Asher Leonard
This empire loves its illusions.
Gilded banners, polished marble, and rules so sharp they cut you before you realize you're bleeding. They call it order. I call it theater. Every noble pretends they're a player in this grand game, but they don't see the strings—they are the strings.
And then there's me.
The Rules of the Board
At five years old, you kneel at the Temple like a lamb, and they brand you with truth.
Animal Affinity: a beast binds itself to you, soul to soul, and lends you its instincts. Domesticated ones for peasants. Predators for the chosen. If your beast evolves, you become a legend.
Element Affinity: rarer still. You breathe mana, bend elements to your will. Fire to raze cities, wind to carve mountains, water to drown armies. If your element fuses—say, water and wind to ice—you're no longer mortal.
But there's a third truth, one they don't like to speak of: taboo. The kind of power they fear enough to erase.
I was born taboo.
One storm-grey eye that turns blue-green under moonlight. One jade-green eye that never changes, like it's mocking the world. No animal came for me. No element blessed me. The Temple whispered one word—Darkness—and my father, Emperor Augustus, whispered another:
"Throw him away."
The Desert and the Mask
They called it mercy when they named me Marquis of the West. Mercy is a polite word for exile. They sent me to a wasteland, the empire's forgotten lung, where the sandstorms eat men alive and the stars are so close you could swear they're watching.
But death has always bored me.
Khatan found me first. He called himself my secretary, though he's more like my shadow with a spine. Bowed low, voice steady, he handed me a chest of funds so insultingly small it might've been a joke.
"Your Highness," he said, "this is all they gave you. Make it last or make it matter."
So I did both.
The desert hides secrets for those willing to bleed for them. I found a settlement of refugees, people abandoned by the same empire that spat me out. And there I found Lovil—the kind of man whose loyalty you don't buy; you earn it by surviving beside him. Together, we dug deep enough to find gold that glowed like trapped lightning.
With Khatan's mind, Lovil's grit, and my will, we built something the empire didn't notice until it was too late: a network of traders, forgers, and spies. We sell weapons they pretend don't exist and jewels they can't afford not to covet. They whisper about the Sultan of the West, a phantom with armies in his pocket.
The Sultan is me. But at the Academy, I wear the mask they gave me: the useless prince with eyes too strange to look at.
Academy Etiquette and Ivy's Leash
The Imperial Academy smells like arrogance polished with lavender oil. Halls lined with banners of every House, portraits of dead saints staring down like they might crawl out of the frames and strangle you for breathing wrong. Etiquette here is a religion:
Speak second, never first.
Bow to those above you even if you plan to bury them later.
And always, always smile while you lie.
I'm good at smiling.
Ivy, Count's daughter, insists on being my shadow here. She's the only one who pretends I'm worth her attention, slipping food into my hand when she thinks I'm starving, tugging at my sleeve to "remind" me to attend etiquette lectures. Everyone thinks she's sweet. I know better. Ivy doesn't love people; she collects them. And I let her collect me because commoner factions adore her, and one day, I'll need them to kneel.
So when nobles spit at me, I don't spit back. I let them think they're winning.
Every pawn has to cross the board before it becomes something else.
The Practical Test
Today's test is supposed to "reveal character." What it actually reveals is who paid their tutors better. Four rounds: crush classmates to prove you belong. Then, if you think yourself clever, you can challenge someone above your league for glory.
I wasn't going to bother. Watching idiots flaunt power they didn't earn is like watching children play at war with sticks. But then, as I'm leaning against a wall, half-asleep, she points at me.
"I want to fight him."
The Queen Pretending to Be a Pawn
Sienna Vlyn.
The Academy's darling. Daughter of the Grand Duke and the Saint of Space. Black hair falling like scripture, violet eyes sharp enough to slice glass, posture so perfect it looks like she could break the world just by standing straighter. They call her weak, powerless, maybe even stupid.
I know a liar when I see one.
I don't take my hands out of my pockets.
Five minutes later, she's on the ground.
No powers. No weapons. Just timing and geometry. Her wooden sword swings like she's dancing for applause; my footwork turns her rhythm into her downfall. When she falls, it's not graceful—it's real. And for the first time, I see her mask twitch.
This is the woman they've betrothed me to.
This is the woman who hides her fangs and expects me to bow to her illusion.
I say nothing. I leave her staring at the dirt and walk to Ivy, who's already waiting like she knew how it would end. She touches the shallow cut on my cheek, tsking softly, and murmurs,
"You shouldn't let them provoke you, Asher."
Her voice is honey. Her hands are knives. I let her play caretaker because every leash can be pulled both ways.
The Willow and the Lizard
Night falls, and the Academy exhales. Students retreat to their towers of silk and pride, and I go to my sanctuary: the southern courtyard, where a single willow glows faintly in the dark, its branches dripping like threads of moonlight.
Everyone believes the place is cursed, filled with beasts. I started that rumor. Sometimes fear is cheaper than walls.
I sit beneath it, my lizard curled lazily in my palm. Ten years I've raised this creature. It's ugly, stubborn, half-dead when I found it in the dunes. But its eyes burn the way mine do: patient, hungry. Things like us don't survive because we're strong. We survive because we plan.
Khatan arrives, cloak dusted with travel. He bows low—always low—and hands me the latest guild reports. Trade routes secure. Gold prices climbing. The Sultan's legend spreading like a shadow no one can grasp.
And then, the quiet breaks.
A voice, sharp as glass, cuts through the courtyard.
"Your Highness! Third Prince Asher!"
No one calls me that anymore. Not unless the game just changed.