shadows beneath the crown

The days after the Trials passed in a storm of murmurs.

Kaelen couldn't take a step through the palace without feeling eyes on his back—some curious, some wary, and a few sharp enough to make the hair on his neck rise. He had passed all five royal tests, and now, whether anyone liked it or not, he was no longer just a ghost from the past. He was Prince Kaelen once more.

But a crown never sits easy on a storm.

POV: Zevien

From the high balcony of the West Tower, Zevien let the wind carry him. Not fly, not glide—just float, suspended on his elemental magic like a whisper between the clouds.

He watched the training yard below, where Kaelen now sparred with a handful of palace guards. His movements were raw but powerful, less refined than a noble's but not less deadly.

Zevien narrowed his eyes.

"A storm hidden all these years," he thought. "And no one told me. No one even hinted."

He could feel the unease in the court. Seris burned brighter when Kaelen entered a room, as if afraid of being overshadowed. Aedric's gaze grew colder, more calculating. And Zevien?

Zevien had always been the diplomat. The smiling wind between the thunder and flame.

But even he felt it—the tug in the balance of power. A shift.

And the winds did not lie.

The Courtly Dinner

That night, the grand dining hall of Velmire Castle gleamed with a hundred chandeliers and a thousand polished secrets. Long tables held feasts from every corner of the continent—smoked pheasant, sapphire-finned trout, crystallized lotus fruits, and wines that shimmered like starlight.

Kaelen sat at the right hand of King Theron.

It was symbolic. Dangerous.

Seris, seated across from him, stabbed at her food with the kind of elegance only nobles could manage when masking their rage. Aedric observed everything, speaking little. Zevien made idle conversation with foreign emissaries from the neighboring kingdom of Lymera, but even his voice had an edge.

Queen Vaelora hadn't spoken all night.

Then a toast was raised.

"To the return of Prince Kaelen," the king announced, his deep voice resonating like a war drum. "The storm has come home."

The hall rang with applause. And then with whispers.

Kaelen raised his goblet but didn't drink. His senses were sharp tonight, crackling with a low hum of danger.

"Your Highness," came a smooth voice from the foreign table, "will the prince be joining the Circle of Crowns now?"

Silence fell like a sword. The Circle of Crowns was the council of royal heirs—those trained to inherit, rule, and, when needed, fight wars in the king's name.

Kaelen's eyes flicked toward his siblings.

Seris' grip tightened on her fork. Aedric's wine froze slightly in its goblet. Zevien's smile faltered for half a breath.

"I've only just returned," Kaelen said. "I wouldn't want to... intrude."

King Theron chuckled, but there was steel beneath it. "You belong, son. No matter who disagrees."

And with that, the storm officially joined the royal circle.

POV: Seris

Later, Seris stood alone in the Hall of Flames, her fire magic illuminating the great red marble pillars. Her dragonblade hummed at her hip, as if sensing her unrest.

Kaelen's return burned her in ways she hadn't expected.

She had worked for everything. Power, respect, control. She had been the Flame of Velmire, the king's chosen successor, the symbol of royal pride.

And now? The court whispered of thunder.

Of raw, untamed might. Of a prince who hadn't bled for the throne but still claimed a seat.

"He's reckless," she murmured. "Unrefined. Dangerous."

But she couldn't deny his strength.

Or that part of her—some dark, searing ember—was afraid of him.

Midnight

Kaelen lay awake in the prince's quarters he barely recognized. Too many silks. Too much gold. He missed the coarse blankets and creaking roof beams of his old life.

Lightning danced across his fingertips.

Something wasn't right. He could feel it in the air—thicker tonight, as though watching him. Whispering.

There was a knock at his door.

When he opened it, Zevien stood there, still dressed in loose robes, hair wild from wind-flight.

"We need to talk," his brother said simply.

The Rooftop Conversation

On the high palace rooftop, Zevien spoke first.

"Storm magic doesn't just appear. It's bloodline-bound. Old bloodline."

Kaelen crossed his arms. "You think I'm not really one of you?"

"No," Zevien said. "I think someone hid the truth of what you are. And not just from the court—from us."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Seris hates me," Kaelen said at last.

"She doesn't hate you. She hates the way you make her question everything she built."

"And Aedric?"

"He's already digging into archives. Which means you're officially a threat."

Kaelen looked out over the kingdom. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Zevien's voice was quiet. "Because you're still my brother. And because if something happens to you... the wind will know."

The Queen's Chamber

Queen Vaelora stood before a window draped in moonlight. Her attendant bowed low.

"Your Majesty, the council has begun whispering. Some suggest the storm child should be... neutralized."

Vaelora didn't move. "Let them whisper."

"But your plans—"

"I planned for the return of fire and ice. I planned for succession and obedience. I did not plan... for lightning."

She turned slowly, eyes colder than winter.

"Send word to the Thirteenth Thorn. It's time they fulfilled their oath."