The throne room was filled with various nobles as they stood on both sides of the room. An orchestra of musicians played on the balconies above. The entire decor of the room was of gold and marble. And above it all was stained glass that focused the light onto the king and his throne. Valdarus sat on his throne with disdain in his eyes as he watched the gathering of nobles in front of him. He knew of almost every single one of their crimes. The only thing stopping him from killing them where they stood was their usefulness to the empire. Such thoughts were a constant reminder of his need for vigilance. The tempo of the music began to rise when the large double doors swung open. Alexander was dressed in ceremonial armour of white and silver. Intricate patterns of lions adorned his breastplate and helmet.
He approached the throne with the dignity befitting the crown prince. His every movement was measured, and his gait confident. His ever-present smile was plastered on his face. A chorus of whispers began at his entrance. Only to be silenced when Valdarus raised his hand. Alexander stopped at the steps of the throne and bowed before his father. The music stopped along with the incessant whispering, giving Valdarus a chance to speak. Looking at the kneeling form of his eldest son, he saw only disappointment. His mother had pampered him too much in his youth. Filled his head with the poisonous teachings of the church. When he looked into his eyes, he did not see the lion that gave his family strength, but a snake laced with venom.
Pushing these thoughts to the side, King Valdarus stood up from his throne. "Rise," his commanding voice traveled across every corner of the room. Every noble present followed his command. Only Alexander still kneeled, but not for long. Soon, he too got to his feet. The ever-present smile was still plastered on his face. "For your contribution to the war against Yemen. I hereby award you with the title, Blade of the Empire." Many did not know how it was possible, but Alexander managed to stand even straighter. Pride was practically etched onto his facial features as the nobles began a reserved cheer.
In another room within the palace…
"We have done a preliminary assessment of your condition. I am afraid that I have no good news to bring. We have never encountered a wound like this before. No matter what magic we use, the wound refuses to heal." The healer dressed in white robes stood in front of me, droning on about the peculiarity of my wound. I zoned most of it out until he mentioned something that I could not ignore. "The wound seems to be actively damaging your mana channels, so our prognosis is that it is either blocking your affinities. Or downright suppressing them. I am afraid you will never be able to use magic again." With these words, the healer finally left my room.
For a moment, I just sat there staring into empty space. Pain stabbed into my face as the wound acted up. When I first woke up after somehow managing to survive my encounter with Vaelus, I was ecstatic about still being alive. That ecstasy quickly faded and was replaced by a constant pain. Getting up from my bed, I walked towards the standing mirror and looked at my reflection. My once handsome features were now marred by a hideous wound in the shape of a handprint on my face. The wound kept pulsing with an eerie purple energy.
I had not bothered to wear a shirt as I had no plans of leaving my room for now. So I had a great view of the many scars that crisscrossed on my torso. The broken bones and fractured ribs of my fight with Vaelus had long since healed. This was the first time that my regeneration had failed me. 'What are your thoughts on this, Aeron?' I asked the disembodied soul that lived within my mind.
'His words are only partly true. You are barred only from the false affinities you so heavily rely on. Do not see this as a bad thing, Drakkus. With the parasitic affinities now weakened, it has raised your life expectancy significantly.' He paused for a moment as if gathering his words before continuing. 'But even then, it does not change the reality of your affliction. Sooner rather than later, you will die, and no magic will be able to save you then. It is one thing to heal a wound and quite another to be brought back from death. Few are willing to incur Lunesra's wrath, but even they could do nothing to save you.'
His words were a sobering reminder that, unlike most, time was not something he had in abundance. Even though his message was grim, it was also a reminder that I would not face this alone, and that brought comfort to me that I have yet to fully understand. In the months that he has been a part of my life, I have begun to trust him and even appreciate his company. In my previous life, I had always been alone, from my days in the palace all the way to my service in the military. I had faced my battles with no one by my side. Not fully anyway. Trust was something that I had taken for granted in my previous life. I had trusted that my brother would love me as I had loved him. And I wholeheartedly believed it until he watched me burn.
I sat there ruminating for hours without even realizing it. When I did finally snap back to reality, the sun had already fallen below the horizon, and darkness began to settle. While deep reflection could prove immensely beneficial, it also runs the risk of losing sight of the present. With this in mind, I decided that I had stayed in this room for long enough. Right as I was about to leave the room, I realized that I was still bare-chested, so I quickly grabbed a shirt and a mask to hide my wound before making my way outside. The mask was something you would see at a masquerade ball that was given to me as a quick solution to hide my deformity.
During the day, the palace was bustling with activity, but when night fell, it was almost deathly quiet. The opulent halls were mostly empty save for the few knights that patrolled the grounds. It had been more than a year since I last walked these halls, and I had to admit I did not miss any of it. If I had to decide, I would much rather spend my nights in the wild, sharing stories with my friends by the campfire, than in this place of needless grandeur. I walked for a few minutes before exiting a door into the large garden behind the palace. I had spent much of my childhood training in the grass. Spending my short breaks watching the many magical flowers that grew in the hedges and flower beds. They always brought with them a sense of serenity as fleeting as their beauty.
Walking the cobble steps, I let muscle memory guide me while I appreciated the beauty of the moonless night. For but a brief moment, I was capable of forgetting all my troubles and just appreciating the moment. But as always, fate had other plans. "Please no!" The desperate cries of a young woman shattered the moment of calm. The sound of a struggle could be heard coming from somewhere to the west of the garden. I sighed to myself as I knew I had to intervene. The closer I came to the western side of the garden, the louder the sound of an altercation became.
In the depths of this dark night, the only witness was the lonely moon in the sky, floating in silent judgment of all who walked on the ground. When I was finally close enough to see what was happening, all emotion fled me except for a righteous fury that grew in my chest. I saw my third brother, Tormund, attempting to force himself on a young maid. He was grabbing her by her arm, with some of her clothes torn, exposing her skin. A part of me was not even surprised at what I saw. Tormund had always been cruel, even in childhood. He thought that my sickness made me weak; in his foolishness, he decided that I would become his victim. Only when I left him bruised and bloody, weeping in the grass, did he finally get the lesson.
At first, when he noticed me watching him, I saw only incomprehension. He clearly did not expect to see someone this far from the central palace. But then I saw recognition flash in his eyes. I had removed the crude mask hiding my wound when I left the palace. That look of recognition quickly turned into a sneer. "If it isn't the cripple," he practically spat the words out. Yet I did not even acknowledge his presence. My eyes were focused on the young girl whose wrist he was gripping with excessive force. I saw the tears streaming down her face, ruining the minor cosmetics on her face. I saw the pleading look in her eyes as she hoped for salvation. She was younger than I had first anticipated; she could hardly be older than 18 winters. Yet deep down, I knew that she was far from the first of his victims.
"How dare you ignore me!?" He shouted at me, but still I ignored him. My eyes met those of the young maid. Quelling the seething fury within my soul, I looked at her with all the kindness that I could muster. "Are you okay?" I asked with sincerity. At first, she seemed taken aback by my question. But soon she responded with even more tears. The anger I had been suppressing ever since my battle with Vaelus exploded out of me, threatening to seep out of me. The young maid winced in pain as Tormund strengthened his grip on her wrist. Only then did I acknowledge my brother's presence. I was not looking at him so much as looking through him. His jaw was clenched in rage. Only now did I realize he had been shouting obscenities the entire time.
Instead of stooping down to his level, I issued a single command. "Remove your hand or I will remove it for you." My voice was completely calm as I spoke. Not a single trace of the anger inside of me was visible from either my tone or my impassive face. I saw his eyes widen slightly at my words, but his own emotions quickly returned. Whether it was his own anger or his arrogance that made his face contort, I did not know, nor did I particularly care.
Within the moment of silence after my command, was when Tormund made potentially his final mistake. I felt as he began gathering mana from his core. I was not particularly worried about his magic. He was a light mage like most in my family, but his focus was on fracturing light to create illusions. Even if he was not the strongest, even a fool would realize that you did not want to give an illusionist the first move. My body was a blur of motion, gathering every ounce of strength my body had to offer. I dashed in front of him. Before his mind even had a chance to register what had happened, I removed his grip from the young maid's wrist. Using his arm as leverage, I swept his legs from under him. Even as the breath left his lungs, he continued with his foolish attempt to cast magic. Not being in the mood to continue this farce, I knelt down and grabbed him by the skull. I saw his lips move as he spoke, but I had long since stopped paying attention to a dead man. Using my clawed thumbs, I began applying pressure to his eyes. Blood began pooling under my fingernails. After reaching Stage 2, my physical strength had grown in leaps and bounds.
I could feel his skull caving under my grip. In a rain of blood, bone, and brainmatter his skull popped. But even when his life bled away in my hands, it did nothing to quell the storm raging in my soul. And why would it? His death, just like his life had meant nothing to me. In a moment of silent reflection, I just released a tired sigh while getting back to my feet. Putting a reassuring expression on my face, I turned back to the young woman. She recoiled slightly that turned my reassuring smile strained. I could see only fear in her eyes as she looked at me.