Chapter 2: A Blade At His Back
By morning, Kaelen Vire's name was back in the mouths of the court.
Not as a prince, not even as a Vire—but as a cursed blight that had returned to haunt the capital.
His summons to the Hall of Swords came swift, and with it, the palace guards. They weren't the kind that bowed or announced themselves. These men banged on the guest chamber door like they were breaching a traitor's den, not collecting a sickly boy in silk.
Kaelen stood quietly as they shackled him—ceremonial chains, more for show than restraint. Still, they clinked like a death toll as they marched him through the gilded corridors of Castle Vire.
Eyes watched from behind latticework and silk curtains. Noble daughters gasped. Stewards sneered. No one spoke to him. They spoke around him.
"Is that him?"
"Thought he was dead."
"I heard his nursemaid caught the plague
from touching him."
"A shame. He used to be beautiful."
Kaelen met no one's gaze. He didn't need to. The whispers only fed the hollow place behind his ribs. Let them talk. It was better they feared him.
Let them keep their distance.
---
The Hall of Swords was less a hall and more a throne room for generals—an angular chamber of obsidian and steel, lined with ancient weapons from Vire's war-soaked past. Above, the banners of every High House fluttered in airless silence. At the head of the room sat Lord Commander Hadryn Vire—Kaelen's uncle, a blunt man carved from battlefield and duty, not politics.
He looked Kaelen over like he was inspecting a broken blade.
"So. You didn't die."
Kaelen tilted his head. "Disappointed?"
Hadryn didn't rise from his throne of stone. "Disappointed you came here without permission. Without escort. During a plague scare."
Kaelen shrugged. "I thought the capital missed me."
The Lord Commander's glare darkened. "Your little stunt nearly caused a riot in the upper city. Merchants are panicking. The Queen Mother has already demanded your exile."
"And yet here I stand."
"Only because your mother was once a Vire. The blood protects you. For now."
Kaelen said nothing. He didn't bow. He didn't plead. He simply endured.
That unnerved Hadryn more than curses ever could.
---
They brought him to a cell after that. Not in the dungeons below, but in the old barracks wing—forgotten, crumbling, and far from any noble footsteps. His room had no windows, only stone and rust and the smell of mildew. A single cot. A slop bucket. A cracked basin.
Still, Kaelen smiled faintly.
He'd had worse.
---
By nightfall, a visitor came. She wore no perfume or powdered wig. No finery. Just dark boots and riding leathers—and a silver pin shaped like a coiled serpent.
Kaelen looked up from his cot.
"Did the Queen send you to poison me?"
The girl gave a crooked smirk. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be ash."
She stepped into the room with confidence, but not arrogance. She moved like a hawk who knew where all the shadows lived.
"I'm Seris Caldar, House Caldar. Apprentice to the Royal Spymaster."
Name: Seris Caldar(14)
Class: Battle Mage
Rank: C(Adept)
Magic type: Beastskin magic(Dragonblood)
Kaelen blinked. "You're a child."
She leaned against the door. "So are you."
He narrowed his eyes. "What do you want?"
"Information. And possibly… an ally."
Kaelen's laugh was dry. "You want the favor of the court's walking corpse?"
"I want someone who doesn't belong to the Queen. Or the High Houses. Or the Ministry of Flame." She folded her arms. "You're dangerous because no one owns you. That makes you rare."
"…Or disposable."
Seris tilted her head. "Depends on how useful you are."
---
She came again the next day. And the next. Sometimes with food, sometimes with questions, sometimes with books. Seris was sharper than most grown men at court, and far more ruthless. She didn't pity him, didn't flinch when he coughed up blood, didn't recoil when his veins darkened beneath his skin. She treated him like a puzzle to solve.
Or a weapon to sharpen.
Kaelen didn't trust her. But he didn't need to. He only needed her curiosity.
---
On the fifth night, Seris brought news.
"They've decided your fate."
Kaelen looked up from the book she'd brought on Vire's military history.
"The Queen wanted you banished. The High Houses wanted you imprisoned. The Faith wanted you burned. But your uncle… he offered another idea."
"And?"
Seris smirked. "You're being sent to the Academy Arcanum."
Kaelen frowned. "The war mage academy?"
"Not just war mages. Healers, spellwrights, monster hunters, historians, relic-bound sorcerers. Everyone who matters passes through there."
He scoffed. "They think locking me in a school will keep me contained?"
"They think if you die there, it won't be their fault." She leaned closer. "And if you survive… well, you might just come back with power."
Kaelen looked at the cracked wall of his cell, then at his own diseased hands.
"I already have power."
Seris shrugged. "Then prove it."
---
On the seventh day, they unchained him. A ceremonial escort—led by his cousin, Prince Rhael Vire, heir to the throne—met him in the outer courtyard. Rhael was everything Kaelen used to be: golden, healthy, and beloved. He wore white robes stitched with phoenix feathers and a crown of star-metal.
He didn't smile.
"Try not to embarrass the bloodline," Rhael said, offering Kaelen a signet ring.
Kaelen didn't take it.
"I'm not going to represent House Vire."
Rhael's nostrils flared. "Then go as a nothing."
Kaelen's grin was sharp. "I'll make the name mine again."
He turned and stepped into the waiting carriage—destination: the Academy Arcanum.
A place where monsters were trained.
And maybe… where one might be born again.
---
Chapter 2 End.