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Chapter 1 - The Weight of Names

The chronicles always began the same way: Ten divine families, each blessed by a holy being, each marked by power that shaped the world. Flames, steel, shadows, storms—gifts etched into bloodlines. And then there was the Ashthorn family.

The Ashthorn manor stood like a blade against the horizon, tall and cold. Its head, Lord Kaelen Ashthorn, was as unyielding as the aura that clung to his name. His wife, Lady Elira, mirrored him—an untouchable figure, elegance wrapped in steel. Their children were whispered of as prodigies, the kind destined to uphold the Ashthorn legend.

Or so the world thought.

From the twin balconies overlooking the training fields, two young figures leaned forward, their gazes locked on the sparring grounds below. A boy and girl, no older than twelve, but already wrapped in the sharp composure of their lineage.

The girl's silver eyes narrowed, scanning her elder brother's movements. She murmured under her breath, "His footing's off again. He'll trip if he leans too far right."

Her twin brother frowned, voice sharper, harsher. "He's embarrassing us." His hands tightened into fists at his sides, knuckles paling, though his expression never softened.

Down below, their elder brother—a young man caught between boyhood and adulthood—stood stiffly, shoulders tense. Raven hair brushed against his pale face as he struggled to block a strike from a training partner. The clash ended poorly. He stumbled, fell hard, and the onlookers laughed.

The boy twin scoffed, though his clenched fists betrayed him. "Pathetic."

"...He's trying," his sister replied after a pause, her voice quieter now, though calculated.

Their little sister, a small child no older than five, sat cross-legged on the ground behind them, clutching a stuffed fox. Her eyes, wide with innocence, followed the scene below. "Big brother looks tired."

The twins didn't answer. To the world, their elder brother was the Ashthorn heir in name only. Nearly twenty, yet without the manifestation of an aura heart. The whispers followed him everywhere—cursed, useless, a shame to the family.

When he fell again, groaning, the crowd chuckled. Nobles from other families whispered cruel things: that he would be disowned, that his engagement was nothing but pity. The twins' faces hardened, their cold masks locking in place. Better to appear indifferent than to reveal weakness. No one would ever know they wanted to leap down and shield him.

On the field, their brother rose slowly, brushing off dust. His lips curved into a faint, self-deprecating smile. He tilted his head toward the balcony where his siblings stood and gave a half-wave, as though mocking his own failure.

The twins didn't wave back. Neither did the child. But in their silence, a truth lingered: they loved him far more than they would admit.

A bell rang. Training ended. The crowd dispersed. Their brother walked away alone, a satchel slung over his shoulder—emblazoned not with Ashthorn's crest, but with the sigil of a merchant guild.

The boy twin's jaw tightened. "Why does he cling to that guild instead of his birthright?"

His sister answered softly, eyes never leaving the figure below. "Because it's all he has left."

The child hugged her fox tighter, whispering only to herself. "Big brother is strong. He just doesn't want us to know."

The others didn't hear her. Or perhaps they didn't believe.

The world had written his story already. He hadn't even begun to write back.

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