The air in the solar was thick with the scent of ozone and old parchment. Floating orbs of soft, white light hovered near the vaulted ceiling, illuminating Corbin as he stood perfectly still atop a low dais. He was a statue of concentration, his long, jet-black hair a stark waterfall against the deep plum of his ceremonial under-robes.
"A little to the left," instructed Macy, her voice a lively contrast to the room's solemnity. She lounged in a high-backed chair, one leg draped over the arm, idly twisting a lock of her fiery red hair around her finger. "No, my left. Your other right. Stars, Corb, you'd think you were being fitted for a shroud, not a celebration."
Corbin's eyes, the color of a twilight sky, flickered towards her without moving his head. "This is the Mantle of the Bloodline, Macy. It hasn't been worn since my grandmother's time. The alignment of the silverthread sigils with the celestial phases is not a matter for 'a little to the left'."
A slow, mischievous grin spread across Macy's face. She was a splash of vibrant color in the monochrome room, her emerald-green tunic and confident posture marking her as a scion of the Jade Peak clan, a family as powerful as Corbin's own. "You sound exactly like your mother. It's terrifying. I'm having flashbacks to our academy days when you'd spend three hours polishing a single amulet."
"And you'd spend three hours charming the kitchen staff into giving you extra pudding," Corbin retorted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It was an old, comfortable argument. "Some of us take our responsibilities seriously."
"Some of us take them so seriously we forget to breathe," Macy countered, leaning forward. "It's a party, Corb. A deadly serious, politically fraught, magically binding party, but a party nonetheless. You're supposed to be the star, not the stagehand. You've checked the grimoire placement six times. The ancestral spirits aren't going to be offended if a dessert spoon is out of place."
Before Corbin could answer, the great oak doors of the solar swung open without a sound. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
Celeste , Corbin's mother, stood framed in the doorway. She was elegance personified, her own black hair coiled in an intricate crown of braids, her face a mask of impeccable, ageless beauty. Her gaze, cold and assessing, swept over the room, missing nothing.
"The preparations," she said, her voice as smooth and sharp as frozen silk. It wasn't a question; it was a demand for a status report.
Macy immediately straightened up in her chair, her playful demeanor replaced by a respectful neutrality. Corbin turned fully, his posture becoming, if possible, even more rigid.
"They are proceeding, Mother," he said, his voice even. "The sigils are aligned. The grimoire is prepared. The guest list has been confirmed."
Celeste 's eyes narrowed slightly as she glided into the room, her dark robes whispering against the stone floor. She stopped a few feet from the dais, her eyes scanning Corbin from head to toe, dissecting him.
"Proceeding is not complete," she stated. Her eyes flicked to the mantle. "The Weaver Witch informed me there was a hesitation during the final enchantment. Explain."
Corbin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "A minor fluctuation. My energy was particularly strong this morning. It was stabilized."
"There is no room for 'minor fluctuations,' Corbin," Celeste said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "When you accept the Bloodright, you are not just accepting power. You are accepting a legacy. You are becoming the heir to a name that commands fear and respect. Any weakness, any hesitation, will be seen as a crack in our foundation. Our enemies will exploit it."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Macy watched the exchange, her expression carefully blank, but a flicker of concern in her eyes for her friend.
"There will be no cracks, Mother," Corbin replied, his voice low but firm. The cosmic magic within him hummed, a vast and orderly power that suddenly felt like a cage. "I understand what is required."
Celeste held his gaze for a long, silent moment, and for a split second, Corbin felt like a boy of ten again, desperately trying to meet an impossible standard. Then, she gave a single, curt nod.
"See that you do." She turned to leave, pausing only to add, "And do try to look less like you're marching to your execution. You are claiming your birthright. It is a victory."
As the door closed behind her, the silence she left was louder than her words. The playful energy had been completely sucked from the room. Corbin let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping a fraction.
Macy stood up and walked over to him, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "Well," she said, her voice soft now. "On the bright side, if you ever need a lesson in how to suck the joy out of a room, you know who to ask."
Corbin didn't answer. He just stared at the Mantle of the Bloodline shone brightly with the sunset rays from the window across it,and he was feeling its weight even before he put it on .
Power, if only someone else could take it off his shoulder but that dream was dead time was ticking and he was to accept this honor to Honor his Family.
—----
The sky above the orphanage was a bleeding tapestry of orange and violet, and Ash watched it as he always did, a quiet ritual that soothed the unnamed ache in his chest. He sat on the low garden wall, the warmth of the stone seeping through his trousers. In these moments, the emptiness inside him felt less like a void and more like a vast, peaceful space waiting to be filled with something as beautiful as the sunset.
The gentle rustle of Sister Maeve's robes announced her presence before she spoke. She settled beside him, her own eyes on the horizon, and for a long while, they shared the silence.
"The colors are especially deep tonight," she said softly. "The world is putting on a show."
Ash nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "It's like a goodbye," he murmured. "A beautiful one."
Sister Maeve took a deep breath, the prelude to a shift in tone. "Ash… news has come. In three days' time, the… the great family… is holding a ball. The Bloodright Ball. It is where their son, Corbin, will be officially named heir."
Ash turned to look at her, his calm expression faltering into confusion. "Why are you telling me this, Sister?"
Her gaze was steady, filled with a resolve that made his heart beat faster. "Because you deserve to be there. That family… is your family. Corbin is your brother."
The words should have been a thunderclap, but they landed with a strange, dull weight. Brother. The boy from the pamphlets, the one with his face. The concept was too vast to grasp.
"My plan," Maeve continued, her voice dropping, "is to take you. To present you to them. To claim your birthright."
Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced Ash's calm. "But… we can't. They'll think we're lying. They'll have us arrested for treason, for impersonation!" The words 'dungeon' and 'execution' flashed, terrifyingly vivid, in his mind. The safe, sun-warmed walls of the orphanage suddenly felt like the only real thing in the world. "It's too risky. For you, for all of us."
"It is a risk born of justice," Maeve insisted, placing a weathered hand over his. "You have a right to know who you are. To be more than a shadow."
But Ash shook his head, the gentle boy recoiling from the precipice. "I can't. I'm… I'm not a prince, Sister. I'm just Ash."
Seeing the terror in his eyes, Sister Maeve did not push further. She squeezed his hand, sighed, and rose. "Think on it, my boy. The choice must be yours. But know that you are more than 'just' anything." She left him there as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in a deep, uncertain blue.
Ash put his head in his hands, the weight of the decision feeling heavier than any stone. A prince. A brother. A crime. It was a story, and he was afraid to turn the page.
A small sound made him look up. From behind the large water barrel, Davina emerged, her face pale and serious. She had been eavesdropping.
"Davina, you shouldn't—" he began, but she marched right up to him, her small fists clenched at her sides.
"You have to go," she whispered, her voice fierce.
Ash looked at her, stunned. "Did you not hear? They could throw us in a dungeon."
"So what?" she shot back, her eyes glistening in the twilight. "At least they'd want to put you somewhere."
The words hung in the air, simple and devastating.
Davina's fierce expression crumbled, revealing the raw hurt beneath. "Nobody is ever coming for me, Ash. Nobody ever looks at me and thinks I'm a lost princess. They just see another orphan. But you… you have a family. They might be angry and scary, but they're real. They're looking for you, even if they don't know it."
A tear traced a path through the dust on her cheek. "You have a chance to be wanted. To have a name. Why would you ever say no to that?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and ran back towards the orphanage, leaving Ash alone in the deepening dark. He stared after her, Sister Maeve's arguments about justice and birthright fading away, replaced by the profound, heartbreaking truth in a thirteen-year-old girl's voice.
At least you could be wanted.
The words settled in the vast, empty space inside him, and for the first time, they didn't echo with fear, but with a terrible, compelling longing.
The first light of dawn was just a pale grey promise behind the hills when Sister Maeve opened her door to find Ash standing there. He looked as if he hadn't slept, shadows like bruises under his eyes, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. He'd been standing there for what felt like hours, the worn wooden floorboards of the hallway cool beneath his bare feet.
"Ash?" Maeve's voice was soft with concern, her own sleep fading quickly at the sight of him. "What is it, child?"
He didn't meet her eyes at first, his gaze fixed on a crack in the floor. He looked like the lost boy she'd found in the Tangle all over again, terrified of the world. But when he finally spoke, his voice, though quiet, didn't tremble.
"I can't stop thinking about what Davina said," he began, the words coming out in a rush. "About being wanted." He finally looked up, and the conflict in his eyes was a raw, open wound. "I'm so scared, Sister. I'm scared of them, of their anger. I'm scared of… of not being who you think I am. What if I'm just Ash? What if I go there and I'm nothing?"
Maeve's heart ached for him. She reached out, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. "The only thing you need to be is yourself. The truth will speak for itself."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if gathering all his courage. "But that's the problem. I don't know what that truth is. And I can't let you or Elara or any of the children be hurt because of my… my emptiness." He swallowed hard. "But Davina's right. This emptiness… it has a shape. And it has a name. To have a name…." He trailed off, the longing finally overpowering the fear in his expression. He straightened his shoulders, a new, fragile resolve settling on his features.
"I'll go."
Later that morning, after the breakfast porridge had been served and the younger children were playing in the common room, Ash stood before Sister Maeve, Sister Elara, and a few of the other senior witches. The children sensed the gravity in the air and had fallen into a curious silence.
Sister Elara looked at him, her usual playfulness replaced by deep worry. "Ash? What's going on?"
Ash looked at their faces, these women who were his world. He saw the love there, and the fear for him. He thought of Davina, who saw a hope in him that she didn't have for herself.
"Sister Maeve told me about the plan," he said, his voice clearer now, carrying through the quiet room. "About the ball. About… who I might be."
A nervous ripple went through the witches.
"I know the risks," he continued, his gaze including all of them. "I know it's dangerous. And the thought of bringing any trouble to this place… to all of you…" His voice wavered, but he pressed on. "It makes me want to stay hidden forever."
He paused, looking down at his hands, then back up, his eyes finding a determined light. "But I can't. Not knowing that I have a chance to find out where I come from. Not when staying here, safe and unknown, means I'm accepting that I am no one. And I can't be no one anymore. Not for myself, and…" his eyes drifted to where Davina was peeking from behind a doorway, "…not for those who see a hope in me that I need to learn to see in myself."
He took a final, steadying breath. "So, I've decided. I'm going to go to the Bloodright Ball."
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by a small, sharp gasp from Davina. Sister Elara's hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. Sister Maeve, however, simply looked at him, her expression a mixture of profound sorrow and immense pride. She saw the gentle boy she had nursed to health, but she also saw, for the first time, the flicker of the prince he was born to be.
The gentle boy was choosing to walk into the dragon's den, not for a throne, but for the simple, terrifying chance to finally have a name.
And thus At the orphanage, Ash's preparation was a chaotic, loving ritual. Sister Elara fussed with a borrowed silk tunic, a deep emerald that made his skin glow, while a gaggle of children 'helped' by polishing his boots to a comical shine. Laughter echoed as they tried to tame his wild blonde hair, Davina solemnly presenting him with a freshly picked moonflower for his lapel. It was less a dressing and more a celebration, a sending-off filled with pats on the back and whispered encouragement.
While In Corbin's chambers, the air was still and sacred. Attendants moved with hushed precision, draping him in the heavy, silver-threaded Mantle of the Bloodline. Macy stood by, her usual teasing absent, as a master weaver checked the alignment of each sigil. Corbin stood like a marble statue, his jaw tight, enduring the transformation into an icon. The only sound was the whisper of fabric and his mother's voice from the doorway, listing the names of the politically powerful he must impress.
Within the flick of a finger,The Night of the Ball was finally here.
Ash stood before a small, cracked mirror in the hallway, Davina by his side. He barely recognized the elegant young man staring back. The clothes felt foreign, but Davina's small hand slipping into his grounded him. "You look like a prince," she whispered. In his reflection, he saw not a hero, but a scared boy, hoping the world would see what these children saw.
Corbin stood before a floor-length mirror of polished obsidian, Macy a steady presence behind him. The mantle was a crushing weight of expectation, the magic within him humming a solemn tune. He looked every inch the legendary heir. "Well," Macy said, her voice soft, "you look terrifyingly perfect." In his reflection, he saw not a young witch , but a monument, hoping he could bear the weight of the legacy he was about to cement.
Outside, a simple carriage, pulled by a single old horse, rolled to a stop for Ash.
Below, in the grand foyer, a thousand candles flickered, and the orchestra began to play for Corbin.
Both boys took a deep breath, and turned toward their destinies.