— Blackfeather Family History (Third-Person)
In the great northern reaches of the kingdom of Elvanyr, beyond the storm-choked mountains and veiled forests, lies a territory long ruled by one of the oldest and most enigmatic noble bloodlines in the realm:
House Blackfeather.
Officially known as the Archdukes of the Midnight Vale, they are one of the few noble houses granted power not only over land and armies but over something far more dangerous: information.
Their dominion stretches across communication lines, message-carrying devices, encrypted artifacts, whisper networks, and surveillance enchantments. If something important is said in Elvanyr, chances are a Blackfeather hears it.
For centuries, they have served as the kingdom's eyes in the dark and messengers in the light, manipulating letters, intercepting secrets, and crafting items of subtle power. Their official genre, taught to the public and recorded in academy registries, is known as:
Soul Creation.
It sounds noble. Poetic, even. The forging of items with personality, memory, or connection to spirit.
But this, like so much else in their house, is a lie.
Their true genre is one kept hidden, passed down only to chosen heirs through ritual and bloodline agreement:
Bird Mythology Creation.
A genre that allows the crafting of objects, beasts, weapons, or constructs pulled from any bird-related myth or legend — from phoenixes of fire to storm eagles of the northern fjords. And even more obscure things: cursed feathers, prophecy birds, sky relics with forgotten names.
It is a genre filled with power, versatility, and deep symbolic control over air, vision, speed, and soul.
Only heirs who choose Bird Mythology Creation are brought into the family's true legacy. The others—regardless of blood—are excluded. Managed. Discarded.
Corven Blackfeather never chose it.
When he reached his awakening at eighteen, all eyes turned to him with expectation. The second son. Quiet. Bookish. Weak in mana, but noble in lineage.
What they hoped for was Bird Mythology. What they received was a word no one understood:
Anime.
His father, Kaelthorn Blackfeather, the current Archduke, responded with quiet fury. His disappointment was swift, and his judgment absolute.
From the outside, House Blackfeather remains regal. Mysterious. Respected.
But within its marble halls and skywatching towers, it is a house of masks. A nest of politics, secrets, and silence. One that expects obedience and tradition above all.
And now, in the lowest-ranked classroom of the nation's greatest academy, the disgraced second son has begun to create something that doesn't belong to their world at all.
Something even the Blackfeathers can't control.
Far to the north, within the storm-crowned spires of Ravenspire Citadel, the ancestral home of House Blackfeather, the air was thick with tension.
The long chamber was dim, its light cast only by hovering lanterns made of obsidian and woven raven feathers. A cold draft whistled between the high arches, but none of those seated at the long-winged table seemed to notice.
At its head sat Kaelthorn Blackfeather, the Archduke. His gaze was unreadable, forged from years of secrets and steel.
To his right, his heir, Vaelan, sat with one arm over the chair, expression coiled with quiet disdain.To his left, Sylvaria and Meridelle, reserved and listening.The wives — four women of sharp minds and sharper eyes — observed from the shadowed corners, their roles ceremonial here, but never powerless.
Kaelthorn finally spoke, voice smooth and cold.
"Corven has awakened."
A few heads turned. No one gasped. They had known it was coming.
"It's not Bird Mythology," Kaelthorn continued. "He chose something… foreign. Something called 'Anime'."
Vaelan exhaled in disbelief. "He's making fairy tales now?"
Sylvaria's lips pressed thin. "It's not listed in any standard genre registry. Not a subfield. Not even folklore-based."
"Not real, then," Meridelle said.
Kaelthorn opened a scroll, unsealed that morning by one of their agents inside the Academy.He read aloud.
"Requested: mana-reactive alloys, low-grade crystal cores, high-resonance light-based stone fragments, enchanted engraving materials..."
He paused.
"Expensive for a C-Class student with no backing."
"He had help," murmured Lady Valestra, the first mother. "Probably from that merchant girl. Silvermantle family connections."
Kaelthorn's gaze sharpened. "We underestimated his ability to move in silence."
Vaelan's fists clenched. "He's pretending he's still a Blackfeather."
"He is a Blackfeather," said Grandmother Irelith suddenly, her voice dry like crackling paper. "By blood. But the wind never carries every fledgling the same."
No one replied. Irelith rarely spoke—and when she did, her words were final.
Kaelthorn lowered the scroll.
"We do not yet understand what he's trying to build. The item is some kind of armor. Western-style. Engraved. Possibly ceremonial—or maybe symbolic."
"No confirmed results?" asked Sylvaria.
"Not yet. Just theory. Rumor."
Kaelthorn's fingers drummed the table. His eyes burned with cold calculation.
"Keep watching him. If he builds something dangerous… we'll clip his wings before he learns to fly, remind him why the sky belongs to the Blackfeathers."