Kael lay on his bed, rain drumming lightly against the window. His black coat was folded neatly on the chair, boots by the door. Sleep would not come.
He stared at the ceiling and let his mind wander—not to today, but to the past, to when he had been a weakling prince.
Three older brothers, each stronger than him, had never acknowledged him. Every word he had spoken—careful, clever, polite—had been ignored. His father, a man of iron and ambition, had treated him with harsh discipline, drilling him until he could speak fluently, think sharply, and hide every emotion. Words were meaningless without strength.
His mother had been his only warmth. Gentle, loving, always encouraging. But she was gone. Dead. And with her death, his father had sent him to the academy. Coldly, he had said:
"Kael, if you do not attain the highest rank, you will not return. You are nothing until you prove yourself."
Kael clenched his fists. Calm. Cold. Silent. No one had listened before—not in the palace, not among his brothers. Not because he was a poor speaker, but because he was weak. No mark. No recognition. No value.
Here, at the academy, it was different. Observation, patience, strategy—they counted. He could survive. He could grow.
His fingers brushed the faint mark on his chest. It stirred slightly, as if remembering.
Tomorrow, he thought. I observe. I learn. Nothing surprises me.
By mid-morning, students gathered in the training hall for paired exercises. The goal: control your Aether without harming your partner.
Kael's partner was Fenric, a timid boy whose fire powers often flared uncontrollably.
"Don't… don't burn me," Fenric stammered.
Kael's gray eyes swept over him. "Focus on your footing. Not your power."
Fire flickered dangerously close, but Kael's movements were subtle, precise, guiding Fenric without force. The boy's sparks stabilized. He finished the task.
"Remarkable… he isn't using brute force. Just awareness," an instructor murmured.
Riven Drake, paired with Lyria Vale, watched from the sidelines. "Lucky you got someone harmless," he muttered to no one. "Otherwise, you'd fail."
Kael didn't respond. Calm. Cold.
Riven's jaw tightened as he watched Kael move—helping without effort, neutral yet effective. "How does he do that… without using power?" he muttered.
Kael's expression didn't change.
The final exercise was 1v1 sparring with limited Aether. Kael faced Riven.
Lightning flashed. Riven lunged, swings fast and heavy. Kael didn't panic. He didn't strike back. He moved like water—sidestepping, pivoting, predicting every overextension.
"You're impossible!" Riven growled after a miss.
Kael didn't answer. Calm. Cold.
The spar ended. Riven was frustrated. Kael neutral. The hall whispered with awe and confusion.
From the balcony above, Lyra watched silently. Her white hair glimmered, her chest faintly glowing. Kael's mark stirred faintly in response.
He didn't move toward her. He didn't change his expression. Calm. Cold.
But he noticed. Always.
Back in the dorm, Kael sat on the edge of his bed. The palace came to mind: brothers' scorn, father's harsh words, mother's warm smile. His fists clenched silently.
I will not be weak again. Not here. Not ever.
The mark beneath his skin pulsed faintly, echoing the determination in his chest. He didn't understand it yet. He didn't need to.
Tomorrow, I observe more. I learn more. I survive.
He leaned back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Not sleeping. Not fully awake. Just… thinking. Calm. Cold.