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Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: Whispered Prophecies

The effects of Kaelen's silent scheme began to ripple through the palace. His spy network, consisting solely of the loyal servant Finn, brought him news. Two junior commanders of the Crimson Guard had been abruptly reassigned to the frozen garrisons of Ashfrost. A formal inquiry had been launched into the historical land deeds of Northreach, causing a stir among the northern lords. Vorian was chasing a ghost, and in his frustration, he was expending political capital and creating resentment within his own ranks. For the first time, Kaelen felt a sliver of control, a quiet satisfaction in his calculated disruption.

His newfound confidence, however, was quickly challenged by a summons. It was not a royal decree, but a single, unmarked scroll left on his bed, bearing the scent of old parchment and dried herbs. The note contained only three words: The Upper Scriptorium.

It was a call from Archmage Tharos.

Kaelen found him in the designated chamber, a circular room at the top of the library tower, its walls covered not with books, but with vast, intricate celestial charts. Tharos stood before a detailed map of the constellations, his back to the door.

"You have learned to turn a hunter's eye back upon itself," the Archmage said, without turning around. "A useful skill for a man who walks in the dark. You sent your brother on a fool's errand."

"I merely gave him a puzzle to solve," Kaelen replied carefully. "He is the one who chose to smash the pieces."

Tharos finally turned, his ancient eyes seeming to hold the light of the stars he studied. "He and the rest of this court are fools. They whisper about your 'Blood Moon curse,' chattering about omens like superstitious farmers. They see the smoke from the fire and call it the source of the heat. They have forgotten the old texts. They have forgotten the prophecies."

Kaelen's breath caught. "Prophecies?"

"They are dangerous things," Tharos said, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "Words with the power to shape the future, or to shatter it. There is one, a fragment of a prophecy, that has been deliberately struck from most records. It speaks of a time of great turmoil for the kingdom."

The Archmage took a step closer, his gaze intense. "It warns of a figure, born under ill-omened skies, who will determine the fate of Eryndor. A figure it calls the Child of Shadows." He let the title hang in the air, heavy and charged. He then recited the line, his voice a dry whisper that echoed the rustle of ancient scrolls.

"Child of forgotten name shall rise from shadow's trail."

Kaelen felt a cold dread mix with a strange, unwelcome spark of something else. Hope? It was absurd. "Prophecies are stories, Archmage. Words used by the powerful to legitimize their rule or by the desperate to incite rebellion. Their power is not in their truth, but in the belief they command."

"Precisely!" Tharos's eyes lit up with a fierce intelligence. "And a story is the most powerful weapon of all, my prince. It can build a throne where there was none, or it can burn a kingdom to ash. Vorian has the power of fire and steel. You… you have the power of narrative. The court has already branded you with a story—that of a cursed, magic-less boy. The question is, will you let them write your tale, or will you seize the inkwell and write it yourself?"

The Archmage had given him a new, terrifying weapon. A label. A destiny, false or not, that he could potentially wield. The Child of Shadows. It sounded like a condemnation, but in Tharos's framing, it sounded like a title waiting to be claimed.

Tharos dismissed him with a wave of his hand, turning back to his star charts. As Kaelen reached the door, the old mage spoke one last time, his voice a parting shot.

"Be wary, Prince Kaelen. Some stories, once they are told, cannot be stopped. They develop a life and a will of their own."

Kaelen walked through the silent corridors of the palace, the Archmage's words echoing in his mind. He was the child of a forgotten name, his mother's, which was rarely spoken. He had risen from the trail of shadows where the court had cast him. The prophecy fit him like a shroud, or perhaps, like a crown.

Chapter End

Next: Chapter 8 - The Curse Unveiled

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