The presence vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving only the faint hum of Aether in the air and the pounding of Vane's heart.
He stood there for a long time. In the depths of his soul, he could feel the heavy slumber of the rusted steel he had just pushed away. What the hell did I just talk to?
The massive brass doors groaned open. Inside, it wasn't his mother's revenge waiting for him, but his father's ruthless chessboard. And Vane had just begun to learn the only rule pawns needed to survive: Never let them know what you are thinking.
The doors slammed shut behind Vane with a bone-rattling thud. He had expected gold. Grandeur. The dazzling throne from the palace tales his mother used to tell him as a child. Instead, he walked into a mausoleum.
The Throne Room was dim and freezing; the air was thick with the scent of old incense and a power far older than that. Massive portraits of ancient kings hung on the walls, their eyes seeming to glow in the flickering torchlight—judging this mud-and-blood-soaked bastard who dared step into their sanctum.
And in the center of it all, his father wasn't sitting on that legendary throne. King Vorian stood over a colossal strategy table, sliding bronze markers across a mechanical map like a general planning a siege. He didn't even look up.
Vane's heart hammered against his ribs as if trying to break free. Here he is, he thought, swallowing the bitter taste of ash in his mouth. The man who gave me life, but spilled my mother's blood. He looks neither like a monster nor a god.
Standing nearly two meters tall with broad shoulders and greying, iron-colored hair, Vorian was a statue that physically dominated the room. His face was chiseled from stone, sharp and merciless. Clad in a black military uniform woven with Aether-threads that shimmered faintly in the dim light, he moved a cavalry piece forward with surgical precision. He didn't care about his son's presence in the slightest.
"You turned eighteen yesterday, Vane," King Vorian spoke without raising his head. His voice echoed through the massive hall like the heavy strike of a broadsword. "Tell me... What kind of weapon did your soul resonate with?"
Vane swallowed hard. The battered, bloodied child inside him wanted nothing more than to see a shred of appreciation, a crumb of affection in his father's eyes. He focused his mind and gathered his Aether in his right hand. The rusted, cheap-looking dagger abruptly materialized in the empty air.
Vorian stepped away from the table and approached his son with heavy steps. He looked at the dagger; he didn't mock or belittle it. He just examined it with surgical scrutiny. "A rusted dagger? Quite outside my expectations... But blood is blood."
Vane sent the dagger back into the depths of his soul and, pulled the bloodstained letter from beneath his cloak. "My mother... Elara... She told me to give this to you before she died."
Vorian's eyes shifted to the letter. He took the envelope and broke the seal. Silence draped over the room like a heavy shroud. As his eyes glided over the lines, the affectionate mask on Vorian's stone-carved face suddenly shattered.
The man's jaw clenched so hard the grinding of his teeth was audible. The grey light in his eyes flared for a split second with pure, unbridled rage and darkness. His fingers squeezed the letter so savagely that the edges of the paper crumpled. The aether pressure in the room abruptly spiked, making it hard for Vane to even breathe.
Vane swallowed. Something inside him shrank in fear. He hesitantly broke the silence. "What... what did she write?"
Vorian took a deep breath. Suppressing that terrifying outburst of rage in mere seconds, he folded the letter and tucked it into the inner pocket of his uniform. His face had returned to that impenetrable, emotionless wall.
"Just," Vorian said in an ice-cold voice, avoiding Vane's eyes, "spewing her hatred for me. That's all."
The childish spark of hope in Vane's mind flickered out right then and there. He could see his father was lying. There was far more than simple hatred in that letter, but the man was hiding it from him.
"Kael was always a loyal man," King Vorian continued, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather rather than a brutal murder. "I wonder what the Queen threatened him with to poison his mind so completely."
That casual tone made Vane's blood boil. His jaw clenched. Black hair fell over his forehead. His hands trembling, he took a step forward.
The raw anger born of his youth tore through the cold-blooded wall he had just tried to build.
"That snake played with our lives, and your loyal man gutted my mother right in front of my eyes," Vane whispered, unable to hide the venom in his voice.
Then, the words ripped from his throat, echoing loudly in the massive hall:
"My mother! And you..." His voice broke entirely. "Did you know?! Did you know the man who lived with us for years, who sat at our table... was coming to kill us?!"
Vorian slowly straightened up. He set down the bronze marker he had been holding with a soft clink. And finally, he raised his head.
Those grey, predatory eyes scanned his son's frail body—the mud caking his face, the dried blood under his nails, and the tracks of tears he'd refused to shed.
Vane braced himself. He thought the King would erupt in anger, call the guards, and throw him into the dungeon for his insolence.
Instead, something strange happened.
A soft, almost pained expression appeared on Vorian's face. The King slowly walked around the table, his boots echoing with each measured step. Vane had to force himself not to step back.
When Vorian stood right in front of him, he raised his massive hand and placed it on Vane's thin, trembling shoulder. The weight of it was overwhelming.
"Your mother..." Vorian's voice dropped to something quiet, almost gentle. "Elara was a special woman, Vane. Brilliant. Kind. Far too good for the swamp we live in."
Vane's breath caught.
"I did everything I could to keep her safe," Vorian continued. "That farmhouse was under my personal protection. I couldn't foresee that the Queen's poison could seep in from where I least expected it."
The King's grip on Vane's shoulder tightened slightly. "This was my failure, Vane. And I will carry that weight until I die."
Vane's mind raced. That massive, warm hand on his shoulder. That affectionate tone. He's lying to me, the paranoid side of Vane screamed. My mother said, 'Do not trust him.' He's hiding the truth of the letter from me.
But the performance was so flawless that Vane's desperate heart wavered. He wanted to believe. He needed to believe that his father was also a victim of the Queen's schemes.
"If... if it's your fault," Vane said, unable to hide the childish vulnerability seeping into his voice. "Why don't you stop her? Why don't you put the Queen on trial?"
Vorian's expression shifted; the sympathy mixed with something far darker. He pulled his hand away from Vane's shoulder and turned, walking back toward the strategy table. The physical emptiness Vane felt in that moment reflected in his soul.
"The Game of Thrones doesn't work like your knight's tales, Vane." His voice hardened, turning back to iron. "Justice is a luxury. Yes, I sit on the throne... But the ground beneath me is held up by the Ten Pillars. The Queen commands the Pillar of Blood. If I openly cross her, the kingdom burns."
Vorian knocked over one of the bronze markers with a sharp clack. "You don't know the rules. After me, the throne will pass to the next generation. Naturally, the Queen wants someone of her own flesh and blood—your older half-brother, Prince Julian—to take the throne."
He pointed to a cluster of pieces on the map. "But Julian isn't the only problem. Your eldest half-sister, Seraphina, has already become the supreme commander of the Northern Armies. Even your youngest sister, Livia, is weaving political marriages with the southern houses under the Queen's shadow."
Vorian turned and looked directly into Vane's eyes. "And then... there is you. Illegitimate or not, you carry my blood. You are a part of this game simply because you breathe. You are a walking, living obstacle standing in the way of Julian and Seraphina's claims to the throne."
The words hit Vane like a physical blow. If I am a natural-born threat to the throne, it means the Queen will never stop coming after me. It's impossible for my father to keep me safe in this palace.
He finally realized that the loving embrace was a lie; he was just a political pawn here. Desperation was giving way to an ice-cold logic.
"Then send me into exile," Vane said, lifting his chin, trying to suppress his fear with logic. "Give me a ship. Let me go to another continent. Somewhere the Queen cannot reach—"
"Those who are exiled are hunted down sooner or later, Vane," Vorian said smoothly, as if nothing had happened. "The Queen's assassins will find you even if you flee to the other end of the world. Running only delays death."
Vorian leaned on the table, steepling his fingers. "I am sending you to the Obsidian Academy. Among the heirs of the other Ten Pillars."
Vane narrowed his eyes. "The Academy?" "You're throwing me into the lion's den," Vane said, his voice tight with suspicion. "Julian is there. Seraphina's faction is there. The heir of every house that wants me dead is there. Why?"
"Because it is the only place the Queen cannot directly interfere," Vorian said, his voice like iron scraping stone. "The old families agreed centuries ago: the Academy is autonomous. No blood can be spilled there without consequence."
He straightened, his shadow falling over Vane like a shroud. "Even if you have nothing but that pathetic weapon you awakened and the helplessness your mother taught you, you will learn to survive. I cannot protect you, Vane. But I can give you the chance to forge your own sword."
Vane looked into his father's grey eyes. The man's words made strategic sense. Since he couldn't hide from the Queen, Vorian was giving him a space to grow stronger. A controlled environment.
But the cold knot in Vane's stomach had completely unraveled now. He could see the truth. Why is he looking at me like that? Vorian wasn't looking at him like a commander watching a soldier prepare for battle. He was looking at him like a blacksmith watching a piece of iron thrown into the furnace—wondering if it would melt away or be reforged.
Vane's mind raced. Academy. Julian. Seraphina's faction. The heirs of the Ten Pillars—all watching, all waiting for this bastard to stumble and fall. His father was right about one thing: running was suicide. But accepting this gift means walking into a cage filled with predators who want me dead.
If that's how it is... Vane's gaze drifted to the rusty dagger he felt in the depths of his soul. The same weapon that killed Kael. The same weapon his father clearly couldn't comprehend.
That child who cried over Kael's memories burned in the barn along with my mother, Vane whispered internally. He felt the cold earth being shoveled over that battered, naive side of him that sought affection from a father. If I don't have a family, a branch to cling to, or even a single person left to trust... Then it means I have absolutely nothing left to lose.
His mind began to operate like a machine entirely stripped of emotion. I will walk into that cage. But I have absolutely no intention of baring my throat to the Queen or the Pillars. I will use the Academy as a whetstone to sharpen myself—as a stepping stone. Whatever it takes to survive... I will do it. And when the right time comes, i will take my revenge. I promise mother. Even knowing it goes against your wishes, I refuse to let them keep breathing.
Vane slowly raised his head. He met his father's numb, calculating gaze. Then, with perfectly calibrated submission, he lowered his eyes.
"I understand, Your Majesty," Vane said quietly. His voice trembled desperately, in a dose flawless enough to sound convincing. "I will go to the Academy."
A fleeting glint of satisfaction passed through Vorian's grey eyes—the blacksmith pleased to see the iron accept the fire without resistance.
"Good," Vorian said. Dismissing his son already, he turned back to the war table. "You leave right now. Every minute you spend here alone is dangerous. Go to the safe room in the back," he said, pointing to a heavy wooden door in the depths of the dim hall. "Clean yourself up there. You cannot walk through the gates of the Academy covered in mud and blood."
"As you command, Your Majesty." Vane bowed—deeply, respectfully, painting the picture of a helpless son clinging to his father's mercy.
But as he turned and walked toward the heavy wooden door his father had pointed out, the last crumb of innocence in his deep purple eyes had been completely erased. Now, there was only emptiness.
Vane grasped the door handle.