The Great Hall of Drakenshold was a symphony of power, and Prince Kaelen was its silent, forgotten note. From the shadowed alcove of a lesser gallery, he watched the performance below. Laughter, sharp and loud, echoed off the white-stoned walls, mingling with the music of lutes and the clinking of jeweled goblets. Dragon carvings, their stone eyes seeming to glitter in the torchlight, coiled around the high pillars, silent witnesses to the kingdom's revelry.
It was the celebration of Crown Prince Vorian's twentieth nameday, and every noble house of consequence was in attendance. Lords in robes of deep crimson and sapphire, embroidered with the silver thread of House Veylan, mingled with stern-faced military commanders from House Marrowind, their practical leather a stark contrast to the court's opulence.
Kaelen, at eighteen, should have been among them. He was a prince, after all. But he was a prince of the wrong kind.
"Look at him," a voice drifted up from a nearby cluster of nobles, a whisper that carried like a poisoned dart. "The Blood Moon's child. A stain on the Drakemire name."
Another chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "Magic-less. They say the Queen's labor began the moment the eclipse turned the moon to blood. A terrible omen. The gods themselves marked him as unworthy."
Kaelen's hands, hidden in the folds of his plain, dark tunic, clenched into fists. He didn't need to see their faces to know who they were—minor lords, parasites clinging to Vorian's radiant sun, eager to mock the shadow. His existence was a political inconvenience. In Eryndor, the royal bloodline was defined by its mastery of True Sigil Magic. Vorian could conjure a lance of fire with a flick of his wrist. His sister, Serenya, could weave illusions so real they could fool the senses.
Kaelen could read. He could analyze history, study maps, and predict the movement of grain prices. In this world, such skills were worth less than a single spark of magic.
His gaze swept the hall, not with bitterness, but with the cold, detached focus of the historian he had once been, lifetimes ago. He saw Lord Valerius of House Veylan subtly guiding his daughter toward an unmarried commander, a clear play for military alliance. He noted the way the Ambassador from the Valthorne Empire smiled, yet his eyes remained as cold and sharp as winter ice. These were patterns, data points in a complex equation of power he was constantly solving. Survival was his only goal.
As his eyes scanned the crowd, they met another pair. They belonged to an old man standing near the edge of the dais, away from the main celebration. He was not dressed in the finery of a noble but in the simple, grey robes of a scholar or mage. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his beard long and white, but his eyes were unnervingly sharp. It was Archmage Tharos, Keeper of the Forbidden Library. While others saw a forgotten boy hiding in the gallery, Tharos's gaze seemed to pierce through the shadows, seeing not a weakling, but a watcher.
Tharos held his gaze for a long moment, then gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. Kaelen felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the hall's draftiness. Just as the Archmage turned away, Kaelen thought he saw the old man's lips move, forming a silent phrase Kaelen's mind seemed to hear anyway: A shadow may be ignored… until it swallows the sun.
The words were a puzzle, a threat, or perhaps a promise. Unsettled, Kaelen decided he had seen enough. He slipped away from the gallery, using a servant's passage he knew well—a network of hidden corridors that were the veins of the palace. It was safer here, away from the prying eyes and cruel whispers.
As he rounded a corner, the low voices of two palace guards stopped him short. They thought they were alone.
"...a disgrace," one guard grumbled. "The Crown Prince's celebration, and that thing is allowed to watch."
"Patience," the other said, his voice a low hiss. "Lord Vorian has plans. The whispers are just the beginning. It won't be long before we have orders to… remove the boy for good. One less shadow clinging to the throne."
Kaelen froze, his back pressed against the cold stone. The vague danger of courtly disdain had just become the sharp, immediate threat of a blade in the dark. The game had changed. They weren't just content with him being forgotten; they wanted him gone.
Chapter End
Next: Chapter 2 - Poison at Dinner