The announcement came with autumn's first chill—a formal summons delivered by a stone-faced servant who wouldn't meet Lucien's eyes.
The House of Argentel cordially requires the attendance of all family members at the Annual Ceremony of Acknowledgment. Formal attire mandatory. Absence will be noted.
Lucien read the parchment three times, each word feeling like a small blade. Requires. Not invites. All family members—which technically included him, though the servant's reluctance to hand over the summons suggested how tenuously that status held.
"They do this every year," Elara said quietly, watching him from across their small kitchen table. Two months had passed since she'd begun training him, and the changes were visible: his shoulders had broadened slightly, calluses now armored his palms, and he moved with a fluidity that hadn't existed before. But his mother's expression held only dread. "It's political theater. The great houses invite each other to demonstrate their strength, secure alliances, remind everyone of the hierarchy."
"And bastards?" Lucien asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Are props." Her voice was flat. "Living reminders that even the perfect Argentel bloodline has flaws, but that the family is magnanimous enough to acknowledge even their mistakes. You'll stand in the back, be seen but not heard, and serve as a cautionary tale about the importance of proper marriages."
The bitterness in her words was acidic. Lucien folded the summons carefully, violet wisps unconsciously curling around his fingers—a habit he'd developed during training. The energy responded to emotion now, appearing whenever his control slipped.
"I could refuse to go," he suggested, knowing it was futile.
"And give them justification to revoke even the minimal protections you have? No." Elara stood, moving to the small chest where she kept what little finery they possessed. "You'll go. You'll endure. And you'll remember every slight, every dismissal, every moment of humiliation. Let it fuel you."
She pulled out a formal tunic—plain black, no house crest, the fabric serviceable but far from luxurious. "But you won't go dressed like a beggar. I've been saving for something like this."
Over the next week, Elara worked in the evenings to alter the tunic, adding subtle embroidery in deep purple thread that could pass for decorative shadowing in dim light. It was a quiet act of rebellion—dressing her son in the colors of their heritage while making it invisible enough to avoid immediate censure.
Lucien watched her work, needle flashing in candlelight, and felt something complex twist in his chest. Love and guilt and determination mixing into an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"Mother," he said during one of these sessions, "when this is over—when I've proven myself—you won't have to hide anymore. I'll make sure of it."
Elara's hands stilled on the fabric. "Lucien, I need you to understand something. This ceremony, your training, everything we're doing—none of it is about me. It's about you surviving and, maybe, thriving. Don't carry my ghosts alongside your own burdens. They're too heavy."
"They're not ghosts if they're still trying to kill us."
She smiled sadly. "Fair enough. Then carry them with purpose, not with rage. Rage burns hot and fast. Purpose sustains."
The night before the ceremony, they trained until Lucien's body trembled with exhaustion. Elara drilled him relentlessly in the Shadow Dancing forms, pushing him to move faster, strike cleaner, maintain his violet domain even while physically engaged.
"Your color will be suppressed tomorrow," she warned, watching him flow through a complex pattern of feints and redirections. "The Argentel great hall is warded with white-aspected crystals. They're designed to enhance white abilities and dampen everything else. It's tradition—or so they claim. Really, it's about control."
Lucien stumbled slightly, his concentration breaking. "So I'll be powerless."
"No. You'll be subtle." She corrected his stance with a tap of her practice blade. "Violet doesn't announce itself like white or red. We're strongest when we're underestimated. Those wards will make your power harder to manifest, yes, but they won't eliminate it entirely. And anyone not looking for violet won't notice the small things—a shimmer in the air, a moment of disorientation, a perception slightly altered."
She stepped back, lowering her blade. "Tomorrow isn't about demonstrating your power. It's about reconnaissance. Watch everything. Learn everyone's capabilities. Understand the political currents. A Court Shadow's greatest weapon was always information."
That night, Lucien barely slept. He lay awake thinking about the ceremony, about standing once more in a room full of people who would look through him. But this time felt different. This time, he wasn't a helpless child watching his siblings train. He was a student of the Court Shadows, carrier of a legacy that had been deemed too dangerous to allow.
Let them dismiss me, he thought as violet wisps danced across his ceiling. Every moment they underestimate me is a moment I gain.
The great hall had been transformed.
Lucien arrived early, as required of lesser family members, and found the massive space barely recognizable. Banners bearing the Argentel crest hung from every column—the white sword wreathed in holy fire now seemed to blaze with actual light, enhanced by the crystalline wards Elara had mentioned. He could feel them even from the entrance: a subtle pressure against his consciousness, like a hand gently but firmly pushing away anything that wasn't white-aligned.
His violet, normally a constant presence at the edge of his awareness, retreated deeper. Not gone, but muted. Harder to access.
Good, Lucien thought with grim satisfaction. If they think they've neutralized anything non-white, they won't be looking for it.
The hall filled rapidly. Branch families arrived in clusters, their formal attire displaying the Argentel colors with varying degrees of ornamentation depending on their status within the hierarchy. Lucien recognized several cousins from previous ceremonies—all ignored him with practiced ease.
Then came the legitimate heirs.
Aldric entered like a prince, which wasn't far from the truth. At sixteen, he'd grown even taller, his formal armor a masterwork of white-enameled steel etched with holy symbols. His natural charisma drew eyes immediately, and Lucien watched branch family members gravitate toward him, seeking acknowledgment, hoping for a word or a nod that would elevate their own standing.
Seraphine followed, and Lucien found himself studying her more carefully than before. At twelve, she moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, her white-blonde hair woven with silver threads that caught the light. Her dress was the pale blue of winter ice, formal but elegant. Unlike Aldric's commanding presence, hers was quieter—but no less magnetic. People watched her with reverence rather than ambition.
She's the healer, Lucien remembered. The one who creates white flames that purify rather than destroy. They see her as something precious, almost holy.
The younger legitimate children—three more, ranging from eight to ten—clustered together, their excitement barely contained. They wore simplified versions of formal armor, already marked as future warriors of the house.
And then there was Lucien, standing against the far wall, dressed in his mother's carefully altered tunic. No armor. No silver thread. No cluster of admirers seeking favor.
Just a bastard fulfilling his required attendance.
The noble guests began arriving: representatives from other great houses, minor nobles seeking to curry favor, wealthy merchants hoping to secure contracts with one of the kingdom's premier knight families. Each entrance was announced, names and titles echoing through the hall with ceremonial weight.
"Lord Matthias Solarius, Second Heir of the Golden House!"
"Lady Veshra Crimsonblade, Representative of House Ignis!"
"Sir Darren Nocturn, Shadow Knight of the Black Void!"
Lucien absorbed every detail. The way Solarius representatives wore gold that actually seemed to glow, enhancing everything around them. The controlled aggression of the Crimsonblade delegation, their red auras barely leashed. The unsettling presence of the Nocturn knight, whose black armor seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it.
These were the powers that ruled Lumendor—families whose colors had been deemed acceptable, whose abilities supported rather than threatened the established order.
Finally, Lord Cassian Argentel entered.
The hall fell silent immediately. Lucien's father wore full ceremonial plate, white steel so pure it was almost painful to look at directly. His presence commanded the space effortlessly, and even the other noble houses' representatives straightened slightly in deference.
"Friends, allies, and honored guests," Cassian's voice carried without effort, rich and warm yet edged with authority. "Welcome to the Annual Ceremony of Acknowledgment. Tonight, we celebrate not just House Argentel's continued strength, but the bonds between all families who serve the crown and protect the kingdom."
Applause rippled through the hall. Lucien remained still, watching his father's face. There was pride there, and confidence, and the absolute certainty of a man who'd never questioned his place in the world.
Must be nice, Lucien thought with bitter humor.
"As tradition demands," Cassian continued, "we begin with a demonstration of our house's capabilities. Each heir will showcase the gifts that mark them as true Argentel—the white light that has protected this kingdom for generations."
He gestured, and Aldric stepped forward into the cleared center of the hall.
The room's attention focused like a spotlight. Aldric assumed a formal stance, feet planted, arms spread. His white aura, always present as a faint glow, suddenly blazed like a star. The energy coalesced around him, forming complex geometric patterns in the air.
Then, with a sound like thunder contained in crystal, a barrier erupted outward.
It was massive—a hemisphere of white light that expanded to encompass nearly a quarter of the hall. Lucien could see the intricate structure of it: not a simple wall, but a lattice of interwoven energy that would disperse impact across countless points. The barrier's surface rippled with holy fire, and where it passed near the decorative candles, their flames purified to white.
The assembled nobles gasped appreciatively. Even representatives from other great houses looked impressed.
"The Argentel Shield," Cassian announced with undisguised pride. "A technique that took me until age eighteen to manifest. Aldric mastered it at sixteen. A barrier that can withstand siege weaponry while simultaneously purifying any hostile magic that touches it."
Aldric held the barrier for a full minute—an impressive display of both power and control—then released it gradually, the white light dissipating like morning mist. He bowed to formal applause, his expression carefully modest but his eyes bright with satisfaction.
He's good, Lucien admitted reluctantly. Whatever else he is, Aldric has genuine talent and has trained relentlessly to develop it.
Next came Seraphine.
Where Aldric's display had been overwhelming, Seraphine's was intimate. She stepped forward and knelt, pressing her palms to the floor. White flames—gentler than her brother's but no less intense—spread outward in delicate patterns. They moved across the stone like living things, seeking imperfection.
The hall's floor, despite being meticulously cleaned, showed its age: tiny cracks, worn spots, places where centuries of use had taken their toll. The white flames found every flaw and, with a sound like a soft sigh, purified them. Cracks sealed. Worn stone smoothed. Even the mortar between stones brightened, decades of grime simply ceasing to exist.
When Seraphine stood, the floor beneath her gleamed as if newly laid.
"The Argentel Restoration," Cassian said, and there was a different note in his voice—something almost tender. "My daughter possesses a rare gift: white flames that remember perfection and burn away only corruption. Already, the royal physicians have requested her assistance with treatments beyond conventional healing."
Seraphine's bow was graceful, and Lucien noticed she didn't meet the crowd's eyes. There was a shyness to her, a discomfort with the attention that seemed at odds with her confident demonstration.
Interesting, he thought. She doesn't enjoy the performance. She just excels at it.
The younger children followed, their displays more modest but still impressive for their ages. Basic barriers, small purification flames, enhancement techniques that made weapons glow with white power. Each drew appropriate applause and praise from Lord Cassian.
Then came the branch families.
They demonstrated competent but clearly lesser versions of white abilities. Their barriers were smaller, their flames less pure, their techniques functional but unrefined. It was a careful hierarchy made visible—the main line stood at the peak, the branch families served as capable supports, and everyone knew their place.
Lucien watched from his position against the wall, and with each demonstration, the pressure in his chest built. This was what he'd been denied. Not just the training, but the acknowledgment. Every child who stepped forward was being told, publicly and ceremonially: You matter. You are worthy. You carry our legacy.
And he stood in the shadows, unseen and uncalled.
The demonstrations concluded. Lord Cassian surveyed the assembled family with visible satisfaction. "The Argentel bloodline remains strong," he declared. "Our white light continues to burn bright, protecting the kingdom as it has for generations. May it ever be so."
"May it ever be so," the hall echoed.
Then Cassian's gaze swept the room, touching each family member, each representative, each guest. His eyes moved across faces, acknowledging presence and worth.
And when they reached Lucien's corner, they slid past without pausing.
Not quickly. Not with obvious dismissal. Just... past. As if the space Lucien occupied was empty. As if the boy in the plain black tunic with subtle purple embroidery didn't exist at all.
Lucien felt something crack inside his chest—not breaking, but fracturing in a way that would leave permanent marks. He'd known this would happen. Had prepared himself for it. But knowing and experiencing were entirely different things.
Around him, the ceremony continued. Noble houses mingled, making connections and discussing politics. The Solarius representative praised Aldric's technique. A merchant sought introduction to Seraphine, hoping to secure her healing services for a sick family member. Branch family members clustered around the younger children, offering congratulations and subtle attempts to curry favor.
And Lucien stood alone, a ghost at his own family's celebration.
He noticed Seraphine glance his direction once—just a brief flicker of her eyes toward his corner, an expression he couldn't quite read crossing her face before she was pulled into another conversation. Had she seen him? Or had she simply looked at empty space like everyone else?
The evening dragged on. Lucien endured speeches about the importance of bloodline purity, about the divine gift of white color, about how House Argentel served as a beacon of certainty in an uncertain world. Each word felt designed to remind him that he didn't belong.
Finally, as the formal portion concluded and the gathering dissolved into more casual mingling, Lucien overheard a conversation between two minor nobles standing near his corner. They spoke quietly, assuming—correctly—that no one important stood within earshot.
"Did you hear about the Inter-House Tournament?" one asked, a man wearing the colors of a lesser military house.
"In the spring? Of course. My nephew is planning to enter." The second noble, a woman with steel-grey hair, sipped wine thoughtfully. "They say the prize this year is particularly generous—sponsorship from the royal guard, guaranteed position as a knight-captain, and a substantial land grant."
"It's meant to identify new talent, I hear. The king wants fresh blood in his forces after that border skirmish with Valdris. They're opening entry to more houses than usual—not just the three great families."
"Smart. Give the ambitious ones a path to advancement, and you reduce internal pressure. Though I can't imagine anyone outside the great houses actually winning. The Argentel, Solarius, and Nocturn heirs are all entering. It'll be a showcase for them more than a real competition."
The first noble chuckled. "True. Though I suppose that's the point. Demonstrate the great houses' superiority, remind everyone of the hierarchy, keep the ambitious ones hopeful enough not to rebel."
They moved away, conversation shifting to other topics.
But Lucien stood frozen, their words echoing in his mind.
Inter-House Tournament. Open to more families than usual. A path to advancement for the ambitious.
His heart hammered. This was it—an opportunity, maybe the only one he'd get. A public venue where skill would matter more than bloodline. Where he could prove himself not to his family, but to the entire kingdom.
If he could find a way to enter.
The ceremony finally ended near midnight. Lucien escaped into the autumn air, breathing deeply as if surfacing from underwater. The night was clear, stars scattered like diamonds across black velvet. And the moon—the moon hung heavy and full, its light tinged with purple from some atmospheric effect.
A violet moon. His mother would call it an omen.
Lucien walked to the edge of the estate grounds, to a small garden that had gone wild with neglect. Here, beyond the wards' influence, his violet power returned in full. It responded to his roiling emotions, crackling around his hands like visible frustration.
He thought about the ceremony. About standing invisible while his siblings shone. About his father's gaze sliding past him as if he were made of smoke.
He thought about Aldric's massive barrier, Seraphine's purifying flames, the casual competence of even the branch family demonstrations.
He thought about the tournament—a chance to be seen, truly seen, by people beyond the Argentel estate.
And he made a decision.
Lucien raised his hands to the violet-tinged moon and let his power flow freely. It spread outward in waves, creating a domain where his will took precedence. Within that space, the overgrown garden seemed to respond—thorns untangled slightly, paths became clearer, the chaos organized itself into something that looked almost intentional.
It was subtle. Small. Nothing like Aldric's overwhelming barrier.
But it was his.
"I swear," Lucien said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion churning in his chest, "by the violet moon and the legacy of fallen houses, by my mother's sacrifice and my own blood—I will enter that tournament. I will stand before the kingdom and prove that violet isn't dead, isn't weak, isn't something to be erased and forgotten."
The power pulsed in response to his oath, and for a moment, the entire garden seemed to shimmer with purple light.
"I will make them see me. Not because they choose to acknowledge me, but because I become impossible to ignore."
He lowered his hands, and the violet faded back to subtle wisps. The garden returned to its wild state, but Lucien felt changed. Crystallized, somehow. As if the humiliation of the ceremony had been fire, and he'd emerged from it tempered into something harder.
He had six months until the tournament.
Six months to transform from an invisible bastard into something that demanded recognition.
Six months to master techniques that had been deliberately forgotten, to build strength from a legacy of erasure, to become dangerous enough that ignoring him would be the greater risk than acknowledging him.
Six months, he thought, violet wisps curling around his clenched fists. Let's see what a Court Shadow can accomplish when he decides to step into the light.
Behind him, unnoticed, a figure watched from the main house's upper window. Seraphine stood in silhouette, her expression troubled as she observed her half-brother's oath under the violet moon. She'd seen the purple light, brief as it was. Had felt something shift in the air, like reality itself taking notice of his words.
She pressed her palm against the window glass, then turned away, her white flames flickering unconsciously around her fingertips.
Whatever was coming, she sensed it would change everything.