The Price of Power

By thirteen, Raizel understood power not as a tool—but as a currency. A language. A weight that bent the world around it.

And he was fluent.

The castle no longer ignored him. It watched him. Servants whispered when he passed. Older generals lowered their eyes in court. Even the black-armored inquisitors—Kael Valthorr's executioners—spoke his name with careful tones.

He had never asked for loyalty. He had never demanded fear.

But both followed him like shadows.

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It wasn't only his magic that unnerved them.

It was the way he moved: quiet, deliberate, calculating. He spoke rarely, but when he did, people listened—because they knew he never spoke without reason.

He was no longer the strange, pale child with too much awareness in his eyes.

He was becoming something more. Something his father had not predicted.

Something controlled.

Raizel spent most of his days in study—but not the kind his tutors intended. He tore through ancient grimoires, yes, and practiced forbidden enchantments long sealed by imperial decree.

But what truly fascinated him was the mind.

He read every report he could access: confessions from prisoners, transcripts from old trials, letters seized in palace raids. He mapped the emotional patterns like battlefield movements—who betrayed, who repented, who lied even as they died.

He didn't fear darkness.

He feared uncertainty.

And knowledge was the cure.

One evening, as rain carved lines down the stained-glass windows of the western hall, his father summoned him.

Raizel entered the throne chamber without a word. The room reeked of burnt sage and iron—Kael Valthorr's usual ambiance. A freshly executed corpse lay on the side of the hall, still twitching. No one acknowledged it.

Kael stood before the obsidian throne, his bone-forged gauntlet flexing.

"There's a traitor in our ranks," he said without looking at Raizel. "Find them."

That was all.

No name. No hint. No reward.

A test.

Raizel bowed once and left.

He didn't investigate. Not at first.

Instead, he waited.

He sat at the edge of the war table during briefings. Listened to conversations in the halls. Cross-referenced supply lists with the castle's shifting guard schedules.

He said nothing.

He let paranoia do the work for him.

And when a junior warlock tried to flee under the cover of storm and shadow three nights later, Raizel was already there, waiting at the gates.

"You should've run before the order was given," he told the man.

Then he burned his tongue to ash so he could never speak again.

Kael was pleased.

He laughed as the traitor's corpse was tossed into the fire pit, clapping his son on the back with a force that nearly shattered Raizel's shoulder.

"You're learning, boy."

Raizel only nodded.

But inside, something twisted.

Not out of guilt.

Out of boredom.

Because this wasn't a challenge anymore.

Not to kill.

Not to break.

But to care.

The loneliness returned with a sharp edge.

Even among people, Raizel was alone. No one saw him—really saw him. They saw the eyes of a demon, the calm of a killer, the son of the Dark Lord.

But not the boy who still dreamed of music.

Of light.

Of something else.

One night, as he walked the cold corridors of the castle alone, a voice whispered to him from the shadows.

"You don't belong here."

Raizel stopped.

It was not in his head. It was real. Ancient. Feminine.

He turned—but saw no one.

Then, from the crack beneath a sealed stone door, black mist leaked across the floor.

A prison.

One that hadn't been opened in decades. Perhaps centuries.

Raizel knew that room. It was forbidden even to his father's highest warlocks. Wardings wrapped the entrance like chains of fire.

He shouldn't approach it.

But something called to him.

The door cracked open with a sound like bones snapping.

Inside: nothing but darkness. Not absence of light—the rejection of it.

A void made physical.

And then, two eyes opened in the black.

Not human. Not beast.

Something older.

"So… you're the boy who thinks he can change this world."

Raizel's breath caught.

"Who are you?"

"A consequence."

The darkness surged forward, tendrils coiling around the stone floor.

"Tell me, child of Valthorr—do you know the price of power?"

Raizel stood his ground, though his legs screamed to run.

"I've paid it."

"No," the voice hissed. "You've only started."

And then, pain.

Blinding. Ripping.

Visions surged into his mind—not memories, but prophecies.

Fire raining from the skies. Armies devoured by shadows. His own hands soaked in blood—not enemies, but allies. A crown of bone. A throne of silence.

And beside him…

A woman with eyes like the abyss.

Smiling.

Raizel collapsed.

The door slammed shut behind him.

When he awoke, the castle was different. He was different.

Something had changed.

And far away, in the imperial capital, a spy delivered a single message to the Emperor's hidden court:

"The boy of Valthorr has awakened."