Star of Pride

And those five families are…

House Stormont—masters of Purefire, flames that burned hotter, brighter, and stronger than any common fire mage could ever hope to wield.

The rawest, most destructive form of fire magic.

House Varendel—wielders of Emberflow, flames that lingered beneath the surface, seeping into anything they touched, weakening armor, rotting weapons, creeping into the flesh of their enemies like a sickness.

House Damaris—bearers of Whiteflame, heat so refined it burned without smoke, without consuming air, capable of incinerating magic itself with enough focus. They are also master blacksmiths using their flames.

House Selyth—lords of Ashen Pyre, wielding fire that devoured not just flesh but the very essence of whatever it consumed, leaving nothing behind but silence and ruin.

And finally, House Vhaelor—whose fire burned so cold it froze reality itself, reducing even the hottest flames to lifeless embers.

Each one is a pillar of the kingdom. Blessed from birth, their power is absolute.

Caelith forced himself to breathe. "And the unblessed?"

Kaden shrugged. "Depends on the kingdom. Some use them. Some throw them away. Some kill them." His gaze darkened. "Your family lets you breathe because they still think you're useful. The moment that changes?" He dragged a finger across his throat. "You're done."

Caelith's nails dug into his palms. He had spent years thinking that blessings meant power. 

Meant worth. 

That if he had been chosen, he could have stood among them. His father, his siblings, the nobles who sneered at him—would have had no choice but to acknowledge him.

But if Kaden was right, it was never just about power.

It was a system—a leash.

And the gods were the ones holding it.

Caelith's nails dug so deep into his palms that he felt the sting of torn skin. His breath was steady, controlled—but his mind was anything but.

Throughout his life, he had believed that power equated to worth, and that the gods' favor was a sign of strength, not a division in it...

But if blessings weren't just about strength—if they were a system of control—then what did that mean for him?

What did that mean for everyone?

Kaden exhaled, leaning lazily against the cold stone wall. "I see that look in your eyes." He grinned. "You're thinking about it now, aren't you? About how deep this goes."

Caelith didn't answer.

Because, deep down, he already knew.

He had always felt something was wrong. He had watched noble children, born with power, fumble and fail, only to be handed another chance. He had seen warriors rise to glory not because of their skill, but because of the fire in their veins.

He had seen the way people spoke of the gods—with reverence, yes, but also fear.

And now, for the first time, he understood why.

Kaden tilted his head. "Tell me something. Why do you think nobles—the blessed—are trained from birth? Why do they get private tutors, the best weapons, the finest resources?"

Caelith's jaw tightened.

Kaden smirked. "Because they are the ones who'll benefit the most" 

The words settled in Caelith's mind like a weight, pressing down on something fragile.

The gods didn't create kings.

They created servants.

And the unblessed?

They were never even given the chance to serve.

Caelith inhaled, his voice quiet but firm. "If blessings can be given… can they be stolen?"

Kaden's smirk widened, slow and sharp. "Now that's the right question."

Kaden tapped his temple. "Blessings aren't just magic. They're a mark—a Divine Brand."

"Ever heard of a fallen noble?" Kaden's eyes gleamed. "Someone born blessed who lost it? The official stories always blame it on corruption, sin, or divine punishment."

The words sent a cold shiver down Caelith's spine.

The realization slammed into him like a hammer.

The unblessed weren't just weak.

They were free.

No Divine Brand meant no chains. No silent leash around their neck, guiding them like cattle. No limitations are placed by unseen hands.

For the first time in his life, being unblessed felt less like a curse and more like an opportunity.

Caelith's thoughts raced.

He had spent years believing he was at the bottom, discarded, unworthy of power.

But if the gods gave power—if they chose who could wield it—then that meant there was power beyond them.

Kaden watched him, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You're thinking about it now, aren't you?"

Caelith exhaled slowly. "Tell me everything."

Kaden chuckled. "Oh, you're going to love this."

"The Church calls it Sin," Kaden continued. "The nobles call it forbidden. But here's the thing—" He grinned, voice laced with something wicked. "If it was just sin, if it was just filth, then why do they fear it? Why do they erase every record, hunt down every last trace?"

Caelith's fingers twitched.

Because power was power.

And if the gods feared something… it meant it was strong enough to defy them.

Kaden straightened, stretching his arms. "Of course, if you go down that road, there's no turning back. The kingdom will brand you a heretic. Your family will hunt you. The gods themselves might try to break you."

His eyes gleamed.

"So, Caelith. Do you want to hear more?"

Caelith stared at him.

Caelith frowned. "You know a lot about how this works." 

Kaden smirked. "That's what happens when you pay attention." 

"That's not an answer." Caelith narrowed his eyes. "Why do you know so much? And why are you helping me?" 

Caelith stilled.

Kaden's smirk faded. His gaze flickered—not away, but inward, sinking into something distant. Something old.

A memory, sharp as broken glass.

The scent of ale. The creak of floorboards. A voice, warm and tired, trying so hard to sound untouched.

And just like that—

He was there again.

A boy, small and starved, clinging to the ghost of a woman's voice.

Caelith stilled. 

The floorboards bit into Kaden's knees as he crouched under the bed, clutching his threadbare stuffed owl. Mama's voice floated up from the tavern below, sweet and frayed at the edges. "Another round, my lord? On the house."

The noble's laugh boomed—a sound like grinding stone. "You've got spirit, whore. I'll give you that."

Kaden pressed his owl to his chest. Mama had sewn it from scraps of her old dress, stuffing it with dried lavender. "It'll protect you," she'd said, winking. "Owl's a wise bird. Smarter than those stuffy knights."

Another crash. Glass shattered.

"You think you can water down my wine?!" the noble roared.

"N-No, my lord! Please—!"

A sickening crack. Mama cried out.

Kaden scrambled to the attic grate, peering through the dust-choked slats. Below, the noble—tall, fire sigil burning at his throat—held Mama by the wrist, her arm twisted at a cruel angle.

"Filthy gutter trash," he snarled. "I'll teach you respect."

Flames coiled around his free hand, casting grotesque shadows on the walls. Mama's eyes darted to the attic—Stay hidden.

Kaden froze.

The noble backhanded her. She crumpled, blood spraying from her split lip. "Pathetic," he spat, kicking her ribs. "You're not even worth the fire."

Mama's fingers closed around a broken bottle. "Stay… away from him."

"Him?" The noble followed her gaze to the attic. "Ah. A bastard whelp. How quaint."

"NO—!"

She lunged, slashing the bottle across his thigh. 

The noble roared, flames erupting in a wild arc. The fire caught her skirt, racing up her body.

Kaden clapped a hand over his mouth, tears blurring the scene. Move. Help her. DO SOMETHING. But his limbs were stone, his breath trapped in his lungs.

Mama screamed—a sound he'd hear in every nightmare for the rest of his life. The noble staggered back, clutching his bleeding leg. "Burn, then," he hissed, limping out.

The tavern fell silent.

Kaden didn't know how long he crouched there, trembling. Smoke stung his eyes. The scent of burnt hair and charred flesh clung to the air.

Finally, he crawled down.

Mama lay curled on the floor, her body half-consumed by fire. Her right arm was blackened, fingers curled into claws. But her face—stars, her face—was untouched.

"K…aden…" Her left eye fluttered open, milky with pain.

He collapsed beside her, sobbing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry—"

Her hand—cold, trembling—found his. "Don't… cry." Blood trickled from her lips. "You're my… star. My brave… boy."

Her chest stilled.

Kaden lay there for hours, her hand in his, until the tavern keeper pried him away. "Get out, rat. She's dead."

He kept the owl. Its lavender scent was gone, replaced by smoke and blood.

He leaned back against the wall, shoulders rigid, but his hands betrayed him—fingers trembling faintly against his thigh. When he spoke again, the bitterness in his voice was a poorly stitched wound. "Red Lantern District. Ever heard of it?"

Caelith nodded. A slum. A grave for the forgotten.

"A place for bastards," Kaden said, too softly. "Criminals. Sinners." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Mothers."

The word hung like a confession.

Kaden's voice was a rasp. "I buried her in an unmarked grave. Stole flowers from a noble's garden—rosemary, like she used to burn. The gardener caught me. Broke two fingers." He flexed his left hand, the bones still crooked. "Worth it."

He met Caelith's gaze, his own empty. "You want to know why I train you? Because you're weak. Because you'll die if you stay soft. And I…" A brittle laugh. "I couldn't save her. But I'll be damned if I let another star fade away."

Caelith's fingers curled into a fist. 

He couldn't help but think of his own mother and what he would do if anything happened to her.

The fire spat embers into the frigid air as Caelith's voice cut through the silence. "Who did this to your mother?"

Kaden froze, his back rigid. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackle of flames and the distant howl of the wind. When he turned, his eyes were hollow, stripped of their usual venom.

"A noble," he said, the word dripping with acid. "A Stormont."

Kaden's laugh was brittle. "You think your family's rot stops at your father? That Lord Alaric's the worst of them?"

 He yanked a chain from beneath his tunic, snapping it free. A charred locket dangled from his fist, its surface scarred by fire. Inside, a miniature portrait of a man glared back—sharp-jawed, ice-eyed, his features a near-perfect blend of Caelith's father and brother.

"Dorian Stormont," Kaden hissed. "Your uncle. The heir your family scrubbed from history.