The grand hall of the Vancour estate was a symphony of polished marble and whispered ambition. Sunlight, filtered through stained-glass windows depicting generations of heroic mages, threw fractured colors onto the floor—a kaleidoscope of past glories. I, Elara Vancour, stood at the center of it all, a smile etched onto my face as perfectly as the family crest was etched into the lintel above.
Another day, another performance.
I accepted the praises of the visiting dignitaries with a graceful nod, my fire magic responding to my controlled pride with a pleasant warmth beneath my skin. It flickered in time with the conversation, a silent, powerful testament to the blood that ran in my veins. The blood that was everything.
"Lady Elara, your control is exquisite," Lord Hemsworth remarked, his eyes lingering on the faint, dancing embers that traced the rim of my wine glass without scorching it. "A true heir to the Vancour legacy."
"You are too kind, my Lord," I replied, my voice a melody of practiced humility. "I am but a vessel for the gifts my lineage has bestowed."
It was the right thing to say. Father, standing a few feet away, caught my eye and gave a minute, approving nod. Mother's smile tightened with pride. This was the dance we knew. This was what it meant to be a Vancour: power, perception, perfection.
And then, as if summoned by the very hypocrisy of my thoughts, a flicker of movement in the shadowed archway leading to the servants' quarters caught my eye.
Him.
Kaelen. My youngest brother. The one who bore the same name as us but none of the magic. The void in our family's brilliant constellation.
He was carrying a heavy tray of empty goblets, his slight frame straining under the weight. His eyes were fixed on the floor, a map of familiar shame. He moved like a ghost, hoping to drift through the walls unnoticed. He was good at that. He'd had a lifetime of practice.
A familiar, cold knot tightened in my stomach. It was a concoction of irritation, embarrassment, and something else I refused to name. Why did he always have to be here? Why did he have to exist, a living, breathing reminder that our perfect, powerful family had a flaw? His very presence was a whisper against the shouted narrative of our greatness.
As if sensing the weight of my gaze—or perhaps the sudden, subtle dip in temperature as my control momentarily slipped—Father followed my line of sight. His affable expression hardened into a mask of icy disdain. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. He simply made a small, sharp gesture with his hand, a flick of dismissal more cutting than any curse.
I saw Kaelen flinch as if struck. He ducked his head lower, his shoulders hunching, and hurried faster toward the doorway, disappearing into the darkness.
The conversation around me resumed, but the music of it was now flat. Lord Hemsworth had seen it too. He didn't mention it, of course. The rules of our game forbade it. But his smile was a little too knowing, his eyes a little too sharp. The perfect portrait had a crack in it, and everyone had seen.
The knot in my stomach twisted into a hot coal of anger. But was it anger at Father for his cruelty? At Kaelen for his weakness? Or at myself for my complicity?
The feast ended. I performed my duties flawlessly, my magic a brilliant, obedient dog at my heel. But my mind was elsewhere, trapped in the shadow of that archway.
Later, under the cloak of a moonless night, I found myself walking the silent halls. I told myself I was checking the perimeter wards, a duty of the heir. But my feet carried me past the grand suites, down a narrow, colder staircase to the wing of the house where the stone was bare and the torches smoked.
I stopped before a plain, unadorned door. It was unlocked. There were no wards here. What was the point? There was nothing inside to protect, nothing anyone would want to steal.
Pushing it open, the scent of soap and dust hit me. Kaelen's room. It wasn't a dungeon cell, as some romantic tales might paint it. It was just… empty. A bed, a desk, a single window. The walls were bare. There were no books on magic theory, no practice staves, no enchanted trinkets. It was the room of a stranger, a guest who had overstayed his welcome by seventeen years.
My eyes fell on the desk. There, beside a stub of a candle, was a single sheet of parchment. It was wrong to look. It was a violation. But I was a Vancour. I took what I wanted.
I picked it up. It wasn't a letter. It wasn't a diary entry filled with angsty lament. It was a list.
~~Mend the fence in the south pasture.~~
~~Clean the grimoires in the east library.~~
~~Deliver provisions to Old Man Hemlock.~~
Practice footwork for two hours.
My breath caught in my throat. The handwriting was neat, precise, and utterly determined. These were not the tasks Father assigned him as punishment. These were tasks he had set for himself. The grimoires… he couldn't read the magic within them. He could only dust their covers. Old Man Hemlock was a bitter, retired guardsman who lived on the edge of our lands, known for his harsh tongue. The footwork… it was the basic training of a city guardsman, all strength and no magic.
He wasn't just lying down. He wasn't wallowing. In this stark, silent room, with no audience and no praise, my magic-less brother was building himself. Brick by painful brick, he was constructing a foundation out of nothing but his own stubborn will.
The hot coal of anger in my gut extinguished, leaving only a cold, ashen shame.
I thought of my own magic, a roaring fire granted to me by an accident of birth. I wielded it like a birthright, but had I ever truly built anything with it? Had I ever forged a single skill through sheer, desperate effort? Or had I simply accepted the gift and the applause that came with it?
He was worth ten of me. Ten of any of us.
The realization was a physical pain. I quickly placed the parchment back exactly as I found it, as if its mere truth could burn my fingers.
I fled his room, closing the door softly on the silent evidence of his courage. Back in the opulent hallway, surrounded by the portraits of my mighty ancestors, their painted eyes seemed to accuse me.
I could never say it aloud. I could never defy Father, never comfort Mother, never show Kaelen a shred of the sisterly kindness he deserved. The weight of the Vancour name was too heavy, the chains of expectation too strong. To acknowledge him would be to shatter the perfect illusion we lived in.
But that night, I made a silent vow in the dark of my own chambers, far from any prying eyes or judgmental portraits.
I would never speak for him. I would never defend him. But I would watch. And I would ensure that the tasks assigned to him, the punishments disguised as chores, were never truly impossible. A word to the stable master to go easy, a suggestion to the cook that an extra portion of stew wouldn't be missed, a misplaced order for sturdier boots meant for a guardsman his size.
It was nothing. It was a coward's kindness, a salve for my own guilty conscience. He would never know. He would likely always see me as just another cold, proud Vancour who despised him.
And perhaps I was.
But as I lay in bed, staring at the canopy, I saw not the dancing embers of my magic, but the determined script on a piece of parchment in a barren room. He was building himself a life, stone by stone, while I merely lived in the castle built by our ancestors.
And for the first time, I wondered who was truly the worthless one.