Thunder woke Kael before the sun.
It wasn't unusual. In Stormvale, storms arrived with the regularity of tides, dragging with them the smell of salt and iron that permeated every stone of the Drayvar mansion. Kael remained motionless beneath rough sheets, watching shadows dance on his small room's ceiling while the sea roared against the cliffs.
Another day, he thought without clear words. Another invisible day.
The door opened with the familiar squeak of hinges nobody bothered to oil. Ama Maren entered with firm steps, her skirts whispering against the stone floor. She was a woman with a weathered face and calloused hands, one of the few people in the mansion who looked him in the eyes when speaking.
—Up, young Kael —she said with neutral voice, neither warm nor cold. Professional—. Breakfast is served in half an hour.
Kael sat up, pushing aside the blankets. The room was functional: a narrow bed, a chest for clothes, a window facing the stormy sea. No tapestries, no thick carpets, none of the ornaments decorating Rylan and Lyssara's rooms in the west wing. His window didn't even have proper curtains, just a gray cloth barely blocking the dawn light.
—Thank you, Ama Maren —he responded, rubbing his eyes.
The woman hesitated an instant, and in that brief moment, Kael saw something like compassion cross her face. But it vanished as quickly as it had come.
—Your brother Sareth is already awake —she added before leaving—. He's waiting for you in the hallway.
The door closed, leaving Kael alone with the sound of wind howling against the stone walls. He dressed quickly: simple gray tunic, dark wool pants, boots already too small. Nobody had noticed his feet had grown in the last two months.
Of course they didn't notice, he thought with a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. They'd have to look at me to realize.
The main dining hall of the Drayvar mansion was a spacious room with tall windows framing the raging sea. The dark oak table could easily accommodate twenty people, but that morning, like every morning, only six chairs were occupied.
Kael entered last, with Sareth clinging to his shadow like a nervous puppy. His older brother—though nobody would call him that by how he behaved—had the same black curly hair but permanently disheveled, and eyes that never stopped moving, as if expecting something bad to happen any moment.
He probably does, Kael thought as they slid toward their seats at the table's left end. After his ceremony, he probably always does.
Varen Drayvar was already seated at the head, with a pile of scrolls spread beside his untouched plate. His father—because technically he was, though the word felt hollow in Kael's mouth—had his jaw clenched while his gray eyes scanned what appeared to be military reports. There were grays at his temples that weren't there last year.
Thirty-four years when I was born, Kael remembered. Forty-two now. And he's never asked how I am.
To Varen's right, Elyn Valmar—because she would never be "mother" to Kael, not even in his most charitable thoughts—cut a piece of bread with surgical precision. Her platinum blonde hair was gathered in a bun so perfect it seemed carved from marble. She didn't look up when Kael and Sareth sat down.
She didn't need to. Her indifference was a perfected art.
—Good morning, mother —said Rylan from his seat beside Elyn, his voice full of that morning enthusiasm only those completely secure in their place in the world could afford.
He was fourteen years old, but already measured over five feet seven, with shoulders beginning to broaden from constant training. His black curly hair was cut in military style, revealing a small scar on his left eyebrow that looked like a medal of honor.
—Good morning, Rylan —Elyn responded, and it was like watching the sun rise. Her voice softened, her eyes—the same gray as Varen's but colder—lit with genuine affection—. Did you sleep well?
—Yes, mother. I dreamed that...
Kael stopped listening. He already knew this conversation. It repeated every morning with slight variations: Rylan talked about training, Elyn praised him, Varen grunted something that could be interpreted as approval. Sareth looked at his plate. Kael observed.
He always observed.
Lyssara arrived late, because Lyssara always arrived when she wanted. At thirteen, she'd already learned that rules were for those who needed to hide behind them. She slid into her chair with a book under her arm—something about naval strategy she'd probably stolen from Varen's library—and began eating without greeting anyone.
Her eyes, however, swept the table in a quick, calculating scan. They stopped half a second on Kael.
He held her gaze.
She looked away first, but at the corner of her lips was something that could have been a smile. Or a threat. With Lyssara, it was hard to distinguish.
—Master Torin says I'll soon reach Apprentice second layer —Rylan announced, puffing his chest slightly—. He says my progress is... how did he put it? Ah, yes, "exceptional for my age."
—Of course it is —said Elyn, and her pride was so tangible Kael could almost see it shine around her like an aura—. Valmar and Drayvar blood. You're the son of two great houses, Rylan. It's in your nature to be exceptional.
And us, Kael thought while spreading butter on his dry bread, we're children of a dead concubine. I suppose that's in our nature too.
—How long did it take you to reach second layer, father? —Rylan asked, turning toward Varen.
Varen looked up from his scrolls, blinking as if he'd just remembered there were other people in the room.
—Fifteen years —he responded with hoarse voice—. But times were different. Less structure in training.
—Then I'm ahead —Rylan concluded with a satisfied smile.
—You are.
Varen returned to his reports. The conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Rylan didn't seem offended; he was used to his father's emotional distance. Elyn didn't react either, now mentally reviewing—Kael could see it in how her eyes moved—some plan or strategy probably involving further securing Rylan's future.
Sareth leaned toward Kael, whispering so low it was barely audible over the wind hitting the windows.
—Do you think they'll ever teach us too?
Kael chewed his bread slowly before responding, also in a whisper.
—Not you, Sareth.
He saw his brother's face crumble, but continued with neutral voice:
—Your ceremony was clear. Weak Aether. You're not a warrior.
—Then... what am I? —Sareth's voice trembled slightly.
Kael looked at him, really looked. He saw a nine-year-old boy who'd been broken at five, when an ancient crystal told the entire world he wasn't worth enough. He saw the constant fear in his eyes, how his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow any moment.
And something in Kael's chest—something small and resistant that hadn't been completely crushed by six years of indifference—tightened.
—You're my brother —he said simply—. That's enough.
Sareth blinked, and for a moment, something like hope illuminated his face.
—But seriously —Kael continued, returning to his bread—, you should stop thinking about swords. There are other ways to be strong.
—Like what?
Kael didn't respond immediately. His eyes drifted toward Lyssara, who had closed her book and now watched Rylan with analytical expression while he explained some combat technique to Elyn. Lyssara couldn't defeat Rylan in a duel—not yet, maybe never—but Kael had seen how she got things. How she manipulated conversations. How she planted seeds of doubt with innocent questions.
—Like knowing things others don't know —he said finally—. Like understanding what people want before they know themselves. Like being there when they need you and disappearing when they don't.
Sareth looked at him with confusion.
—I don't understand.
—Not yet —Kael admitted—. Neither do I. But I will.
I have to, he added silently, watching Varen finally push his plate aside without having tasted more than two bites. Because average was what they said at my ceremony. Average like my existence. And if I stay here, being average, I'll disappear completely.
Breakfast ended the same way it began: with Varen withdrawing first without a word, followed by Elyn and Rylan, who still talked animatedly about his training. Lyssara left with her book, casting one last indecipherable look at Kael.
And Kael and Sareth remained alone at the table's end, eating the leftover dry bread, invisible even to the servants who began cleaning.
Kael's and Sareth's tutor was named Master Corvin, a middle-aged man with a prominent belly and a voice that seemed designed to induce sleep. He was from a minor house—so minor that Kael had never bothered to find out which—and had been assigned to educate Varen's "secondary children" with the same enthusiasm someone might accept cleaning latrines.
The study room was small, located in the mansion's east wing, far from the main areas. It had a long table, three uncomfortable chairs, and shelves filled with old books that smelled of dampness and abandonment.
—Today —Master Corvin announced with a sigh suggesting he'd prefer to be anywhere else—, we'll continue with the Empire's history. Specifically, the consolidation of power under Emperor Titus Draconis.
Sareth straightened immediately, pulling out parchment and quill with nervous movements. He was an obsessive student, taking notes of every word the tutor said, underlining passages in borrowed books, memorizing dates and names as if his life depended on it.
Maybe it does, Kael thought while leaning back in his chair. If he can't be strong, at least he can be useful. That's his survival strategy.
—Emperor Titus ascended to the throne three hundred twelve years ago —Corvin continued, reading directly from a book without even looking at his students—, following his father Emperor Cassius Draconis's death. In the first fifty years of his reign, he consolidated the six Great Houses' power under the imperial banner, eradicating...
The tutor's voice became background noise. Kael pulled out his own parchment, but instead of taking notes, he began drawing in the margins. First, the basic shape of the Drayvar mansion seen from above. Then, small circles representing each family member, with lines connecting them.
Varen at the center, but isolated.
Elyn strongly connected to Rylan and Lyssara.
Sareth and himself floating at the edges, almost outside the diagram.
—...and thus Emperor Titus, in his infinite wisdom, established the Solar Imperial Council, ensuring each Great House had a voice but none could challenge the Crown's authority.
Voice but no power, Kael mentally translated. Control without illusion of freedom. Clever.
—Young Kael —Corvin's voice pulled him from his thoughts—, are you paying attention?
Kael looked up, his expression perfectly innocent.
—Of course, Master Corvin. Emperor Titus established the Solar Council... —he pretended to consult his "notes"— two hundred sixty years ago, after the Three Houses Rebellion.
Corvin blinked, clearly surprised Kael knew the answer.
—Yes, well. Correct. Pay more attention to my words instead of... —he looked at Kael's parchment, frowning at the drawings— ...scribbling.
—Yes, Master.
Corvin continued his monotonous recital. Sareth kept writing fervently. And Kael returned to his diagrams, this time adding arrows. Arrows showing flows of power, attention, resources.
All arrows flowed toward Rylan.
None flowed toward him.
Not yet, he thought, tracing a dotted line from his own circle toward the diagram's center. But someday. Somehow.
—...and this brings us to the Divine Weapons, legacies of the Gods' Era. Can anyone name the two main weapons that still exist?
Sareth's hand shot up.
—Zorath's Sword, wielded by Emperor Titus, and Kryon's Spear, in our House Drayvar's possession.
—Correct —Corvin admitted without enthusiasm—. Though "in possession" is a generous term. Kryon's Spear hasn't been wielded in combat for two hundred years. It's more relic than weapon at this point.
—Why? —Kael asked before he could stop himself.
Corvin looked at him with surprise, as if furniture had suddenly spoken.
—Why what?
—Why hasn't it been wielded? If it's a divine weapon, shouldn't it be used?
—Divine Weapons have... costs —Corvin said uncomfortably—. The kind of costs that make even the most powerful think twice before using them. Now, let's return to...
But Kael was no longer listening. His mind had hooked on that word: costs.
Everything has a cost, he thought. Power, position, respect. The question is: what are you willing to pay?
The lesson continued for another interminable hour. When it finally ended, Sareth had three pages of meticulous notes. Kael had one page of diagrams and a question he couldn't shake from his head.
How much would it cost to stop being invisible?