The cold morning light slanted through the crimson curtains of the academy dormitory, painting sharp shadows on the marble floor. Kaelian lay still, eyes open, already dressed before dawn had fully broken. He wasn't looking at the ceiling; he was studying it — as he would a battlefield.
Today wasn't a day for lessons.
Today was the Court's reminder that he did not belong.
Not as a prince.
Not as a student.
Only as the King's bastard.
"You don't have to go," Lyssa said softly as she adjusted the folds of his ceremonial cloak. Her fingers moved with grace, but her eyes held unease. "It's a formality. You could fake an illness like last time."
Kaelian said nothing at first. The fabric was dark, finely stitched, but lacked the richness of true nobility. It was a uniform designed to be almost regal — just enough to acknowledge his birthright, but not enough to honor it.
"I have to go," he replied at last. "They want to shame me. I intend to give them something else entirely."
Lyssa's expression tightened. She gave a small nod and left the room in silence.
The Royal Secondary Hall, the Queen's preferred setting for minor audiences and controlled spectacles, was already filled when Kaelian arrived.
Polished marble reflected chandeliers above. Velvet banners bearing the royal crest fluttered gently from the walls. The air was thick with whispered gossip, muffled laughter, and the faint perfume of arrogance.
Nobles filled the chamber — students, professors, dignitaries — all invited to witness the public kneeling of a bastard prince.
The setup was perfect.
"Kaelian of Albérion," the herald announced, voice ringing through the chamber, "born of royal blood, yet not under sacred law, summoned before the Crown to swear the Oath of Restraint and Obedience, as decreed by the Council."
Every word was a dagger, sharpened by etiquette.
Kaelian stepped forward, his back straight, chin held high. He was no child, no trembling outcast. Yet the stares he received burned like brands — mocking, predatory, dismissive.
To his right stood Prince Théor, gleaming in crimson and gold, arms crossed, a thin smile of contempt curling his lips.
To his left, Queen Virella sat beside the aging King. Her features were the very model of maternal serenity. But Kaelian knew poison wore perfume at court.
"Approach," she said with deceptive sweetness. "Today, you become something more. Official. A symbol of peace."
Peace, Kaelian thought. Or subjugation.
He knelt before the dais.
One knee down. Head bowed.
But under his cloak, his fingers curled around a hidden charm — a thin magical thread laced into a bracelet. Not a weapon. A safeguard.
"Do you swear loyalty to the Crown and its rightful heirs," the herald continued, "including His Highness Prince Théor? Do you renounce all claim to title, land, or ambition within the royal line?"
It was meant to humiliate. To define him not by who he was — but who he could never be.
Kaelian raised his eyes.
The King, slumped and pale, barely breathed. His lips twitched with age, not thought. He was a relic on a throne. The true power was in the Queen's fingers, curled around the armrest like talons.
"I swear," Kaelian said.
But the words in his mind were different:
I swear to survive. And to become the hand behind the throne you believe you control.
The ceremony ended without applause. He was assigned the lowest position in the royal order — behind adopted sons, behind second cousins, behind boys who stuttered through their own names.
No noble title.
No inheritance.
No patron.
Just a bastard's oath.
Back in his private quarters, Kaelian stood over the hearth. He pulled off the brooch given to him by the herald — the emblem of service, not recognition — and tossed it into the flames.
Blue fire hissed as the silver melted, bubbling into a shapeless puddle.
A fitting symbol, he thought.
"You should've smiled more."
The voice came from behind, smooth and dry.
Kaelian turned sharply.
Counselor Dorn Valek stood near the window, hands folded in his gray cloak. No guards. No introduction. Just silence and sudden presence — a trick of masters.
"You had the attention of every noble in the room," Dorn continued, stepping closer. "That's rare for someone born beneath their notice."
"And what would you have me do?" Kaelian asked, voice cold. "Grovel?"
"No. Observe. Measure. Learn. Court ceremonies are not events — they are chessboards. You were just moved into play."
Kaelian narrowed his eyes.
"What do you want?"
Dorn smiled. "To teach you something most forget: Status is an illusion. And you, my boy, are the ghost in their feast. Use that."
The next morning, whispers danced across the Academy. The bastard prince had sworn his oaths. The nobles laughed behind fans and snickered in corridors.
But the worst was Varn — son of a bloated duke and proud of it.
"Well, if it isn't our loyal puppy," Varn said, smirking in the central courtyard. "Tell me, bastard, do they have you cleaning the royal chamber pots yet?"
A few students chuckled.
Kaelian, unfazed, reached into his robe and pulled out a silver coin. He flipped it once in the air.
It clinked against the cobblestone.
And then, Varn froze.
A soft shimmer pulsed from the coin — a magical ward Kaelian had prepared the night before. Harmless, but binding. A stasis circle that paralyzed movement for a few seconds.
Just enough to make a point.
"You should mind your tongue, Varn," Kaelian said smoothly, retrieving the coin. "Words can be more dangerous than spells."
The effect faded.
Varn stumbled backward, furious and humiliated, but unwilling to retaliate. Professors were nearby. Kaelian had played it just within bounds — not an attack, but a lesson.
And every onlooker got the message.
The bastard was not toothless.
Later, in the Academy's abandoned courtyard, Kaelian found Lyssa tending to a wounded bird near the old fountain. The garden was overgrown, forgotten by nobles, but alive with wild color.
She didn't look up when he approached.
"You hexed him," she said simply.
"He provoked me."
"You could've ignored it."
"I could have. But I needed them to know. I may be illegitimate, but I am not powerless."
She set the bird down gently. It flapped, struggled, then steadied itself.
"You're becoming like them, Kaelian."
Her words stung more than he expected.
He looked at her — truly looked — and saw more than a healer or an ally. She was the last thread tying him to who he used to be. Someone who hadn't yet become a creature of masks and maneuvering.
He said nothing.
She stood, brushing her robes, and turned to leave.
"You deserve more than survival," she whispered, not looking back.
That night, Kaelian sat at his desk, a dozen parchments spread before him.
He made lists.
Not of enemies. Not today.
Of weaknesses. Of cracks in noble families. Of servants' names. Of rumors from the lower halls. He mapped the court like a battlefield — and he marked himself outside their game.
Not a piece on the board.
A shadow behind the curtain.
The weight of his bloodline was heavy — but not absolute.
Let them see a bastard.
He would show them a kingmaker.
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