The chandeliers of Blathazar Manor burned like captured constellations that night, their golden light spilling over a thousand jewels and fine silks. The scent of perfume and wine mingled with the faint trace of burning sage—part of the evening's enchantment meant to ward off malicious spirits. Guests from every corner of the city had gathered—nobles, archmages, high-born witches, and scholars of renown—all vying for the attention of Lord Caldrin Blathazar, the patriarch of one of the oldest wizarding houses in the realm of Elarion.
To the world, the Blathazars were a family of prestige and power—known for their mastery of spellcraft and their unbroken lineage of magi stretching back a thousand years. Yet behind the elegance of their marble halls and crimson drapes, the air was thick with quiet contempt and deceit.
At the far end of the grand hall, musicians played a waltz, their fingers weaving delicate magic through each note to enhance the melody. Waiters glided like phantoms, trays of sparkling crystal levitating beside them. Laughter rippled across the room—soft, cultured, and false.
And amid it all, Jaeson Blathazar stood silently near a marble column, unseen and uninvited though he was the host's own blood.
He was the youngest of five, the shadow among suns. His brothers—Aldren, Kael, Veyric, and Damian—were all trained in the arcane arts, each one flaunting their powers like peacocks with burning feathers. His sisters had married into noble houses, binding alliances that elevated the family's prestige even further. Jaeson, however, possessed nothing that this world valued.
No magic. No glow of aura. No spark.
At least, that was what everyone believed.
He watched the crowd through half-lidded eyes, his mind silent but sharp. His uniform—black tailcoat, silk vest, gloves white as frost—fit perfectly, though his presence felt detached, like a phantom among the living. He'd learned long ago that silence was the sharpest weapon. People revealed their true selves when they forgot you were there.
Near the center of the hall, his father, Lord Caldrin, laughed heartily with a visiting Archmage, his silver hair tied neatly, his robes embroidered with living runes that shimmered faintly with every breath. Beside him stood Merisa Blathazar, Jaeson's mother—radiant, graceful, her crimson gown glittering with enchantment. She smiled that perfect smile that could charm the soul out of any man.
But Jaeson knew better. He could still see her the way she looked last night—gasping in shock, pale under the candlelight, when he caught her with Valerius. He had seen her mask break. He had made her bend. And now, under the golden glow of the banquet, she stood again in full regality, her deception flawless, her lover pretending to be nothing more than a family friend.
Valerius Crowne stood only a few steps away, laughing at some nobleman's joke. He looked pale, and his step still carried a faint limp. Jaeson smirked to himself. His power had left its mark.
From where he stood, Jaeson could hear snippets of conversation—the soft venom of the elite.
"—such a shame about the youngest Blathazar," one lady whispered behind her fan.
"Eighteen and still no magic. They say even the lamps refuse to light for him."
"Perhaps he's cursed," another giggled. "Or born without a soul."
He ignored them. Words were air. He'd learned to breathe without it.
As the evening went on, speeches were made, wine flowed, and the atmosphere turned almost joyous. Jaeson moved through it all like a ghost, watching, memorizing every face. Every person here worshiped power—and in that worship, they became predictable. The Blathazars thrived on masks, and tonight, every one of them was dancing in disguise.
His father eventually rose, tapping his goblet with a silver wand that produced a clear, ringing tone that silenced the room.
"Friends and honored guests," Lord Caldrin began, his deep voice carrying easily. "Tonight we celebrate the enduring bond between houses, the rise of our young mages, and the endless pursuit of knowledge that defines our order."
A soft chorus of approval followed.
Jaeson noticed how his brothers stood around him like loyal sentinels, each displaying subtle hints of their magic—Aldren's fingertips glowing with arcane flame, Kael's silver ring floating in circles above his hand. All little displays to remind the world who they were.
When the applause ended, Caldrin's gaze flickered briefly—barely—to where Jaeson stood. For a fleeting instant, father and son locked eyes. Then the older man looked away, pretending he hadn't seen him.
The gesture was small. But it was enough.
It was always enough.
Jaeson turned from the hall, walking toward the veranda to breathe. Outside, the night was calm, the gardens sprawling beneath a silver moon. The scent of rain lingered in the air, heavy and clean. Fireflies hovered near the fountain, where marble cherubs poured endless streams of water into a crystal basin.
He leaned against the balustrade and stared up at the stars.
"Forgotten, aren't we?" came a soft voice behind him.
He didn't turn. It was Alyndra, one of the serving maids, a quiet girl with kind eyes who had once bandaged his hand after a duel gone wrong.
"Don't start pitying me, Aly," he said quietly. "You'll only end up on someone's bad side."
She gave a faint smile. "I already am. The Lady doesn't like that I speak to you."
Jaeson's lips curled slightly. "She doesn't like anyone unless they flatter her reflection."
Alyndra hesitated. "You're leaving soon, aren't you? I heard the academy closes for a month."
"I'll stay in the dorms," he replied. "No reason to come home when no one remembers I exist."
The girl looked at him, something like sadness in her eyes. "They'll regret underestimating you one day."
He looked away, his eyes dark and unreadable. "No, Aly. They'll fear me. That's far more satisfying."
Before she could reply, the doors to the hall opened again, spilling warm light and noise into the night. A figure approached—it was one of the manor's old butlers, Mr. Wren, his back stooped with age, his eyes always half-lidded as if weary of life itself.
"Master Jaeson," Wren said in his rasping voice, bowing slightly. "A letter has arrived. It bears the seal of Lady Helena Mirathen."
Jaeson's expression shifted. Aunt Helena—his mother's sister. The only one in his family who had ever written to him, ever cared to ask how he was.
He took the letter. The parchment was thick, the seal pressed with the sigil of a winged lion—the crest of House Mirathen. He broke it open.
The handwriting was delicate yet trembling, each line soaked with grief.
My dearest Jaeson,
Your uncle James has left us. He passed quietly in his sleep two nights ago. He spoke your name before he went. There are matters of inheritance and responsibility that cannot wait. Come to us at once, child. You were the only one he trusted.
— Helena Mirathen.
Jaeson folded the letter carefully, staring at the ink as if trying to see beyond it. Uncle James. The eccentric scholar who'd spent his life hunting for ancient artifacts, trying to grant himself magic through the secrets of lost civilizations. The man had been mocked by his peers, even by Jaeson's own father, for wasting his wealth on "trinkets of dead empires."
But Jaeson remembered his uncle's visits—how the man's eyes had sparkled with mad wisdom, how he'd said to him once, "Magic is not what they think, boy. It's not the spark in your blood—it's the storm in your mind."
Now he was gone.
"Do you wish me to prepare your carriage, sir?" asked Wren.
"Yes," Jaeson said quietly. "I'll leave within the hour."
He turned toward the hall. Inside, laughter roared and glasses clinked. The family that had cast him aside was celebrating a world they believed would never change.
He smiled faintly. But the world always changes.
As he walked through the corridor leading back to the main hall, he passed one of the tall mirrors. For a moment, his reflection flickered—his silver-gray eyes glowing faintly, like a hidden star beneath dark clouds. A soft hum of psychic energy rippled around him before vanishing. He closed his eyes.
The Esper in him—the part of him that belonged to another world, another life—stirred restlessly. His power was quiet but infinite, unseen but undeniable. While they wielded spells, he wielded reality.
He entered the banquet again just long enough to leave the folded letter on a table near the wine stand. Then, without a word to anyone, he turned and strode out of the hall.
His mother saw him from across the room. For a heartbeat, guilt flickered across her face. He didn't look back.
The doors closed behind him.
Moments later, curiosity got the better of Lady Merisa. When no one was watching, she glided to the table and picked up the letter. Her eyes scanned the contents—and her expression changed.
Her hand trembled.
"Merisa?" asked Aldren, noticing her pallor.
She said nothing, at first. The entire family began to gather, sensing something wrong. Lord Caldrin stepped closer. "What is it?"
Finally, she spoke, her voice low and shaken. "James Mirathen is dead."
The room fell silent.
Kael blinked. "Uncle James? The collector?"
She nodded slowly. "And… he left everything he owned to Jaeson."
It was as if the very air froze. The music stuttered to a halt, the laughter died, and the servants exchanged uneasy glances.
"What do you mean everything?" Caldrin asked, frowning.
"The estate. The vaults. His collection of artifacts. All of it. It's written here, clear as daylight."
Aldren snatched the letter from her, scanning the lines. His jaw tightened. "This must be false. The man had no heirs."
"He chose one," said Merisa softly. "And it was him."
For several moments, no one spoke. The flicker of the chandeliers painted long shadows across their faces—shadows that seemed to twist and breathe with envy.
Valerius, pale and trembling, broke the silence. "Jaeson inherits that fortune? The Mirathen vault contains relics worth a kingdom! Some say he even found a Philosopher's Heart!"
Lord Caldrin's expression darkened, deep lines carving his face. "James never trusted me. He always thought me arrogant. I suppose he found in that boy his perfect mockery of me—born without magic, blind to the gift of blood."
Merisa stared at the letter again, her mind already spinning webs of calculation. "If Jaeson inherits James's vault, then he holds power beyond gold. Those artifacts could change the balance of houses. He could… he could surpass even you."
That struck a nerve. The room grew colder.
Kael folded his arms. "We cannot allow that. A boy without magic cannot be permitted to hold such power."
"Then perhaps," Aldren said slowly, eyes narrowing, "we should ensure that he never reaches that vault."
Valerius said nothing, but his trembling hand clenched around his glass until it cracked.
Merisa lowered the letter, her eyes distant, thoughtful, dangerous. "Let him go," she said softly. "He will walk straight into the lion's den… and the lions will already be waiting."