Word was dispatched immediately.
Sealed letters bearing the sigil of House Ainsworth were carried from the keep by riders who did not slow for weather or fatigue. Horses were changed at fortified outposts, messengers fed and sent onward within minutes. In the Britannian Empire, information traveled fastest when noble blood was involved.
By the time the sun climbed high above the gray skies of Scotland, the message had reached its destination.
Duke Rowen Ainsworth, Grand Duke of Scotland, stood alone in his solar when the letter was delivered. The chamber was austere, built of dark stone and heavy oak, its walls adorned with banners depicting lightning split by flame—the ancestral crest of his house.
He broke the seal without haste.
Your Grace, Lord Cassian Ainsworth has awakened from his near-death state. All injuries have healed completely. Healer Jan confirms the event as authentic.
Rowen read it once.
Then again.
The parchment crumpled slightly beneath his fingers—not from anger, but from pressure, as though he were testing the reality of the words.
"So," he murmured. "He lives."
There was no joy in his voice.
Only calculation.
Through the tall windows, the duke observed the training grounds below. Knights drilled in disciplined formations, sparks of lightning snapping through the air as instructors corrected posture with magic rather than words. Fire scorched the earth where spells misfired.
Strength.
Power.
Violence controlled through discipline.
That was the legacy of House Ainsworth.
And Cassian had never belonged to it.
Had fate been kinder, Cassian Ainsworth might have lived a life many would envy.
As the fourth son of the Grand Duke of Scotland, he was never meant to inherit power. Succession would never burden him. Politics would never demand his obedience. He was free from expectation in a way even kings' heirs were not.
He could have chosen nearly any path.
Military service beneath his father's banner, earning prestige without risk to the line of succession.
A ceremonial governorship over a quiet city, managing tax records while stewards handled the true work.
Or a life of indulgence—granted land, servants, and coin enough to drink, hunt, gamble, and adventure until old age claimed him.
The Britannian Empire was vast, and nobles like him often vanished into its margins, living comfortably and dying forgotten.
But Cassian's fate had soured the moment he was born.
His mother died giving him life.
Lady Elspeth Ainsworth had been admired throughout Scotland—sharp-witted, politically astute, and deeply respected by both nobles and retainers. Her death during childbirth shattered the household. The midwives whispered of complications. The servants whispered of curses.
Cassian survived.
She did not.
No one ever accused him outright.
No one needed to.
From infancy, Cassian became a living reminder of loss. Servants treated him carefully but without warmth. His siblings avoided him, then mocked him, then ignored him altogether. What might have been childish cruelty hardened into something colder with age.
He was raised by tutors rather than parents. Praised only when necessary. Corrected relentlessly.
His father acknowledged him only when etiquette demanded it.
Not hatred.
That would have been easier.
Instead, Cassian was met with indifference so complete it bordered on erasure.
Magic in the Britannian world did not obey ritual.
It awakened when it wished.
Some children manifested mana as early as seven. Others not until adolescence. There were no ceremonies, no rites, no blessings from priests—only the sudden, undeniable moment when the soul reached outward and reality answered.
Cassian's awakening came at ten years old.
It was quiet.
A stable boy fell from a ladder while repairing a damaged roof. Bone snapped. Blood soaked the straw. Panic erupted as servants shouted for help.
Cassian moved without thinking.
He placed his hands over the wound.
Mana surged through him—warm, overwhelming, instinctive.
The bone realigned.
The flesh sealed.
The boy stopped screaming.
Silence fell across the stable.
Healing magic.
Among nobles, it was rare.
Among warrior houses, it was shameful.
From that day onward, Cassian's fate within House Ainsworth was sealed. Healing was not respected as power. It did not conquer territory or burn enemies from the battlefield.
Healers did not rule.
They served.
Cassian became an inconvenience—too valuable to discard outright, too embarrassing to acknowledge.
His brothers flourished in contrast.
Severin Ainsworth, the eldest, was everything a duke could desire. At twenty, he commanded both lightning and fire, a rare dual affinity that marked him as extraordinary even among the empire's elite. Calm, controlled, and ruthless when required, Severin was already acting as ruler in all but name.
He did not bully Cassian.
He simply ignored him.
Valerius Ainsworth, the second son, eighteen and ambitious, wielded fire with ferocity. Charismatic and sharp-tongued, he had been sent to the imperial army—both to earn distinction and to ensure House Ainsworth's presence in the heart of imperial power.
Cassian barely existed to him.
Lucan Ainsworth, the third brother, sixteen, commanded lightning and wind. He was relentless in training, merciless in combat, and openly disdainful of weakness. Groomed to command Scotland's armies, he saw Cassian as an affront to their bloodline.
Each brother had a role.
Each had a future.
Cassian had neither.
This was not negligence.
It was design.
Duke Rowen had divided power carefully, assigning each son a purpose to prevent internal conflict and eliminate the possibility of noble manipulation. Scotland would have one ruler, one enforcer, one imperial representative.
There was no place for a healer.
When news of Cassian's survival arrived, Duke Rowen made his decision within moments.
He summoned his butler.
"Pierre," he said calmly.
The elderly Frenchman entered and bowed deeply. He had served House Ainsworth for decades and had witnessed triumphs, betrayals, and quiet tragedies alike.
"My lord."
"The boy has recovered," Rowen said. "And that complicates matters."
Pierre inclined his head. "Your will, Your Grace?"
"Prepare arrangements. Cassian will be sent to the Orkney Islands."
A pause—brief, respectful.
"Kirkwall or Stromness?" Pierre asked.
"Either," Rowen replied. "Somewhere distant. Quiet. Far from the mainland."
"And the duration?"
Rowen turned toward the window, gazing at the storm gathering over the northern sea.
"Permanent."
Pierre bowed. "As you command."
Cassian learned of the decision while still confined to his bed.
The letter was courteous. Respectful. Final.
For his own safety.
For the dignity of the house.
For the stability of Scotland.
He stared at the parchment long after finishing it, memories—both foreign and familiar—settling within him.
The despair of a boy who believed himself cursed.
The clarity of a man who understood systems, incentives, and cruelty.
They believed they were discarding him.
They believed exile was mercy.
Cassian Ainsworth smiled faintly.
To the broken child who once inhabited this body, the Orkney Islands were a prison.
To a man reborn—with knowledge from another world and power yet unexplored—
They were a foundation untouched by expectation.
"They've given me distance," he thought calmly. "And distance is freedom."
He had not even fully recovered.
And already, he had been cast aside.
But Cassian knew one immutable truth:
Power did not always roar.
Sometimes—
It healed.
And when it healed, it learned how to destroy.