WebNovels

Chapter 4 - The Weight of Glass Walls

The days turned colder in Arcaedis, and with them, the silence within House Rivenhart grew thicker—like frost creeping across the edges of a mirror, threatening to shatter.

Auren found himself avoiding the main halls now. Not because anyone had told him to—but because he knew. The stares had grown more pointed. The hushed words between guards, between stewards, between the distant cousins who visited more frequently now. Rumors moved faster than truth in noble courts, and something had shifted since his return from the villages.

They sensed it.

Not the power. Not the glow.

But the change.

And change, in a house like Rivenhart, was dangerous.

Auren sat alone on the outer balcony of the west wing that morning. The sun had just risen, casting long beams of pale gold across the frost-streaked tiles. Below, the training grounds bustled with motion—Caelen drilling his son with perfect precision, Darien giving commands to the new Guard initiates, Lys meditating mid-air with her Heart Shard pulsing gently beneath her skin.

Perfect. Powerful. Poised.

Everything he wasn't.

He tried once more—focusing his breath, stilling his hands. His fingers trembled. He reached inward, to the place he had felt on the river's edge.

A flicker.

Like breath on glass.

Then—nothing.

The glow didn't come. It never did on command.

And with every failure, something within him sank deeper.

Later that day, the Court Summoner arrived. A thin man wrapped in gray silk robes embroidered with faint sigils of Silence—a mark of the Crown's internal affairs. He was not a messenger one sent for casual words.

Lord Mareth summoned the family to the Binding Hall.

It was the first time in over a year that Auren had been formally included.

He stood behind his siblings, just outside the main circle. The room was all light and shadows—tall stained-glass windows filtering sunlight through etched shardforms, painting the floor in violet and gold.

The Summoner bowed low. "A matter has arisen in the Southern Marches. Rogue bearers. Possibly Void-touched. The Crown expects the High Houses to lend strength."

Caelen stepped forward first, voice even. "House Rivenhart stands ready."

"As always," Darien added.

Lys tilted her head. "And what does the Crown offer in return?"

The Summoner allowed himself a thin smile. "A seat on the next regional council. And... recognition of the Rivenhart line in the upcoming Resonance Trials."

A moment of silence. A bargain. A test.

Lord Mareth gave the faintest nod. "We accept."

The room began to empty after formalities, but the Summoner's gaze flickered—briefly—toward Auren.

He said nothing.

But the weight of that look lingered long after he was gone.

That night, Auren sat by the training fields, staring at the lanterns swaying gently above. A shadow sat beside him—he didn't hear the footsteps.

"You've been different lately."

It was Lys.

He didn't answer.

"You glow, don't you?" she said, softly.

His breath caught. "Not… exactly."

"Then what?"

Auren hesitated, then whispered, "It feels like a thread. Tangled. It tugs at me, but when I pull... something pulls back."

She was quiet for a long time.

Then, "Some Shards don't hum. They whisper. Not all power wants to be found."

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, she added, "When I was ten, my Shard nearly broke me. It fed on my anger, not my heart. I nearly lost control. The Guild said I should be Bound for safety. Father almost agreed."

He looked at her, startled.

She smiled faintly. "They only see what fits their rules. Don't let them shrink you, Auren."

The following days brought preparation. The Marches were not far, but the rogue reports were growing.

It was during one of these nights, walking alone through the old family crypts—half curiosity, half escape—that Auren found it.

A door he'd never seen before. Half-buried beneath frost and lichen, the metal lock cracked and rusted. His hand hovered over the symbol etched into its frame.

A circle. Broken.

Not the House mark.

Something older.

His breath misted. Something inside pulsed.

He opened it.

Dust. Silence. Then a whisper—not in words, but memory.

Images flashed—blades of light, broken thrones, a boy standing alone amidst fallen giants.

Then black.

He stumbled back, heart pounding.

And on the wall ahead, written in forgotten glyphs:

"Shards choose. But Broken Ones… take."

The next morning, Darien summoned him.

"You'll accompany us south," he said, tone like a blade sheathed in silk.

Auren blinked. "Me?"

"You may not bear a Shard, but you will observe. The Crown expects heirs to understand duty. Even the flawed ones."

He didn't answer.

But something in his chest didn't flinch.

Not this time.

For the first time in years… he wanted to see.

Not to prove them wrong.

But to prove himself right.

[End of Chapter 4]

More Chapters