2025-03-01 15:26:25Something inside me dies when I bury my mother and younger brother in a single coffin, spacious enough to hold them both. But later, I realize I need that part of me to die. Because the old Helio Hawthorn would never be able to take his revenge.
For two full days, I ride a horse made of illusion. Eat food made of illusion. Rest in a house made of illusion. Keep my body hidden from others with the help of illusion. I am beginning to rely too much on my magic. Perhaps the High Priest is right. The Sacred Tome has given me exactly the kind of magic I need. At the heart of the Varidianth Kingdom, in the grand city of Remirer, I stand in a narrow house I have conjured between two tightly packed buildings. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Helio Hawthorn stares back at me with eyes hidden behind a black silk ribbon. His skin is pale, a stark contrast to his blood-colored hair. His body is too thin, swallowed by noble attire that is far too extravagant for him. But he has no choice. Today, he must claim the title of Marquess from his two older brothers. He must look dignified. But it is hard to appear dignified when my hands are still shaking, struggling to contain the fury and vengeance raging inside me. "Come on, Helio," I tell myself. "You're going to the palace today to take the title that should be yours. That's all. You can take your revenge on Zenthio and Demario another time. The same goes for Nyx." Suddenly, my door swings open and shuts again. I jolt back, my gaze snapping at a boy who has just entered my house, looking just as startled as I am. "Since when was there a house here?" he mutters to himself. I say nothing. I simply observe him from head to toe. He is terribly thin, his clothes ragged and worn. In his hands, he clutches a single apple, his fingers trembling with hunger. "Are you a noble?" he asks. I nod, uninterested in explaining further. "Who are you?" He doesn't seem eager to explain himself either. For a moment, we listen to the approaching footsteps of those hunting him down. "That damn thief! Find him, you useless knights! What the hell am I paying taxes for?" a man shouts angrily. The footsteps fade, disappearing down the street. I blink. "You can hide here if you want. But I have business at the palace," I tell him. He doesn’t nod. Instead, he stumbles back, hitting the wall, as I bend reality, conjuring food before his eyes. "You're an illusionist!" he exclaims. I can hear both awe and fear in his voice. "And what about you?" I ask. "Do you have a name, or would you rather I remember you as 'thief'?" He lowers his head, ashamed of the label forced upon him. But I know it’s not his fault. No child chooses to be born into poverty. "My name is Hale," he whispers, so softly I almost don’t hear it. I smile. "Nice to meet you, Hale," I say sincerely. I check the braille watch on my wrist and realize it’s time. "Goodbye," I say. I close my eyes. And when I open them again, I am standing in front of the palace, surrounded by nobles, knights, and servants. The scent of flowers drifts through the air, mingling with hushed laughter and murmured conversations. I straighten my coat and stride toward the grand hall where the ceremony will take place. ⚔️ "Three days ago, Marquess Alessio Hawthorn was found lifeless at the kingdom’s border. It is believed he suffered an accident. As a result, his title shall be passed down to the son he trusted most: Helio Hawthorn!" the Queen announces as I step into the hall. I walk calmly past the rows of nobles, my gaze locking on Zenthio, who is already draped in the ceremonial cloak of the Marquess, kneeling solemnly before the Queen. "But since Helio Hawthorn disappeared on his way to the palace," the Queen continues, "as per the established rules, I will pass the title of Marquess to Marquess Alessio’s firstborn, Zenthio—" "I object, Your Majesty!" My voice rings across the hall. Whispers explode among the nobles and knights. Some murmur insults about my blindness, but others still remember the power I was born with. I walk steadily down the red carpet and stop behind Zenthio. "As you can see, Your Majesty, I am still alive," I declare. "Shouldn’t the title be mine?" The Queen smiles at me. Wrapped in a gown adorned with real rubies, she seems to care for nothing but herself. But she despises having to correct herself, especially now that another voice cuts through the hall. "I also object, Your Majesty," Lavinia says. I turn to see my sister stepping forward, dressed in the formal attire of a noblewoman. "I believe I have the ability to carry on our father’s legacy," she states firmly. "Lavinia..." I whisper. If she wants to take this title from me, I won’t stop her. I trust she would be a worthy leader. But that would also mean exposing herself to the same dangers I face. "I object as well, Your Majesty," Demario adds. I clench my fists. The Queen now wears a cruel smile as she slowly walks around us, scrutinizing each one of us in turn. Then she asks, "And what makes any of you think you are better than the others?" I clear my throat. "My father believed I was the most worthy of inheriting his title, Your Majesty. Doesn’t that mean I am the best choice?" "Your Majesty," Lavinia interjects. "I have the highest intelligence among my brothers. I am also the most skilled in swordsmanship. Furthermore, I wield magic that ensures fairness in leadership. I believe I will be a better Marchioness than any of them." "Are you saying this because our kingdom is ruled by a queen, Lavinia?" the Queen questions. That’s dangerous. There’s something in her voice—jealousy, maybe. Though I don’t know why a queen would envy a noble girl like Lavinia. "Please, Your Majesty, don’t listen to them," Zenthio insists. "As you can see, Helio is blind and far too young to lead. And there’s no proof that Lavinia is any better than the rest of us—" "Silence!" the Queen snaps. "Here’s what we’ll do. I will give each of you a task to prove your worth. Zenthio, as the eldest, will hold the title of Marquess temporarily. In one month, I will judge who deserves it. Understood?" The four of us exchange glances. I doubt Zenthio and Demario will play fair. But Lavinia nods. "I accept, Your Majesty," she declares. "I will prove that I will be a great Marchioness." "I accept as well, Your Majesty," Zenthio adds smugly. "I will prove that the eldest son is always superior." "As do I, Your Majesty," Demario smirks. "I will prove that strength is what truly matters in leadership." I take a slow breath. Close my eyes. When I open them, the Queen is staring at me, waiting. "I accept," I say. My voice is steady. "I will prove my father was right."
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Pain blossoms across my jaw before I even register the movement. The impact snaps my head to the side, my ears ringing, the taste of iron blooming across my tongue. I stagger but do not fall. My grip tightens around my cane, steadying myself. My breath hitches for a moment before evening out, but the pain lingers—a dull, throbbing ache where Hale’s fist connected. He hit me. Hale hit me. I exhale slowly, tilting my head back toward him. “Are you finished?” My voice is level, but there is a coldness beneath it. Hale stands rigid, his chest rising and falling sharply. His fist is still clenched, his knuckles white. His entire body is wound tight, as if he’s barely holding himself together. “No,” he growls. “Not even close.” I swipe my thumb against my lip, smearing the blood there. “So that’s how we’re handling disagreements now?” Hale scoffs, his face twisted in frustration. “I don’t know how else to get through to you.” He takes a step forward, his eyes burning. “You weren’t liste
