The morning sun never reached his room.Only pale, diluted light filtered in through the narrow window, like the castle itself refused to let him see the world outside.
Kaelen hadn't slept. The stone walls were cold. The silence colder. Every creak in the floor above made him tense. Every footstep in the hall could mean a blade.
He wasn't naive. They didn't bring him here to protect him.They brought him here to place him where they could see him… and break him if needed.
The door opened with a metallic groan.A boy—no older than him—stepped in, carrying folded garments. Not a soldier. A servant.
"Lord Kaelen," the boy said, voice careful, avoiding his gaze. "You are to be cleaned and dressed for presentation to the court."
"Don't call me that," Kaelen muttered.
The boy glanced up, startled. "I… I apologize. That is the title they gave you in the notice."
"Do I look like a lord to you?"
"No, milord," the boy said quickly, then froze. "I mean—no, sir. I mean—sorry."
Kaelen sighed. The kid was terrified.
He stood, took the clothes without comment. Dark navy tunic with silver embroidery. Simple, but clearly noble-made. The fabric alone probably cost more than the roof of his old house.
They want me to look like one of them, Kaelen thought.But I'll never be one of them.
After bathing, they led him through a corridor layered in crimson carpets and velvet drapes.Every step was watched. By soldiers. By servants. By the portraits of long-dead kings whose eyes followed him down the hall like ghosts judging a trespasser.
They passed a grand hall and entered the Council Chamber—a circular room with ten velvet chairs arranged in a crescent. Above, stained glass windows bled colored light onto the marble floor.
In the center, a silver throne.
Empty.
But power doesn't always sit on thrones.
Nine people stood in wait.
A tall man in ceremonial black, arms behind his back like a blade sheathed in discipline.
A woman in fur and rubies, with a snake-shaped cane.
A priest in gold thread, smiling too wide.
Others dressed not in armor—but in arrogance.
Kaelen was guided to the center.
No one told him to kneel.No one offered a seat.
"You are Kaelen," the priest said. "Son of King Alraic, born of unknown blood."
"I know who my mother is."
"Do you know who you are?"
Kaelen raised his chin. "I'm not one of you."
A long silence.
Then the woman with the snake cane laughed. "At least he doesn't pretend."
Another man stepped forward. Younger. Handsome. Cold.
"I am Lord Rhaen, second heir of the High Crown," he said. "And you are not welcome here."
Kaelen met his gaze. "Then kill me now."
The room shifted.
"No," said the man in black. "That would be too kind."
The priest raised a hand. "He is here by decree. His blood is real. Whether we like it or not, he is part of this house."
"No," Lord Rhaen said, stepping closer. "He is part of our problem."
Kaelen didn't blink. "Then you should be careful, my lord."
Rhaen arched an eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"
"No," Kaelen replied. "A warning."
They dismissed him after that.
No punishment. No praise. No welcome.
He wasn't a guest.
He was a message.
A shadow reminder that blood does not forget… and sometimes, it walks back into the room.
As Kaelen returned to his chamber, the servant boy from before waited at the door.
"Was it terrible, milord?"
Kaelen said nothing.
But then he looked at the boy, and asked:
"What's your name?"
The boy blinked. "Ren."
"Good," Kaelen said. "Then we're not nameless anymore."