It's been three days since I cast my first spell.
And honestly?
It was... terrifying.
Not because of what it did—Feather Drift was harmless. Just a whisper of wind and a strange lightness in my chest.
But because it worked.
Ghostborns aren't supposed to feel mana. Let alone command it.
In my old world, the closest I got to "magic" was reading power fantasy web novels in the nurse's office, half-broken from another "accident" in the hallway.
But here?
I felt it. For real.
And yet… when I spoke those words—
"Tolarin vesrul nai."
Something moved.
The air shimmered. Dust lifted.
And inside me? That hum I'd been trying to ignore for years finally sang.
It was like striking a match in the dark.
And for a moment, I felt… alive.
But also exposed. Raw.
Because if anyone found out—
If anyone even suspected—
I wouldn't just be punished.
I'd be labeled.
Feared. Isolated. Or worse... pitied.
I don't want their pity.
I don't want whispers behind my back.
And I know what that looks like.
I've seen the way people pull away. The whispers. The eyes that slide past like you're not there until it's convenient to hurt you.
This time, I swore it'd be different.
So I keep quiet.
I smile. I nod. I play the good little noble.
And at night, when no one's around, I sneak back up to the attic… and I turn the pages again.
And at night, when the house is still and the shadows stretch long—
I sneak back into the attic. And I read.
Because I have to know.
What else can I do?
What else am I?
I was mid-thought, rereading the spell's final line for the fiftieth time, when the knock came.
Knock knock.
My entire body tensed.
Heart leaping into my throat.
Panic flaring in my chest like a fire alarm.
Fuck.
"Come in!" I blurted—way too fast, voice cracking slightly.
The door creaked open, and there she was—Nareva, our family's personal maid. Elvish. Seventeen, maybe eighteen. Tall, quiet, silver-haired, always collected. She'd been around since I could remember, always polite, always quiet. The kind of person who never forgot a detail—and never missed anything.
But right now, just the sight of her standing there made my chest tighten.
"Master Kaelen," she said, giving a graceful bow. "Lord Dravon wants you in his study."
My stomach dropped.
Why?
My father never summoned me casually. Not unless there was something formal. Something serious.
Had someone seen me in the attic?
Was there mana residue still clinging to the floorboards?
Did I forget to hide the book properly?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Fuck.
"Of course, Nareva," I said, trying to sound calm—noble-like. "I'll be there in a minute."
She nodded once and quietly stepped back, closing the door behind her with barely a sound.
I didn't move right away.
I just stared at the door. Listening.
Then I turned to the book.
Still tucked under the edge of my mattress. Wrapped in cloth. Hidden.
No one saw. No one could've—
But what if he knew?
He was a Ghostborn too, right?
But… who's to say that's all he is?
Noble bloodlines have secrets. Old ones.
And Dravon? He wears silence like a second cloak.
What if he felt something?
What if this was it?
What if he was going to confront me… strip the mask away… and tell me I didn't belong here?
Tell me I wasn't his son?
I took a slow breath. My lungs felt tight.
Get up.
Fix your clothes.
Look normal.
I smoothed my tunic. Straightened my posture.
Wiped the sweat from my hands onto the side of the mattress.
And then I stepped into the hallway, every footstep landing like a warning bell.
Like they were waiting for me to prove I didn't belong.
The study was at the far end of the west wing, past the long hallway lined with old paintings of dead people who all looked like they hated fun. Most of them were probably past heads of the family—stoic, powerful, scary as hell. Ghostborn legacy and all that.
I stopped in front of the study door. Knocked twice.
Thud. Thud.
"Enter," came his voice. Calm. Deep. Like it didn't belong to a man but to the room itself.
Lord Dravon Selkareth sat behind his desk, framed by golden light filtering through the tall windows. The air shimmered faintly with warmth, like the room existed in a time of its own.
He didn't look up.
Just gestured to the chair across from him.
I sat.
Slow. Quiet.
I didn't speak.
Neither did he—for a long moment.
"You've grown," he said, still not looking at me. His eyes were on some rolled-up parchment—probably estate business or some noble nonsense. "Taller. Sharper."
Was it a compliment? A statement? A warning?
"Thank you… Father," I said, the word catching just slightly in my throat.
He finally looked at me.
Deep brown eyes. Yet cold. Calculating. But not cruel.
"You've been quiet, Kaelen. Observant. Disciplined. That's good."
He tilted his head just slightly. The corner of his mouth moved—almost like a smile. Almost.
"You're nearly five," he said next. "That's when I began my training."
I blinked.
Training?
"And your grandfather before me," he continued, standing now, walking to a display on the wall—swords, polished and preserved like relics. "So it's time you begin as well."
...
Wait, what?
"I—sorry, what?"
"You'll start swordsmanship training tomorrow," he said.
My mouth opened slightly, then shut again.
He turned back, expression unreadable.
"Is there a problem?"
No interrogation? No confrontation? Just… training?
I shook my head quickly.
"No, Father. I understand."
He gave a slow nod, then added, almost like an afterthought—but not really.
"You'll train under Calden. He's strict. Unforgiving. But fair."
He paused.
Then:
"And at the end of your training—years from now—you will face me. That will be your final trial."
My breath caught for a second.
Face him? My own father?
He didn't say it as a threat.
But something in the way he stood made it feel like one.
He expects something from me.
He's watching.
Does he know?
"I'll do my best," I said quietly.
He nodded again.
The conversation was over.
I stood. Bowed. Turned to leave.
But before I could reach the door, his voice stopped me.
"Kaelen."
I turned back.
"Yes?"
Dravon looked at me for a long time.
Then said:
"Control is the foundation of strength."
A beat.
"Do not forget that."
I left the room with my heart pounding.
My head spinning.
He hadn't mentioned mana. Or magic. Or the attic.
But something about the way he spoke—so slow, so careful—
It felt like a test.
Like he was laying a trap and waiting to see if I'd step into it.
Swordsmanship.
That's what this was about.
At least… on the surface.
But I wasn't stupid.
This world was layers. Secrets on top of secrets.
And if I wasn't careful, the truth inside me would crack through the mask.
I had to be sharper.
Smarter.
Quieter.
No one can know.
Not yet.
Still…
Swordsmanship?
It's not magic—but it's something.
Something I can control without risking everything.
And yeah, part of me actually wants to swing a blade around—even if I'll probably fall on my face the first time.
Because maybe…
Just maybe…
If I can learn to fight with a sword—
I can learn to fight everything else, too.