Blood on his lips. Shame in his chest. Dust on his knees.
Riven Veyne limped through the towering iron gates of his family's estate like a ghost no one wanted to see. The gilded crest above the archway—a serpent coiled around a dagger—glared down at him, as if even the house itself judged his weakness.
The golden light of late afternoon scattered across the white marble paths and flower-trimmed hedges, casting long shadows that stretched like grasping fingers. But Riven saw none of it. Not the soaring arches, not the crystal fountains, not the delicate glowshrooms blooming in their glass cages. Beauty didn't reach you when your stomach churned with humiliation.
His academy uniform was in tatters, the once-fine fabric shredded at the sleeves, the Veyne crest sullied with dirt. His legs ached from where Dain had forced him to his knees. His fingers trembled with a sick cocktail of rage and shame.
And then—*of course*—came the voice.
> **"By the Cunning God's wit!"**
Marla stood at the top of the grand staircase like a thundercloud wrapped in velvet. Her lynx-like ears twitched atop a crown of dark hair braided tightly against her scalp, the silver streaks at her temples catching the light. Clad in the black-and-gold livery of House Veyne, she descended swiftly—her amber eyes already narrowing in that way that made Riven straighten on instinct.
She didn't ask if he was hurt. She asked the *real* question.
> **"Again, young master?"**
Riven tried to stand straighter but winced as his left knee buckled. Marla reached him in a heartbeat, her grip firm as she guided him inside. Her voice was sharp, her eyes sharper—but her hands were steady. Never cruel.
> **"You look like a cursed Drassian street brawler,"** she muttered, wrinkling her nose at the tear in his trousers. **"And I *just* cleaned the floors."**
Inside, the manor's scent greeted him: lavender, beeswax, and warm clove. *Marla's* signature. She maintained the Veyne estate like a sacred relic. No one else seemed to care about its soul anymore.
> **"Sit,"** she ordered, ushering him onto a velvet bench near the hearth. **"And don't bleed on the carpet."**
She pulled a damp cloth from her apron, then a jar of thick salve—something pungent and herbal that stung the moment it touched his skin. Riven hissed as she dabbed his split lip.
> **"It was… Dain and Corvin,"** he muttered.
They had once been his friends. Sons of minor nobles—wealthy, but not *Veyne*-wealthy. As children, they'd played together in sunlit gardens, sparring with wooden swords and dreaming of the day they'd be blessed by the gods.
But everything changed the day the priests announced he was unblessed. The day Aeth—the divine current that flowed through all things—refused to answer his call.
Jealousy festered in their eyes. Disgust followed. His weakness, combined with the Veyne name, made him the perfect target.
> **"Those little vermin *again*?"** Marla hissed, her grip tightening on the cloth.
Riven nodded.
> **"They used Aeth this time. Corvin summoned a gust. Dain made the ground tremble. I couldn't even stand."**
Marla paused. Her hand stilled on his cheek, hovering just above the wound. Then she resumed—slower now, gentler. Her fingers brushed his jaw with care that felt more than duty.
> **"You should tell your mother."**
> **"It won't help."**
Before Marla could reply, the double doors creaked open.
Lady Ellaria Veyne drifted in on silk and perfume, her expression painted to perfection. Her gown shimmered in emerald and bone-white, the fabric whispering secrets with every step. A golden braid curled like a serpent over her shoulder, the ends threaded with tiny obsidian beads.
Her pale green eyes—identical to Riven's, though he sometimes doubted the connection—swept the room with rehearsed concern.
> **"My *darling*,"** she crooned, her voice honeyed. **"What happened this time?"**
Marla rose stiffly, her jaw set.
> **"The young master was attacked again. At the academy. Aeth was involved."**
A pause. A flicker of something sharp in Ellaria's gaze—gone in a blink.
> **"I'll speak with their parents,"** she said evenly.
> **"But my lady,"** Marla pressed, **"Aeth was used without permission. The school should be informed—"**
> **"Hush,"** Ellaria snapped, her tone velvet-lined steel. **"Don't instruct me on how to raise my son. It's not as if you're the only one who cares for Riven."**
She stepped closer, her voice lowering.
> **"The Limar and Blera families are important business partners. We'll handle this *internally*. Authorities would only damage our relationship. Understood?"**
> **"Yes, madam,"** Marla murmured, bowing her head.
Ellaria knelt beside Riven, her touch soft, almost *calculated*.
> **"Oh, my poor sweet boy,"** she whispered, tilting his chin. **"They're just jealous. You're *special*. Unique. That frightens them."**
Riven stared at her.
She said all the right things. *As always.*
But none of it ever felt *real*.
His parents adored him—but smothered, not loved. They never scolded. Never encouraged. Never mourned his pain or celebrated his joy.
So, he hid. Buried himself in books—not from passion, but desperation. Searching for answers. *Why was he unblessed? Was there a cure? A reason?*
All he found was disappointment.
> **"Here,"** Ellaria cooed, producing a velvet-wrapped box from her sleeve. **"Honey cakes. From the capital. Fresh this morning."**
His eyes lit up despite himself. The scent of cinnamon and sugar was thick with memory—of simpler days, before the priests' verdict, before the whispers.
He reached for the box.
> **"With respect, my lady, the physician strictly—"** Marla began.
> **"Oh *hush*, Marla."** Ellaria waved her off. **"One indulgence won't hurt."**
She pressed the box into Riven's lap.
> **"Eat, love. You've earned it."**
He bit into the first cake. The sweetness melted on his tongue. It didn't erase the pain—but it dulled it.
Ellaria rose, brushing imaginary dust from her gown. As she turned away, her smile faded behind her eyes.
>"You'll feel better soon," she said. Then, as she turned away—under her breath—she murmured
"Everything I do is by the gods' will… it's not as if I care for him."
Marla didn't move.
But her gaze followed Ellaria like a drawn blade.
---
*Later That Evening*
As Marla redressed his wounds in the manor's sitting room, Riven stared at the chandeliers flickering overhead, their crystals casting fractured light across the walls.
> **"Do you know why your father built this estate with so many windows?"** she asked suddenly.
> **"To impress visiting nobles?"** he guessed.
> **"No."** A rare smirk touched her lips. **"So no one could hide. Not a whisper. Not a shadow. Only mirrors."**
Riven glanced at the tall windows lining the east wall. The blood-orange sun spilled across the polished floors, turning them to liquid fire.
> **"The Veyne name was built on cunning,"** Marla said, winding fresh bandages around his wrist. **"Politics. Trade. Deceit. Baron Aldric once convinced two rival guilds to ruin each other—then bought both for half their worth."**
> **"Impressive,"** Riven murmured.
> **"Dangerous,"** she corrected. **"Everything in this house is a weapon. Even the wine."**
He fell quiet.
Then softly:
> **"Do you think I'll ever be like him?"**
Marla paused.
Adric Veyne. The baron. People didn't bow to him because of riches or title. They bowed because he commanded Aeth—and wielded the God of Cunning's blessing like a blade. He led armies. Broke kings. Slaughtered monsters beyond number.
But his most terrifying power? Words.
He never moved a piece until he knew he would win.
> **"Do you *want* to be?"**
> **"…No. But I don't want to be *this* either."**
She gently patted his bandaged knee.
> **"Then become something else. Something they can't predict."**
---
### **That Night**
Riven usually read before bed. But not tonight.
He lay beneath velvet sheets, staring at the mosaic on the ceiling—twin dragons coiled around a crystal fragment, etched in gold and stardust.
He'd memorized it as a child.
It told the story of the Sundering—when gods went to war, and the world shattered.
Now the sky held floating Fragments—shattered lands drifting like islands in the clouds. Each ruled by a god. Each pulsing with Aeth, the divine current that wove reality together.
Riven's homeland, Velesh, belonged to Vexis, the God of Cunning. Other Fragments bowed to War, Silence, Greed—each a mirror of their patron.
Every child was blessed before thirteen.
*Everyone but him.*
No divine surge. No mark of power.
At fifteen, he was slow, soft, untouched by the gods. He couldn't lift a blade. Couldn't conjure a breeze. His weight made him a target. His silence made him forgettable. His name made him hated.
A noble with no power. A Veyne with no cunning. A chess piece born without a role.
And yet—Marla remained.
She always stayed.
> **"You need to fight back,"** she often said. **"Even with your words."**
"How?" he'd often think. "Words can't break bones."
And then:
"You're smart. Observant. More mature than you look. That's your strength. Gather information. Information is a weapon, too."
He never knew how to respond.
---
His eyes fluttered shut.
But just before sleep claimed him, something brushed the edge of his mind—soft as breath.
> **"Find me."**
He bolted upright.
The room was silent. Still. Cold.
*"Again... that dream."*
Was it a dream?
It was always the same: ash falling like rain, a pitch-black sky with an ashen moon, a lone figure in a black shroud standing in a desert of grey dust—twin swords in hand.
Always whispering the same words: *"Find me."*
The scenery was a dream.
But the voice?
The voice was *real.*
And it had come from *within.*