Analysis

The massive gates of Blackthorn Castle loomed ahead, their iron bars woven with glowing runes of protection. Torches flickered in sconces along the towering stone walls, their light casting long, ominous shadows across the courtyard. The castle itself, a fortress of jagged spires and cold grandeur, stood like a sentinel against the surrounding wilderness. It was a place steeped in power and prestige—but to Speed, it had always felt more like a prison.

As Speed trudged through the gate beside Bloodeater, the weight of his hunt still hung heavy on his shoulders. His cloak was damp and tattered, his hands stained with dirt and the faint, icy residue of the frost stag's blood. Despite the triumph of his first kill, his chest was tight with unease.

The guards stationed at the entrance straightened at the sight of Bloodeater, their postures crisp with practiced discipline. But their gazes lingered on Speed, hardening with unspoken disdain. One of them, a tall man with a hooked nose and a crooked smirk, spat on the ground as Speed passed.

"Well, well," the guard sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "If it isn't the Duke's little disgrace, back from his playtime in the jungle."

Speed's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. He had grown used to the ridicule, though it never stung any less.

"Leave it, Hal," Bloodeater growled, his voice like gravel. The guard's smirk faltered under the bodyguard's steely glare, but he didn't back down completely.

"Just saying what everyone's thinking," Hal muttered, shrugging as he returned to his post. His companion snickered quietly.

As they entered the castle's courtyard, Speed couldn't help but glance at the ornate stained-glass windows that lined the upper floors. Behind one of them, no doubt, his father was likely deep in conversation about the Academy with his perfect children—the heirs who actually mattered. The thought made his chest ache with a familiar mix of anger and longing.

"Ignore them," Bloodeater said gruffly, breaking the silence. "The jungle doesn't judge you by your bloodline. Only by your grit. And you've got plenty of that, whether those fools see it or not."

Speed's gaze flicked to Bloodeater, his throat tightening. The older man's rare words of encouragement meant more to him than he could express, but he merely nodded in acknowledgment.

As they passed through the castle's heavy oak doors, the familiar chill of the stone corridors seeped into Speed's skin. The muted sound of laughter and voices drifted from the dining hall—a celebration to which he had not been invited. For a fleeting moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing the jagged spiral birthmark on his wrist. The faint, silvery glow had long faded, but the memory of the icy power it had unleashed lingered.

"Come on, boy," Bloodeater said, his tone softer now. "This isn't the battlefield you need to win. Not yet."

Speed inhaled sharply, pushing back the lump in his throat as he followed Bloodeater deeper into the castle. The journey to proving himself was far from over, but he clung to the faint flicker of hope that somewhere in this cruel, magic-obsessed world, he might carve out his place.

The late afternoon light filtered through the high arched windows of the castle's inner hall, bathing the stone floor in a warm, golden glow. Speed stepped inside, clutching the frost stag's antlers in his hands. The weight of the kill felt lighter than the pride swelling in his chest. This was more than a beast—it was proof that he wasn't worthless.

At the far end of the hall, Parker, the butler, stood adjusting a candelabra on a polished wooden table. His sharp, discerning eyes caught sight of Speed and his trophy. Parker turned slowly, folding his hands neatly behind his back. His weathered face was calm, as unreadable as ever, though there was a hint of something—a sigh, a weariness—that played at the corners of his lips.

"Master Speed," Parker greeted, his voice steady and formal. "What have you there?"

Speed straightened his shoulders, holding the frost stag's antlers higher. "I hunted it myself. A frost stag. Bloodeater said it's a rare kill."

Parker's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze trailing from the antlers to the young man before him. "A rare kill indeed," he murmured. "And what will you do with it?"

Speed faltered for a moment, his confidence wavering under the butler's scrutinizing eyes. "I—I don't know. I thought maybe it could... prove something."

Parker stepped closer, his measured footsteps echoing softly in the vast hall. He examined the antlers briefly before meeting Speed's gaze. "Prove something, you say? To whom, Master Speed? Your father? The guards? Or perhaps... yourself?"

Speed swallowed hard, his grip tightening on the antlers. "I don't have magic. But this—this shows I can still be useful. That I'm not... just a mistake."

A faint crease appeared on Parker's forehead, the closest the butler ever came to showing emotion. He drew a long breath, his expression softening just enough to suggest understanding. "You misunderstand something very important, young master," he said quietly. "The worth of a man cannot be measured in the eyes of others. It must be understood by himself first."

Speed blinked, caught off guard by the gravity in Parker's tone. He opened his mouth to respond, but the butler raised a hand, silencing him.

"Come see me after supper," Parker said, his voice lighter now, almost casual. "I believe we have much to discuss."

Without waiting for a reply, Parker turned and walked away, leaving Speed standing alone in the glow of the fading sunlight. The frost stag's antlers felt heavier in his hands now, their weight a reminder not just of his triumph but of the questions that still haunted him.

The grand dining hall of Blackthorn Castle was a spectacle of cold elegance. Massive chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their crystal pendants catching the glow of enchanted flames. The long dining table, carved from dark mahogany and inlaid with golden runes, was set with gleaming silverware and porcelain plates adorned with the Blackthorn family crest.

The aroma of roasted pheasant, herb-crusted venison, and spiced root vegetables filled the air. Bowls of steaming soup, freshly baked bread, and delicate fruit tarts lined the table, their presentation immaculate. Servants moved like shadows, refilling goblets of ruby-red wine and placing platters with quiet precision.

At the head of the table sat Duke Harrison, his expression inscrutable as he carved into his venison with practiced ease. To his right were Eric and Fredrick, his legitimate sons, their striking resemblance to the Duke highlighted by their sharp features and icy blue eyes. To his left sat Lady Luckia, their mother, a woman of refined beauty with a cunning gleam in her gaze. She sipped her wine with a faint smirk playing on her lips.

Speed sat near the far end of the table, his shoulders hunched as he picked at the pheasant on his plate. The weight of the evening bore down on him, made heavier by the sharp laughter of his half-brothers.

"Did you see the way he dragged that stag into the courtyard earlier?" Eric sneered, leaning back in his chair. "As if a frost stag is some grand achievement."

Fredrick chuckled, his tone dripping with mockery. "Maybe next time, he'll bring back a squirrel. That should really impress Father."

Their laughter echoed through the hall, drawing a faint smile from Luckia. She leaned forward slightly, her tone light but pointed. "Now, boys, don't be too harsh. Hunting is a respectable pastime... for those without magic."

Eric snorted, cutting a piece of venison with casual arrogance. "It's just embarrassing, Mother. While we're mastering ice shields and frost spikes, Speed is out playing in the dirt with Bloodeater."

Speed clenched his fists under the table, his appetite long gone. He kept his gaze fixed on his plate, unwilling to meet their piercing stares.

At the far end of the table, Phillipa, Speed's mother, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Her simple, elegant dress of forest green set her apart from the opulent silks and jewels worn by the others. Though her beauty was understated, there was a quiet strength in her hazel eyes. She glanced at Speed, her brow furrowing with concern.

Luckia's gaze slid to Phillipa, her smile sharpening like the edge of a blade. "Phillipa, dear," she began, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "you must be so proud of your son's... accomplishments. Tell me, does he get his talent for hunting from your side of the family?"

Phillipa's jaw tightened, but she kept her composure. "Speed has strengths that go beyond what can be taught in a classroom or a training hall," she said evenly, her tone steady despite the taunts.

"Oh, I'm sure he does," Luckia replied with a delicate laugh, swirling the wine in her goblet. "But one wonders how far those strengths will take him in a world where magic is everything."

Speed glanced at his mother, the tension in her posture clear. Her silent support was a lifeline, but it didn't stop the burning shame rising in his chest. He pushed his chair back suddenly, the legs scraping against the floor.

"Excuse me," he muttered, rising to his feet. Without waiting for a response, he strode out of the hall, his pulse pounding in his ears.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, the faint laughter of his brothers lingered in the air, a reminder of the walls he still had to climb.