchment. But Kieran's eyes sharpened. His mind shifted. Numbers and shapes aligned in his head—geometry layered beneath symbols, a language of patterns.
"It's not a formation," he said. "It's a trap. A delayed burst seal keyed to blood type. Anyone who misreads it will trigger a combustion loop."
Rhael stared at him.
Then laughed.
"Brilliant," he said. "Truly brilliant. I see why Damon's so obsessed."
Kieran's heart skipped. "He's not."
"Oh?" Rhael rose, walking toward him slowly. "He watches you like you're a storm he can't predict. I know that look. I've worn it."
He stopped inches away.
"I'm going to enjoy unraveling you, Kieran."
And Kieran, unsure if it was fear or something worse, couldn't move.
---
Over the following weeks, the triangle began to pull taut.
Rhael continued requesting Kieran for projects, scrollwork, and occasionally, midnight tea in the meditation pavilions. He was charming, infuriating, and far too perceptive.
Damon grew colder. Not cruel—just distant. Their sparring sessions became shorter. Their banter faded. But his gaze, whenever Kieran laughed at one of Rhael's jokes, was sharp enough to wound.
Kieran felt like a thread caught between two storms.
He didn't want to be wanted for being unusual. Or clever. Or… wrong.
He wanted to be seen.
Really seen.
But no one told you how hard it was to carry the weight of someone else's story—especially when you weren't supposed to be the hero.
And somewhere deep in the temple's roots, something old began to stir.
A forgotten presence.
A whisper in the ash.
Waiting.
---