The orphanage children and staff clustered in the courtyard, a silent, anxious crowd. The carriage stood waiting.
Ash knelt before Davina, her small face trying to be brave. "I'll come back," he whispered, his voice thick. She pressed the simple string bracelet with the blue star bead into his hand. "So you don't forget us."
He tied it firmly around his wrist, a stark contrast to his fine clothes. Rising, he was swarmed by the other children, their whispered "good lucks" and tight hugs a painful reminder of everything he was leaving.
Sister Elara pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. Sister Maeve simply placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of a painful pride. "You carry the truth. Now go."
With a final look at the only home he remembered, Ash climbed into the carriage. As it rolled away, he watched from the window until the crowd, and Davina's tiny waving figure, vanished from sight. Alone, he looked down at the bracelet on his wrist. The gentle boy was gone; the prince was on his way.
---
The Livian ballroom was a masterpiece of opulent control. Light from a thousand floating crystals gleamed off polished marble and the heavy silks of the magical elite. At its center, a study in grace under pressure, was Corbin Livian. He moved through the throng, a perfect, polite smile etched onto his face, his every gesture a lesson in aristocratic poise. It was a performance, and he was its lead actor.
He was drawn into the gravitas of the Council of Witches, a circle where power hummed louder than the orchestra. The hierarchy was as clear as the jewels they wore.
Edward Sayar,the leader of the Dark Witches, stood with his chest puffed out, his voice a booming pronouncement. "This talk of 'rights' for vampires and werewolves is a sickness," he declared, swirling his dark wine. "You cannot reason with a predator. You can only dominate it."
Esther Kane, an Ancestral Witch whose spine seemed forged from iron rules, gave a sharp nod. "The ancestral accords have maintained order for five centuries. To grant personhood to creatures of base instinct is to spit on the graves of our forebears."
Alistor Raid, a Hearth Witch whose family's influence was newly acquired, was quick to agree, his eyes fixed on Edward. "Exactly, Lord Sayar! My people on the borderlands suffer their savagery daily. They understand only the language of the torch and the stake." His eagerness to please was palpable.
It was Seline Dubois, a Weaver Witch with eyes like sharpened sapphires, who added a layer of cold strategy. "Alistor, force is so… blunt." She smiled, a thin, calculated gesture. "Let them fight for their 'rights.' It keeps them occupied and divided. A unified enemy is dangerous. A fractured one is manageable."
The final comment came from Solomon Johnson, a Siphon Witch who wore his self-righteousness like a mantle. "It is a matter of magical purity. Their very existence is a drain on the natural order. We, the true conduits of power, have a sacred duty to regulate such… aberrations."
Corbin listened, the vast, orderly power within him feeling stifled by their narrow-minded rhetoric. He offered a diplomat's safe reply: "The stability of the realm is paramount. All actions must be considered with that in mind." The council members nodded, mistaking his caution for endorsement.
A familiar, irreverent voice sliced through the pomp. "Cousin! You're doing the thing where you look profoundly bored but too polite to show it. It's your 'I'd rather be cataloging star charts' face."
Dove, a lanky teenage boy with a mischievous grin and hair that defied taming, slung an arm around Corbin's stiff shoulders. He was the only one who dared.
"I am engaged in important discourse, Dove," Corbin replied, though a genuine flicker of relief lightened his eyes.
"It looks painful. I've just secured us a strategic position by the chocolate fountain. The real power play of the evening."
Across the room, Corbin's mother, Celeste Livian, was the true maestro of the event. She glided between guests, her warmth a brilliant, calculated performance. Her laughter was perfectly timed, her touches on arms intimate and commanding. She was weaving a web of allegiance, and every guest was a fly she carefully placed.
Finally escaping the council circle, Corbin found Macy leaning against a gilded pillar, observing the scene with an arched eyebrow.
"Enjoying the symphony of solidarity?" she murmured as he approached.
"Immensely," Corbin sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction. "Solomon Johnson just implied that granting werewolves rights would unravel the fabric of reality."
"A bold theory. Personally, I think the fabric of reality is threatened more by that truly hideous floral arrangement," Macy quipped, nodding toward an explosion of overly fragrant blooms. "And your mother has just complimented Lady Kane's gown. She's been trying to have that woman's trade licenses revoked for a year. It's her 'I haven't forgotten, I'm just biding my time' smile. A classic."
A real, weary smile touched Corbin's lips. "Why are we here again?"
"For the canapés, obviously," Macy said, stealing a delicate pastry from a passing tray. "And because this den of vipers is, unfortunately, the only game in town. You play their game tonight, you get your throne tomorrow. Then, maybe, you can start changing the rules."
Their shared moment of sarcasm was a brief respite. But as the orchestra's tuning crescendoed into the opening notes of the processional hymn, the mask of the heir returned to Corbin's face. The prelude was over. The Bloodright Ceremony was about to begin.
Of course. The tension has been building perfectly. Here is the scene of the ceremony's interruption.
---
The air in the Livian ballroom grew thick and heavy, the chatter dying away as all attention turned to the raised dais at the head of the hall. Celeste Livian stood there, resplendent in robes of midnight blue embroidered with constellations of silver thread. Her voice, amplified by a whisper of magic, cut through the silence, clear and resonant.
"Honored guests, keepers of the old blood, we gather under the watchful eyes of our ancestors to witness a sacred passing of the mantle."
A low, rhythmic drumming began, a primal heartbeat that vibrated through the floor. The assembled witches, a sea of eager faces, stilled. This was the moment. Corbin stepped onto the dais to stand beside his mother, his face a mask of solemn duty. Behind him, Macy and Dove exchanged a look of shared anxiety, the former giving a barely perceptible nod of encouragement.
Celeste raised her hands, and ethereal, wordless chanting swelled from a hidden choir. The very light in the room seemed to bend toward her, glinting off the ancient Livian grimoire she held. She began the incantation, her voice weaving a spell of legacy and power. The words were old, twisting through the air like smoke, binding the past to the present.
"By blood of my blood, and bone of my bone, I call upon the legacy of the Livian line…" she intoned, her eyes fixed on Corbin's. The cosmic magic within him responded, a faint, starlight glow beginning to emanate from his hands. The crowd watched, mesmerized. This was more than a party; it was magic history in the making.
Just as Celeste reached for a ceremonial dagger to complete the blood oath, a deafening CRASH shattered the ritual's spell.
Every head whipped around. A servant, pale and trembling, stood frozen by the dessert table, a silver tray clattering to a final rest at his feet. He wasn't looking at the mess. His eyes, wide with sheer terror, were locked on the grand entrance of the ballroom.
The music died. The chanting choked off. Celeste's hand halted mid-air, her perfect composure cracking for a single, furious second.
Following the servant's horrified gaze, the entire assembly saw what had caused the disruption.
There, standing framed in the immense doorway, was a figure both familiar and impossible.
He was dressed in simple but clean travel clothes, hopelessly out of place amidst the glittering finery. His long, sun-bleached blonde hair was a shocking contrast to the sea of dark styles. But it was his face that caused the gasps to ripple through the crowd. It was Corbin's face. The same elegant bone structure, the same arch of the brows, the same shape of the eyes.
But where Corbin's expression was one of controlled gravity, this boy's was one of raw, undisguised fear and determination. He looked like a ghost, a whisper from a past everyone had forgotten.
At Corbin's side, Macy's breath hitched. "By the gods…" she whispered.
On the dais, Corbin felt the world tilt. The power within him didn't just hum; it screamed, a dissonant chord of recognition and denial. He stared at the boy in the doorway, and the meticulously constructed reality of his life began to fracture.
The Bloodright Ceremony was forgotten. In the dead silence, the only sound was the ragged breath of the blonde boy at the door, and the collective, stunned silence of a world about to be turned upside down.
---
The world narrowed to a single, impossible axis. The sea of witches parted as if by an unseen force as Corbin descended from the dais. His steps were slow, measured, each one echoing in the profound silence. He moved as if in a dream, his magic roiling inside him, screaming a truth his mind refused to accept.
He stopped a few feet from the boy in the doorway. They stood facing each other, a living mirror.
Corbin was the image of polished night. His long, jet-black hair was sleek and perfect, framing a face of elegant, almost delicate symmetry. His eyes, the color of a twilight sky, were wide with shock, but his posture remained rigid, a prince confronting a specter. He was beauty forged in ice and starlight, every inch the heir.
Ash was his opposite, a portrait of sun-bleached day. His long, unruly blonde hair seemed to catch what little light remained, a wild halo around a face that was Corbin's, yet entirely different. Where Corbin was composed, Ash was raw. His skin held the healthy glow of someone who lived outdoors, and his eyes, the same shape as his brother's, were a warmer, earthier brown, filled with a terrifying blend of fear and unwavering resolve. He was beauty born of chaos and sunlight.
The same face. Two different worlds.
A single, stark thought echoed in the minds of every witness: Two. There are two of them.
A soft, choked sound broke the silence. A single tear traced a path through Celeste Livian's impeccable makeup. She moved now, gliding down from the dais, her regal composure shattered, replaced by a desperate, maternal hope. She ignored the stunned murmurs, her eyes only for the two boys.
She walked between them, her gaze flickering from one face to the other, her breath catching. Slowly, hesitantly, she raised her hands. One warm palm cupped Corbin's cheek, the other, trembling, rose to cradle Ash's.
"My boys…" she whispered, her voice cracking with an emotion so profound it silenced the room. "Can it be? Silas…?"
The name, spoken aloud after so many years, hung in the air like a thunderclap.
"Preposterous!" Edward Sayar's voice boomed, shattering the moment. He strode forward, his face a mask of disdainful fury. "A clever trick! A doppelgänger sent to disrupt this sacred rite! Celeste, do not be swayed by a mother's grief! The boy Silas is dead!"
Ash flinched at the venom in the man's voice, but he stood his ground. The gentle boy from the orphanage was gone, replaced by someone who had traveled too far to turn back.
"I am no trick," Ash said, his voice stronger than he felt. He looked at Edward, then at the crowd. "I don't remember my past. I don't remember my name. But I know I was lost. I was found, and I was cared for. And I know… I feel…" His eyes found Corbin's again. "That this is where I'm from."
"Convenient amnesia!" Edward sneered. "A perfect story for an imposter to tell!"
"Why would I come here alone, with no proof, if I were an imposter?" Ash countered, a spark of defiance lighting his eyes. "I came because I have to know who I am. Wouldn't you?"
The logic was simple, and it resonated through the hall. Edward scowled, seeing the crowd's skepticism turning to curiosity. "Words are cheap. Magic, however, does not lie."
Celeste, her hands still on her sons' faces, looked from Edward's furious certainty to Ash's pleading honesty. The mother in her wanted to believe, but the politician knew the doubt had to be eradicated. A painful resolve settled on her features.
"Edward is right," she said, her voice regaining its steel. "There is a way."
She stepped back, drawing a small, ornate dagger from her belt. She pricked her own finger, a single drop of blood welling up. Then, with a look of apology, she gently took Ash's hand and did the same.
"Sanguinis vinum, veritatem revela," she chanted. "Blood of my blood, reveal the truth."
She pressed her bleeding finger to his. A flash of brilliant, gold-white light erupted from their joined hands, so bright the crowd gasped and shielded their eyes. It was the light of the Livian bloodline, pure and undeniable.
When the light faded, a complex, glowing sigil—the Livian family crest—was visible for a moment on Ash's palm, before fading into his skin.
The proof was absolute.
A collective gasp swept the room. Whispers of "Silas!" and "The lost son!" erupted.
Edward Sayar stared, his face pale with a mixture of shock and fury. The imposter was an heir.
Ash looked down at his hand, then up at Celeste, his eyes wide with a dawning, terrifying realization. He had a name. He had a family.
He was Silas Livian.
And on the other side of their mother, Corbin watched the sigil fade, his own world collapsing into starlight and silence. The void in his memory, the emptiness he had always felt, now had a shape, a name, and a face.
Of course. Here are the following scenes, transitioning from the orphanage's memory to the grim reality of the Ancestry.
---
The fire in the orphanage hearth crackled, casting dancing shadows that did little to lift the gloom that had settled over Nun Coventry since the official proclamation. Davina, now sixteen, sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. The news had come weeks ago: Silas Livian, the rebel, the monster, was dead. Killed by his brother, the hero Corbin.
Sister Elara stirred a pot of stew, the rhythmic scraping of the spoon the only sound for a long time. She finally broke the silence, her voice rough with a grief she could no longer contain.
"That is the story for how I remember it For three years he lived with them and they took a warm heart and turned it to stone, Davina," she said, not looking up from the pot. "Whatever they did to him in that gilded prison, whatever they whispered in his ear, it broke the boy we knew. The Ash who laughed with us in this very yard would never have… could never have done the things they say."
Davina's head snapped up. "But Corbin couldn't have,he visited all the time and even now he doesn't say that!" she argued, her voice fierce. "He visited. He came to thank us for taking care of his brother. He was kind. He tells people sh—Silas—was led astray, that he was manipulated. He never called him a monster."
Elara finally turned, her face etched with a deep, weary sadness. "Oh, my dear girl. The Ash they speak of today, the one who 'murdered' and 'plotted,' that is a story written by the victors. It is not the boy who fixed your bracelet. It is not the boy who carried you to bed when you fell asleep by the fire. They had to make him a monster to justify what they did to him." She shook her head. "The truth of what happened in that estate died with Silas."
"No," Davina whispered, her jaw set with a stubbornness that Elara knew all too well. "The truth doesn't die. It's just hidden. And I'm going to find it."
Elara sighed, a sound of utter exhaustion. She walked over and placed a gentle hand on Davina's head. "I hope you do. And more than that… I hope he found some peace, wherever his soul wandered." She looked up, through the small window, towards the stars. "I hope he's happy."
Elara's hopeful gaze faded, and the scene dissolved from the warm, fire-lit orphanage to a landscape of chilling, grey silence.
It was not a place of peace. It was a prison of memory and mist. The air was cold and still, and the ground beneath their feet was insubstantial, like walking on frozen smoke.
Silas stood apart from the others, his back turned. The softness of Ash was gone, carved away by betrayal and war, replaced by a grim, weary resolve. His blonde hair seemed almost grey in the bleak light.
Nearby, Macy leaned against a phantom tree, her usual vibrancy muted. Dove was uncharacteristically quiet, trying to poke the ground with a stick that kept phasing through it. Keith, a friend close to Silas who had been trapped with them, paced like a caged animal.
"This is a fine mess," Dove muttered, his voice echoing oddly. "Trapped in ghost-land with the most depressing family reunion in history."
"Quiet, Dove," Macy said, but there was no heat in it. Her eyes were fixed on Silas's solitary figure.
It was then that the voice came, not from around them, but from within the mist itself, slithering into Silas's mind. It was the Shadow, familiar, quirky, and ancient.
"Happy?" the voice mused, a dry chuckle echoing in Silas's skull. "I suppose that depends on your definition. No more tedious parties. No more backstabbing leaders. In a way, this is a form of salvation, isn't it? Freedom from their lies."
Silas didn't turn. "This isn't freedom. This is another cage."
"Is it?" the Shadow whispered, its voice suddenly closer, more intimate. "Or is it a workshop? A place where the old rules don't apply. Where a certain… son of Chaos… can learn to stop being a prisoner of history and start becoming its architect. They think they've contained you. How amusing. They've merely given you the keys to a much larger room."
A flicker of the old, destructive power stirred within Silas. He finally turned, his eyes, once warm earth, now held the glint of cold starlight on a blade. He looked at the hopeless faces of his companions, then back into the swirling, empty grey.
"What are you?" Silas asked, his voice low and dangerous.
The Shadow's reply was a whisper that promised both ruin and rebirth.
"I, dear boy, am the lockpick. And you are the key your only way out of here.Now Let's begin."