Solarys blazed with color.
Banners of scarlet and gold streamed from the masts of ships in the harbor, snapping in the wind. Bells rang from the high towers, echoing across the lagoon. Musicians filled the plazas, their drums beating like waves against the hull of a ship, their pipes carrying songs of the sea into every street.
It was the Festival of the Corsair King, the day Osvarra remembered the man who had dragged their people from chaos into an empire.
Every child of Solarys knew the story, told and retold until it gleamed brighter than the truth. How Arenas Veyros, once a pirate among pirates, had drawn the card Crown. How the word burned in his palm, binding oath and loyalty into his voice. How he gathered the warring captains, bent them to his will, and built the fleets that became an empire.
On festival day, the tale was performed in every square. Actors strode in black sails and painted crowns, clashing with wooden blades, shouting verses that every citizen could recite by heart. Children threw coins into the actors' chests, shouting, "Crown! Crown! Crown!" as though the word itself could echo into eternity.
But Seren Veyros did not shout with them.
He stood at the balcony of his family's house, high in the merchant quarter, gazing down at the festival with quiet unease. The boy was slender, dark-haired, his eyes a deep bronze like the color of sunlit sea. He wore the fine tunic his mother had pressed upon him — silk dyed crimson, embroidered with the sigil of their line: a single black sail.
"Smile, Seren," his mother urged, adjusting his collar. "It is a day of joy. Do not look so sour."
"It's noisy," Seren muttered.
His mother laughed, though her eyes were sharp. "Noisy, yes, but glorious. Remember, child these are your people. They will look up to you one day."
Seren turned from the plaza, where fire-breathers spat plumes into the air and jugglers tossed rings of polished brass. "Why me? There are others. Cousins, uncles, half the bloodline stronger than ours."
"That is true," said a deeper voice.
His father, Alaric Veyros, entered the balcony, heavy with his sea-cloak, the salt-stink of the harbor still clinging to him. He was a tall man, stern, his beard flecked with grey though he was not yet old. His branded signet bore the mark of their house the proof that they were scions, however distant, of one of the Corsair King himself.
"Our branch of the line may be far-flung," Alaric admitted, "but our name is still Veyros. That alone makes us watch. And today, Seren…"
He laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "Today the world will watch more closely than ever before."
Seren said nothing. His stomach tightened. He knew what his father meant.
The Drawing.
Down in the plazas, the story of Arenas Veyros reached its climax. The actor playing the Corsair King held aloft a painted crown, shouting the word Crown! as the crowd roared back, wave upon wave of voices rising like surf.
In truth, no crown had ever been worn. Arenas had been a pirate still, even at the end, but Osvarra preferred the myth to the man. Better a king in story than a thief in memory.
And so each year, the festival gilded the tale brighter, polishing away the salt and blood, leaving only the shining legacy.
Seren leaned against the balcony rail, staring at the stage below. He thought of the whispers in his household, the way his mother spoke of "expectation" and his father of "duty." He thought of the servants who paused to stare at him, as though already measuring the word that would appear in his hand.
He clenched his fist.
He did not want to be Arenas Veyros reborn. He did not want to carry the sails of his ancestors or the schemes of his parents. He only wanted to be Seren.
But when the hour came, the card would not ask what he wanted.
It would only show the word.
The house of Veyros was not the grandest in Solarys, but its shadow stretched long.
Its walls, of pale stone veined with seashell, bore banners older than memory: a black sail on crimson field, the sigil of Arenas himself. They said the cloth was dyed with the same pigments used when the Corsair King sailed beneath it, and though it had been remade a dozen times over the centuries, no one dared question the claim.
Inside, the air was thick with arguments.
At the long table of the hall sat men and women of the Veyros line, some dressed in sea-cloaks, others in merchant silks, all watching Seren as though he were a prize displayed for auction.
"He is too soft," muttered one uncle, his beard oiled and ringed with gold. "Look at him, he broods like a poet, not a captain."
"He is six," snapped his mother, Elira. Her hands were clenched on the table, knuckles white. "Do you expect him to roar orders already?"
"Others did," the uncle said. "When Arenas drew Crown, he was barely grown himself."
"That is a myth," Elira hissed. "Not truth. And Seren is not Arenas."
Alaric, Seren's father, raised a hand. "Enough. The boy will draw when the hour comes, as all do. Until then, your bickering is air in the sails of nothing."
The hall quieted, but not in peace. Eyes still lingered on Seren, weighing him, measuring him. He sat in silence, wishing he could vanish into the stone.
It had been like this for months, whispers, glances, wagers. Some prayed he would draw a card of power: Captain, Fleet, Commander. Others secretly prayed he would fail, so that their branch of the family might rise higher in the council.
The Veyros bloodline was both a blessing and a curse. Descended from Arenas, yes, but fractured into too many branches, too many rivalries. Each cousin saw in Seren's Drawing either opportunity or threat.
Seren felt it pressing on him like a storm.
That night, after the hall emptied, his father found him in the balcony chamber again, staring at the harbor where torchlight glimmered on the water.
"You fear tomorrow," Alaric said quietly.
Seren nodded.
His father came to stand beside him. "Good. You should. Fear keeps the hand steady. It keeps a man from arrogance. But do not let it chain you."
"What if I draw nothing?" Seren whispered.
Alaric's jaw tightened. For a moment, the man who had braved typhoons and corsairs looked almost frail.
"Then we endure," he said at last. "We will be cast lower than outcasts. The council will laugh. The empire will scorn us. But you will still be my son, and I will not let them break you."
Seren swallowed hard. "And if I draw something… strange?"
His father's eyes darkened. "Then you must be ready. Strange words have power greater than any blade. They will call it omen, curse, or prophecy. And once it is seen, Seren, it can never be hidden again."
He rested a hand on his son's shoulder, firm as stone. "You are Veyros. Blood of Arenas. Whatever the card gives you, you must hold it, not let it hold you."
Seren nodded, though his heart thudded with doubt.
Below, the festival roared on. Fireworks burst above the harbor, golden sparks falling like embers of a dying sun. The people of Osvarra shouted "Crown! Crown! Crown!" until the city itself seemed to echo with the Corsair King's ghost.
Seren stood in the balcony, a boy of six, the weight of four centuries on his shoulders.
And somewhere in the deep silence of the world, the card that would shape him was already waiting, its word unwritten but inevitable.
The next morning, the city still smelled of fireworks and roasted meats. Ash from the festival fires drifted across the harbor like black petals, clinging to sails and rooftops.
But in the great plaza of Solarys, all laughter was gone.
The people had gathered in solemnity, crowding the steps of the Hall of Oaths, a fortress of marble and black iron that rose above the capital like a prow breaking the sea. Its doors, carved with scenes of Arenas Veyros binding the first captains, stood open.
Inside, banners of crimson and gold draped the pillars. Torches hissed with scented oils. And at the far end of the hall, upon a dais of pearl and obsidian, sat the Judge of Cards.
Seren had seen the Judge only once before, from a distance, a shadow at the Emperor's side. Now, up close, the figure seemed inhuman: robed in black and silver, their face hidden behind a mask of polished steel. No one knew if the Judge was a man or a woman, young or ancient. They had served for decades, longer than a mortal should. Some whispered the Judge had drawn a card that bound them to the task forever.
Their voice, when it came, was cold and ringing:
"Bring forth the child."
Seren's mother gripped his hand, her nails biting his skin. His father stood tall beside him, wearing the expression of a mask of stone. Together they walked the long aisle, past rows of nobles, merchants, and captains of the council. Every eye burned into Seren, weighing, judging, hungering.
He wanted to hide. He wanted to flee. But the doors had closed behind him.
At the foot of the dais, Alaric bent knee. Elira followed. After a heartbeat's hesitation, Seren copied them, kneeling until the cold stone pressed against his skin.
The Judge raised a hand.
"Seren Veyros," the voice intoned. "Descendant of Arenas Veyros, blood of the Corsair King. Today, at the hour of your first breath, you will draw. Rise."
Seren stood, trembling. His palms itched, though they were empty.
The Judge gestured. "Breathe."
He did.
And then it happened.
From nothing, the warmth flared in his hand. A glow, faint at first, then burning brighter. His skin tingled as the light coalesced, shaping itself into form. The hall went utterly silent as the card manifested in his palm, edges shimmering like sunlight on waves.
Seren gasped. The card was weightless, yet heavy with meaning. Its surface gleamed white, words beginning to etch themselves in strokes of fire.
The Judge leaned forward, mask glinting. "Read."
Seren's lips moved before he could think, speaking the word aloud as it burned into existence:
"Hero."
The hall erupted.
Nobles surged to their feet. Captains shouted over one another, their voices a storm. "What does it mean?""Prophecy!""Danger!""A symbol, a sign!"
Seren stared at the word, trembling. His parents pulled him close, shielding him from the hungry eyes that sought to devour him whole.
Above the chaos, the Judge's voice cut like steel:
"Behold the card. Hero. The world bears witness."
And in that instant, Seren knew: his life was no longer his own.
The doors of the Hall of Oaths shut behind them, but the roar of voices followed like a storm tide.
Seren's hand still burned faintly, the letters seared into his palm. Hero. He had tried to close his fist, to hide it, but the word glowed faintly even through his skin, refusing to be concealed.
In the carriage, silence reigned. His mother's hands trembled as she adjusted his cloak. His father's jaw was clenched so tight it seemed carved from granite.
Finally, Elira whispered, "Why that word? Why not Captain? Or Fleet? Anything but… this."
Seren shrank back, guilt twisting in his chest. "I didn't choose it."
"No," she said quickly, pulling him into her arms. "No, of course you didn't." Her voice cracked. "Forgive me. It is not you I fear. It is them."
Alaric's eyes stayed fixed on the shuttered window. "The Council will already be meeting. Half will call it omen. Half will call it a threat. All will want to use it." He turned at last, his gaze heavy on his son. "You must be ready, Seren. From this day forward, you are no longer only my child. You are… a symbol."
"I don't want to be," Seren whispered.
His father's hand closed around his shoulder. "Neither did Arenas."
That night, while Solarys still boiled with rumor, the Council of Captains convened in the Iron Chamber.
There were twenty seats, each carved from the timbers of ships that had once belonged to the first pirate lords. At the head sat the Emperor of Osvarra, Aric Veyros III — a man of middle years, sharp-eyed and deliberate, who claimed unbroken descent from the Corsair King himself. His crown was no crown at all, but a simple band of black iron, heavy as duty.
"The word is spoken," the Emperor said. His voice was calm, but the chamber hissed with tension. "Hero."
At once, the captains erupted.
"A blessing from the tides!" cried Lady Rena of the Pearl Fleet. "The Corsair King smiles upon us again!"
"A curse," snarled Captain Jorven of the Black Knives. "Heroes bring war. Heroes bring ruin. Better he had drawn Nothing than this."
"Ruin?" scoffed another. "Or opportunity? Think of it! A boy marked as Hero, and of Arenas's line. With him at our prow, no empire could stand against us."
Murmurs swelled, arguments clashed. Some lords pressed for the boy to be fostered in their houses, "for his safety." Others demanded he be kept close to the Emperor. A few, darker voices whispered of danger, of quietly ending the matter before it grew.
The Emperor raised a hand. Silence fell.
"We do not yet know what this 'Hero' means," he said. "But we will know this: he is mine. Blood of Arenas flows in his veins, and blood calls to blood. Until I decree otherwise, Seren Veyros will remain under the protection of the crown."
He leaned forward, eyes hard as steel. "Let any who think to snatch at him remember, Osvarra is one empire, one fleet, one banner. And I will see it remain so."
The captains bowed their heads, some in loyalty, others in calculation.
The game had begun.
The day after his Drawing, Seren awoke to silence.
Not the silence of peace, but of absence.
His chambers, once tended by half a dozen bustling servants, were eerily still. When at last a maid entered, she bowed too deeply, eyes flicking to the faint glow still etched on his palm. She did not meet his gaze, only whispered, "My lord Hero," before hurrying away.
Seren stared at the door long after it shut. My lord Hero. He hated the sound of it.
By afternoon, the changes deepened. Cousins who had once teased him now stood stiff and polite, their laughter swallowed by calculation. Tutors arrived unbidden, laden with scrolls of history, strategy, rhetoric, as if the word itself had rewritten his life overnight.
At dinner, the great hall buzzed with nervous formality. Relatives congratulated his parents with brittle smiles, offering to foster Seren "for his safety" or "to broaden his education." Every offer was a leash hidden in velvet.
Seren ate in silence, every bite tasteless. He had never felt so watched, so caged.
Beyond the walls of the house, in the Iron Chamber, the Council of Captains sharpened their knives.
Lady Rena of the Pearl Fleet dispatched emissaries to Seren's tutors, slipping them heavy purses. "Guide him well," she purred. "Guide him toward the sea."
Captain Jorven of the Black Knives sent whispers to darker corners, where knives could be bought and accidents arranged. "Heroes die young," he sneered. "Better to end a storm before it swells."
The Merchant Guild plotted too, seeing Seren not as boy or hero, but symbol. "Imagine," one elder murmured, "the coin that flows when Osvarra sails beneath a Hero's banner. Markets will bow to us as much as fleets."
And in the palace, Emperor Aric Veyros III sat alone in his chamber, staring at the black-iron band upon his brow. His thoughts were his own, but his orders were clear:
"Guard the boy. Guard him well. For one day he will serve me, or he will break me."
Back in the Veyros household, Seren pressed his burning palm against the cool glass of his window.
He could still hear the shouts from the festival echoing in his memory. Crown! Crown! Crown! Always Arenas, always the legend. And now him.
He whispered the word again, quietly, as if hoping it would change if he spoke it differently.
"Hero."
It sounded heavy. It sounded lonely.
He turned, and found his father watching from the doorway. Alaric stepped into the room, carrying two wooden practice blades.
"Come," he said simply.
Seren frowned. "Now?"
"Especially now," Alaric replied. "If you are to bear the weight of that word, your hands must be steady. And your heart stronger than theirs."
For a moment, the boy hesitated. Then he took one of the wooden blades. It felt clumsy in his grip, far too large.
But as his father guided him through the first clumsy steps, Seren felt something shift, not the burden lifting, but the faintest sense that perhaps he could carry it.
Outside, the city of Solarys schemed, plotted, and whispered his name. Inside, in the quiet clash of wood against wood, a boy began to learn what it meant to fight.
Weeks passed, and still the word did not fade.
Hero glowed faintly in Seren's palm, as though etched by a fire that would never cool. Everywhere he went, eyes fell upon it. Some with awe, some with fear, most with calculation.
He began to notice the small things.
The way servants who once scolded him for muddy boots now bowed and called him lord. The way cousins who had shoved him aside at games now pressed him to lead, only to whisper behind his back when he faltered. The way tutors praised him too quickly, as though every answer he gave was prophecy.
It felt false. All of it.
One night, unable to sleep, Seren crept onto the balcony. The harbor glittered with lanterns from the ships at anchor, their reflections trembling on the waves. He could hear the sea even here, whispering against the stone.
"Do you hear it too?"
Seren turned. His father stood in the doorway, arms folded.
"The sea?" Seren asked.
Alaric shook his head. "The names. The weight of them."
Seren lowered his gaze. "I never asked for it."
"No one ever does." Alaric's voice was steady, but his eyes seemed distant, as though seeing more than just the harbor lights. "Arenas never asked for Crown. I never asked to bear his shadow. And now you… you will carry Hero. A name heavier than steel."
Seren hesitated. Then, quietly: "What if I fail it?"
His father stepped closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Then you will learn. Heroes are not born whole, Seren. They are forged, sometimes by choice, sometimes by fire. What matters is not the word you bear… but the man you become beneath it."
They stood together in silence, the boy and his father, the sea whispering below.
But elsewhere, in the heart of the Iron Chamber, darker whispers stirred.
Captain Jorven's dagger traced lazy patterns across the map of Osvarra, its tip circling the Veyros estate.
"Heroes," he murmured, lips curling. "They burn brightest before they fall."
His lieutenant leaned close. "Shall I make arrangements?"
Jorven smiled thinly. "Not yet. Let the boy grow. Let him taste the leash they slip around his neck. One day, he will fight it… and when he does, blood will spill. Heroes always bring blood."