In my family, if you aren't a genius, you're trash. It isn't a figure of speech. It is the only law that matters when you are born into the Stahl Eisenhart branch. Until that morning, however, I had no idea.
"Hold still, Young Master Luthian. Please... just one more moment."
Hilda, my nanny, didn't have her usual voice—that stern tone that somehow always knew how to pamper you. Her fingers, usually so sure among lace and buttons, were trembling. I could feel the ragged heat of her breath on my neck as she struggled with the final clasp of the silver tunic.
"Hilda, I'm itchy all over! It's too tight, I can't breathe right," I complained, trying to squirm away. "Can I wear the soft wool one? I want to go play in the gardens."
Hilda froze suddenly. She cupped my face in her hands; her palms were cold, damp with sweat. She looked into my eyes with a desperation that made my blood run cold.
"No playing today, Young Master. You must be perfect. Not for the trial that awaits you... do it for your mother. She wanted so much to see you at this ceremony."
"My mother?"
I stood motionless. I tried to dig into my memory, but it was like trying to look through murky water. I vaguely remembered a sweet scent, like apple blossoms drenched in rain. I remembered the warmth of a small hand stroking my hair when I had a nightmare. And a voice... a voice humming a wordless melody, so thin it seemed it might break at any moment. But her face? Her face wasn't there. It had vanished amidst the freezing corridors of the palace, leaving me only with that trail of perfume and a void in my chest I couldn't explain.
"Yes, your mother," Hilda continued, and for a moment her voice cracked. "You must be strong for her too, Young Master Luthian. Even if she is no longer here... even if she left too soon, I know it... I feel that today you will make her proud. Promise me?"
I nodded slowly, a lump in my throat. I wanted to make her proud. I wanted that scent of apple blossoms to return and make me feel safe. Hilda stood up abruptly, sniffing and wiping her eyes with the dark sleeve of her uniform. She composed herself in an instant, returning to the stern nanny of always.
"Marta! Grete!" she called toward the open door. Two young girls entered, heads bowed. "Escort Young Master Luthian to the entrance of the Lunar Hall. A guard awaits him there. Is that clear?" "Yes, Mistress Hilda," they whispered, taking their places at my sides like two silent sentinels.
Hilda brushed my shoulder, a final touch, almost invisible. "Go now, Young Master. And keep your head high. Whatever happens."
It seemed easy. A formality. What could go wrong?
That morning, the palace was in the grip of a silent hysteria. Servants rushed back and forth with silver trays and candles scented with lavender and sulfur. Oak doors opened and closed ceaselessly, creating drafts that made the torch flames shiver. Whenever someone met my gaze as I was being escorted, they changed their pace. They lowered their voices, straightened their backs, averted their eyes. They behaved as if a single wrong breath was enough to ruin their day. I was that "wrong breath," or at least, that was how I felt.
Then I arrived at the Lunar Hall. The corridor leading there was long and quiet. It wasn't the silence of peace, but that of a predator lying in wait. That morning, however, it only made me want to swallow hard and hunch my shoulders.
The Lunar Hall opened before me like the maw of a stone beast. The two maids left me at the great doors, where a guard led me to join the other children. The structure was built in concentric circles, a hierarchy of stone and power. High above, along the perimeter, ran the guards' walkway: crossbows loaded, constantly pointed downward. Further in, two raised rings hosted the nobles, protected by pale marble columns soaring toward the vaulted ceiling. The imposing side windows were little more than useless decorations; the true light poured from magic lanterns. A golden luminescence, artificially perfect, filling the hall without leaving room for shadows.
In the center of the hall stood a long table of black wood, polished until it reflected the suspended flames. Atop it, laid out with manic care, rested the Aether Veils. Szilard had spoken to us of them often. They were harvested from the silk of the Rapran, spider-monsters that infested the mountain caves of Galgard. Magic veils woven with subtle runes, interlaced into the fabric by the kingdom's finest enchanters.
The function was brutal in its simplicity: the Veil detected mana. It reacted. It judged you. Three colors were permitted. Crimson was "Genius." If that appeared, the nobles leaned from the stands like vultures spotting fresh meat. Azure was the acceptable norm: high power, stable, safe. Gray... gray was a social embarrassment. They wouldn't kick you out, but they pushed you to the margins, condemned to a life as an escort guard or a minor official. In a family like the Stahl Eisenharts, being "average" was worse than being hated.
Next to the table stood my uncle, Szilard Stahl Eisenhart. Court Archmage, brother to the Duke. He wore his title like a second skin, with a composed posture and a gaze that dissected you without touching. But the true source of the pressure was on the raised dais. Seated on the ducal throne was my father: Vorgath Stahl Eisenhart.
He was not a man who fidgeted. He didn't smile. He didn't gesture. His stillness was more threatening than the fury of any other man. The nobles whispered that I was the son of the "Demon Slayer." A title that made me reflect on just how little I knew about him. Those words made the air unbreathable. I looked at him, desperately searching for a sign. A nod that would tell me: You are my son, everything will be fine.
"One at a time," Szilard enunciated, his voice flat. His words severed my thoughts. "Approach, prostrate yourselves before our Lord, and grasp the Veil."
The test began. The children were called. One by one, they presented themselves before Vorgath. They walked stiffly toward the table, placing their hands on the silk. Some closed their eyes, furrowing their brows. For others, a mere touch was enough for the veil to instantly change color. But he was utterly impassive to everyone. His eyes were dark stones, fixed on a distant point, devoid of any trace of humanity or interest. When the Veil lit up Azure, the nobles nodded, and the tension melted into a collective sigh. Crimson, that day, did not appear. I was the last.
As I waited, I repeated the mantra they had drilled into my head: I am Luthian. I am an Eisenhart. My blood is power.
"Luthian," Szilard called.
I approached the table. The smoke of incense stung my throat. I felt the cold of the stone penetrating through the thin soles of my shoes. Szilard looked at me. In his eyes I read, for an instant, the desire that his teachings had not gone to waste. I took a deep breath. "Grasp it," he ordered.
I tried to appear as natural as possible. I bowed my head toward my father, executing with precision the bow I had perfected over months of exhausting etiquette lessons. "I am Luthian Stahl Eisenhart." I heard the whispers begin from the stands among the nobles. For a moment, as I composed myself, I tried to scrutinize him: he was truly impassive.
I placed my hand on the Veil. I expected warmth. Everyone said mana was like an inner fire, a reassuring ember. Instead, upon contact, I felt nothing. It wasn't just cold. It was a freezing, viscous void, like touching the skin of a dead reptile or plunging a hand into stagnant water. A sensation of total absence that crawled up my arm, giving me shivers.
I squeezed. I waited. Nothing happened. Maybe it takes time, I thought, as panic began to scratch against the walls of my stomach. I just have to want it more. I clenched my fingers until my knuckles turned white, until I felt pain in my tendons. The Veil remained white. It almost seemed as if the cloth was swallowing the lantern light, refusing to reflect it. For a moment, I didn't understand. Then the silence of the Lunar Hall crashed down on me. It was no longer the silence of anticipation; it was a dead silence. White was not among the expected colors.
I heard them. Like the buzzing of annoying insects. "White..." "Impossible..." "The Veil isn't responding... he is the son of Lord Vo—"
I felt naked. My stomach tied itself into a tight, frozen knot. I lowered my eyes because I felt I had become too visible. Then my father's voice cut the air.
"Tsk... You."
He pointed at a guard at the back of the hall, a young man who was snickering under his breath. The laughter died instantly. The guard paled, taking a trembling step forward. "My Lord... Lord-d... I didn't mean to," he stammered.
Vorgath didn't stand. He didn't shout. He simply raised his left hand, with the casualness of one swatting away a bothersome fly. The air in the room suddenly became heavy, dense as molten lead. I felt a physical pressure crushing my shoulders, as if gravity itself had suddenly spiked. "...I have a famil—" Vorgath closed his fist.
CRACK.
It wasn't a clean sound. It was the wet, obscene noise of bones and flesh collapsing in on themselves. The guard's body was crushed to the ground by an invisible force, folded into an unnatural position. He fell with a dull thud, screaming in pain as his legs snapped under the weight of the amplified gravity. He didn't die immediately, but the sound of his gurgling breath was worse than the silence. Blood began to spread across the pale stone floor, slow and dark. Someone screamed. Children began to cry. Some nobles, however, remained impassive, or even amused. "A necessary lesson," muttered a plump man to my left, bowing.
I stood still, the white, cold Veil still clutched in my fingers. I thought the tragedy would be "turning out Gray." Instead, I had an agonizing man before me and a father who hadn't even changed his expression. I should scream, I thought. I should vomit. But I couldn't. Fear had frozen my tears before they could be born. I looked at Vorgath. I didn't expect comfort. I just wanted him to look at me. Anger, disgust, disappointment... anything. Nothing came. His gaze passed through me as if I were made of glass. To him, I was no longer part of the room. Perhaps I never had been. After all, he had never spent time with me.
"Power is the only thing that gives you the right to breathe under the name Eisenhart," he said. His voice filled the hall, calm and terrible.
Szilard took a step forward. For the first time, I saw him hesitate. "Lord Vorgath, the Veil can fail. There could have been complications. We can repeat the test." Vorgath rose from the throne as if bored. The movement was slow, but the effect was immediate: the children's crying ceased abruptly. "There is no need." Three words. Final as a death sentence. "If the Veil has no reaction, the test is concluded." Szilard bowed his head and fell silent.
In that moment, with a clarity that physically hurt, I understood that my previous life was over.
"From today," Vorgath thundered without deigning to give me a glance, "my son, Luthian Stahl Eisenhart, shall be stripped of his membership and privileges of House Stahl."
He took a step. His gaze in that moment hit me with unbearable force, heavier than any word, yet it betrayed no emotion. His eyes were dead. He took another step forward, and a magic sigil appeared beneath his feet. Then he vanished into nothingness. Only crimson sparks remained, fading as they drifted toward the floor.
Szilard struck the table hard to call for attention. "The ceremony is concluded. You are requested to leave; the hall will be closed immediately," he turned to a nearby guard. "Call some maids to clean up." "Yes!"
The hall began to empty. Nobles and guards exited, avoiding my eyes, as if my "failure" were a contagious disease. I clenched my fists at my sides. I saw my uncle; for a moment I wanted to ask him about the situation, but he was leaving too quickly.
I remained alone. The metallic scent of blood had become viscous, persistent. The white Veil still froze my fingers, a final mockery. I squeezed it one last time, out of pure stubbornness. It remained white. "Impossible, why?" Why me? What did I do wrong? I tormented myself, desperately trying to make sense of what had happened. simply, I didn't want to believe it.
And it was there, in the silence of my ruin, that I heard it. A distant whisper. A low, dry laugh that resonated inside the walls of my skull. It wasn't a cheerful laugh. It was satisfied. Pleased. Something, inside me or in the darkness of the hall, found my fall... amusing. Goosebumps rose on my skin. I was no longer the third-born son. I had become something else. Something that even magic despised, but that something else, in the shadows, was watching with interest.