The Grand Practice Hall gleamed like a temple to magic itself. Walls of black stone veined with silver runes rose to a vaulted ceiling, the wards woven into them shimmering in waves of pale light. Each time a student cast a spell, the sigils pulsed in answer, containing stray mana with languid ease. Incense burned in braziers along the walls—sharp, resinous, with undertones of rosewood—masking the sweat of effort and the coppery scent of heated wands.
Varyn adjusted his grip on his wand, its lacquered surface warm from his palm. He could feel the hush in the room change around him. The circle of other children—noble-born like himself, though second and third sons, distant cousins, lesser scions—waited for him to lead them through the final sequence.
He inhaled carefully. Exhaled.
"Again," he said.
His voice was light, still a child's, but the words carried a precision that brooked no refusal.
The children fell in line.
He began the motion, wand angled just so, the silver diagrams on the black floor guiding every step. A flick, a curve, a hard downward cut. Sparks sprayed from the tip in a controlled arc. Basic Flame Manifestation, the simplest of spells, but it had to be perfect.
Varyn's flame was clean. Bright. Exact.
He heard the approving murmur of the observing mages. They lined the perimeter in ceremonial Tower-robes of deep blue and gold, watching with the dispassionate interest of scholars assessing a promising animal.
"Excellent control, Your Highness," one of them said, voice dry but deferential.
Varyn felt a rush of warmth in his chest. He dipped his head slightly. "Thank you, Master Ionus."
Beside him, one boy dropped his wand. Sparks fizzled uselessly on the stone. He muttered a curse, face red.
"Pick it up," Varyn said evenly. No mockery in it. No kindness, either. The boy obeyed at once.
The older Tower mage who oversaw the session, an ascetic man with a shaved scalp marked by runic tattoos, paced forward, staff tapping on the rune-marked floor. His voice rolled like thunder carefully leashed.
"The Empire is blessed to have such an heir," he announced.
Varyn's spine straightened. He felt a curious flutter under his ribs, half pride, half something sour and fearful.
He turned, letting the compliment hit him like a blow. He saw the other children look at him, some with naked admiration, others with envy carefully hidden behind smiles.
One girl—slight, freckled, the daughter of a baron—stepped forward with a small box wrapped in crimson silk. She held it out with trembling fingers.
"A gift, Your Highness. For your skill. My father's humble offering."
Varyn hesitated only a moment before taking it. He smiled politely, the way his mother had taught him.
"Thank you. I'll treasure it."
Her face lit up like dawn.
Around them, the other children shifted. A chorus of compliments began to spill forth, practiced and bright:
"Your technique is unmatched."
"I hope one day to cast as cleanly as you."
"Truly, you'll be our Empire's shield."
He answered each in turn. A small nod. A courteous phrase. He felt sweat prickle under his fine tunic, felt the weight of the eyes on him like the summer sun pressing against glass.
Inside, his thoughts churned.
Perfect. I have to be perfect. They're all watching.
He kept the smile fixed, careful. He remembered his father's words from yesterday's lesson on statecraft: Always make them believe you're gracious. Generosity binds them tighter than fear.
The older mage cleared his throat.
"Once more," he intoned.
Varyn lifted his wand.
The hall fell silent again. Even the wards seemed to wait.
He drew the first curve, feeling the way the mana tugged at him, obedient but aloof. He had no Affinity yet—his Awakening still awaited—but he'd mastered every step of channeling with assisted foci. His motions were flawless.
Flames danced. Perfect arcs. Clean heat.
He heard the mage exhale with satisfaction.
Somewhere in his chest, that knot of tension tightened further.
He bowed.
"Again," he commanded softly.
And they obeyed him.
The enormous dining hall was his alone today.
Or so it felt.
Varyn sat at the head of the table, a throne-like chair carved with the Imperial seal looming behind him. He was dwarfed by it, feet barely touching the floor despite the cushions discreetly stacked beneath his boots.
Sunlight streamed through the towering stained-glass windows, painting the polished marble floor in restless mosaics of ruby, emerald, and sapphire. Servants moved in silence, conjured breezes keeping the air cool despite the midday heat.
At first, he tried to let himself relax. The orchestra—an ensemble of enchanted instruments suspended in the air—played a delicate tune of harp and flute, magical chords vibrating with such perfect clarity it almost soothed him.
Almost.
Because they were watching him.
Dozens of nobles lined the tables. Barons and their ladies, viscounts with Tower medallions glittering on their chests, merchant-lords who'd bought their titles in blood and coin. They sat in orderly ranks, fine robes brushed clean, their eyes flicking to him and away like birds startled from cover.
Waiting for him to speak.
He straightened, trying to remember the Empress's lessons. Do not rush. Do not let them see you panic.
He cleared his throat.
"Welcome," he said. Voice steady, if high and childish. "The Valcrest Imperium thanks you for your service and loyalty."
A ripple of polite murmurs ran through the crowd. Heads dipped.
He felt sweat at the back of his neck.
They began approaching in twos and threes. Servants ushered them forward with practiced grace. Each offered a bow or curtsy, and each bore a gift: boxes wrapped in velvet, scrolls sealed with wax, polished tokens of carved stone or precious metal.
"For His Highness."
"A small token of our devotion."
He accepted each with both hands, exactly as taught.
"Thank you," he said. He tried to meet their eyes. "Your loyalty honors Valcrest."
He forced himself to remember names. Faces. Emblems.
Count Rallen of Westmark—always complaining about trade taxes. He asked about the river crossings.
Lady Kessari, whose vineyards supplied the southern courts. He asked after the harvest.
A mage-captain from the Northern Tower. He inquired about recruitment, feigning knowledge he didn't quite have.
They seemed pleased. Flattered. Their faces softened, even the suspicious ones.
He sensed it—the way their voices grew warmer. How they lingered at his table a little too long. How they smiled when he spoke their names correctly.
He felt that hot glow of pride in his chest.
I'm doing it.
He remembered the Empress's advice: Generosity binds more tightly than fear.
He asked thoughtful questions. He nodded gravely when they brought complaints. He gave the only promises he was allowed:
"I will bring this to my father."
"Your concern is heard."
"Valcrest does not forget its loyal vassals."
Some bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched the floor.
A server refilled his goblet with spiced wine, and he wrapped his fingers around it tightly to hide their tremor.
He forced himself to sip. To nod.
It was a performance. He knew it. But it was one he had to perfect.
The meal itself passed in a blur. Platters levitated from the kitchens on trails of shimmering blue magic. Roast meats basted in honeyed sauces, vegetables charmed to stay hot and crisp, soups that released fragrant, twisting ribbons of steam.
He ate carefully. Slowly.
Eyes on him the entire time.
When he finished, he stood.
"Thank you for your presence," he said, bowing as low as he could without toppling off the dais. "Valcrest thrives because of your loyalty."
The hall erupted in applause.
He held the bow just long enough.
When he straightened, his heart was hammering. But he kept his face serene.
He left them there, still applauding, as servants closed the doors behind him.
Outside, in the quiet corridor, he let out one long breath.
They'll tell Father I did well. They have to.
He smoothed his robe.
And walked on, back straight, trying not to run.
The air outside the palace was softer, though no less controlled. The Imperial Gardens sprawled in manicured splendor beneath the afternoon sun, every hedge sculpted to perfection, every path paved with pale slate that gleamed like glass when the light struck it right.
But what always made it magical—truly magical—were the enchantments woven through every leaf and petal.
Varyn walked alone at first, save for the silent servants who lingered at the garden gates, watching for any sign of danger but wisely keeping their distance. He relished those first steps of solitude.
The grass rustled beneath his polished boots, but in these gardens, the grass never stained. An old enchantment.
He slowed to watch the flowers. They stirred at his approach, blooming wide in a slow, deliberate reveal of brilliant colors—crimson, violet, impossible shades of blue. Petals lined with tiny runes pulsed gently, reacting to his presence like living jewels.
It made him feel…chosen. Even if he knew it was just magic.
He let himself breathe.
Ahead, a path of stepping stones led to one of his favorite places: a marble bench carved with Imperial heraldry, half-shaded by a massive oak whose trunk bore silver etchings of old spellwork to keep it disease-free for centuries.
He sat.
Closed his eyes.
Listened.
There was water everywhere in these gardens—fountains, channels, small pools. He heard the music of running water nearby. Even that wasn't ordinary. At the nearest fountain, a carved gryphon reared up, and the water twisted into shapes: soldiers at attention, a ship with sails billowing, a mage casting flame.
He watched it with tired satisfaction.
His wand rested in his lap, fingers tapping it idly.
Perfect practice. Perfect manners. Perfect heir.
His heart thudded. He pressed the wand flat against his thigh to stop the trembling.
He glanced down at the book beside him. A heavy tome bound in pale leather, its title etched in Old Imperial glyphs: A History of Valcrest's Ascendancy.
He opened it to a bookmarked page. Lines about the conquest of the Eastern City-States. About loyalty bought in blood and fire. About the Emperor's grandfather standing atop a mountain of corpses and proclaiming peace.
He read the words carefully, trying to see what Father saw in them.
He turned the page.
Laughter broke his focus.
He looked up sharply, blinking.
Three small figures toddled down the path—a pair of boys and a girl, all with the same dark hair and pale skin that marked them as siblings, half-brothers and half-sister born to concubines.
The eldest, maybe five, squealed when he saw Varyn.
"Brother Varyn!"
He felt the tension slip a little.
He closed the book gently.
They ran to him. The oldest nearly tackled his knee, the younger two shy at first but emboldened quickly. One clung to his arm.
Varyn found himself smiling without thinking.
"Careful," he scolded softly. "You'll scuff your robes."
"But play with us!"
The youngest hiccuped with excitement.
Varyn sighed—long-suffering, exaggerated.
"All right," he said at last, setting the book aside completely.
He let them climb onto his lap, let them poke at his belt buckle and braid his hair with clumsy fingers. He drew his wand and, after a quick warning, demonstrated a tiny flicker of light that made them shriek in delighted terror.
"I'll teach you sword moves when you're older," he promised, voice dry, but they didn't catch the humor.
They nodded fervently.
He glanced up once and saw a woman in a pale green gown standing near the edge of the path—a concubine. Their mother, likely. She was watching him with soft eyes, hand over her mouth to hide her smile.
"He's such a good big brother," she said quietly, not really to him at all.
Varyn felt his ears burn.
He looked down at the children in his lap, squirming and laughing, and forced himself to smile back.
Because they were watching.
Because he had to.
The private audience chamber always felt colder than the rest of the palace. It wasn't the temperature; the air was as carefully regulated by magic here as anywhere else. It was the space itself.
Massive obsidian walls, polished to a dark mirror sheen. A ceiling so high the glow-orbs seemed like distant stars. And at the center, dominating everything, the great obsidian table—thick as a sarcophagus lid, its surface inlaid with rune patterns that glowed in steady, pulsing lines of green and silver.
Varyn paused at the threshold. He could see his father already seated at the head of the table, black robes lined with gold, a sheaf of reports spread before him. The Empress sat at his right hand, posture perfect, head inclined slightly as she read.
For a moment they didn't see him.
Or pretended not to.
He swallowed once. Adjusted his robe.
Then stepped inside and dropped to one knee, the polished floor cold even through the fabric.
"Your Majesty. Mother."
The words were as formal as any ritual.
A silence stretched. He heard the whisper of parchment shifting.
"Rise," the Emperor said.
Varyn obeyed, coming to his feet with the stiff precision drilled into him since he could stand. He lifted his gaze but not too high—his father didn't like when people tried to stare him down.
Aurelius Von Valcrest was every inch the ruler. Broad-shouldered, hair streaked with iron-gray, black eyes like obsidian shards. He studied Varyn with that relentless, weighing stare.
The Empress's gaze was no kinder, though different—less blunt force, more surgical blade. Her long black hair was drawn back in a complex braid set with emerald pins that glimmered faintly with ward-light.
Neither smiled.
Yet Varyn felt the heat in his chest anyway.
He wanted them to see him.
"Report," the Emperor ordered.
Varyn drew a careful breath.
"Morning studies were satisfactory," he recited. "Master Renallis says my reading of the Imperial Histories is advanced for my age. Afternoon practice went well. Master Ionus praised my control. The Tower mage overseeing the session said—" He hesitated, pulse thumping. "He said the Empire is blessed to have such an heir."
He wasn't sure if he should have added that. It sounded boastful even to his own ears.
The Emperor's eyebrow twitched.
The Empress set her papers down.
"Did you thank them appropriately?" she asked, voice cool and perfectly measured.
"Yes, Mother."
"Did you share credit with your instructors?"
He hesitated.
"…Not in those words."
A pause. She exhaled softly.
"You will next time. Modesty is a shield, Varyn. Use it."
"Yes, Mother."
He felt the sting of the correction but forced himself not to look away.
The Emperor drummed his fingers on the rune-lit table.
"And the court luncheon?"
Varyn straightened reflexively.
"I listened to petitions. Remembered each noble's name and lands. Offered to review their concerns. I… tried to ask after their families. Their harvests. Their health."
He hoped he sounded calm. He felt like he was vibrating inside.
The Emperor's fingers stilled.
"Good," he said at last, voice like granite cracking. "Always see and hear them. They will forgive much from a ruler who remembers their names."
Varyn's breath caught. He felt heat behind his eyes, shameful and childish, and blinked it away.
"Yes, Father."
Silence fell again.
The Empress studied him for another long moment.
"Your posture is good," she observed, almost idly. "Your memory is better than your sister's was at your age. But you fidget when you're uncertain. Control it."
A knife between the ribs, but precisely placed.
He nodded once.
"I will."
The Emperor's stare softened a fraction—barely enough for most to notice, but Varyn saw it.
"You make us proud," Aurelius said finally. His voice dropped in volume, losing none of its weight. "Be ready for your Awakening. It will be glorious."
Varyn felt something expand in his chest like fire. Pride. Terror. Hope so sharp it could cut.
"I won't fail you," he breathed.
He meant it with all his heart.
The Empress's hand reached across the table. She brushed a stray strand of black hair from his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with clinical precision.
"See that you don't," she murmured.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat.
When he opened them, they were both watching him.
He didn't flinch.
The banquet hall was transformed for spectacle.
Hundreds of candles floated overhead in precise, spiraling patterns, their flames enchanted to glow in shades of gold and white without dropping so much as a single drip of wax. The shifting light cast long shadows across gleaming marble, making the entire chamber seem alive with movement.
Along the walls, illusions danced in grand, deliberate pageantry—scenes of Valcrest's victories: armored legions clashing with Outlands raiders, mages hurling fire and lightning into enemy ranks, the Imperial banner planted on fortress walls slick with blood.
Varyn sat at the head table, not in the Emperor's usual seat but in a prominent chair raised slightly higher than those beside it. He wore formal Imperial robes of black and emerald, the cloth heavy with wards and silver embroidery that prickled against his skin with restrained magic.
He held perfectly still, as instructed.
Below him, the hall was filled to capacity. Nobles in shimmering court attire. Generals wearing cloaks dyed in their legion colors. Mages draped in Tower-robes marked with arcane sigils that pulsed like watchful eyes.
All of them looking at him.
His mouth was dry.
He sipped from his goblet, willing his hand not to tremble. The spiced wine was thick, the heat curling in his chest.
A herald's voice boomed magically over the crowd, every syllable echoing with authority:
"Behold! Varyn Von Valcrest, First Prince of the Empire, Heir Apparent!"
A roar of applause thundered through the hall.
He forced himself to stand.
Bowed, exactly as taught, one hand over his heart.
The noise redoubled. He saw nobles clapping so hard their rings flew from fingers, generals pounding the table in martial approval, mages exchanging knowing nods like they were witnessing history itself.
He forced himself not to grin like an idiot.
He sat carefully when the applause ebbed.
Servants flowed around the hall like shadows, bearing platters of roasted meats, spiced fruits, exotic cheeses imported from Moonglade and the Dwarven Holds. Varyn accepted a slice of roast pheasant, cutting it with measured precision though he hardly tasted it.
Toasts began.
One of the Tower mages, elderly and stooped but wearing his ceremonial robe like a crown, stood with a goblet raised.
"May the Empire be ever guided by wisdom—and may our First Prince shine as its greatest mage and sovereign!"
Another roar.
He bowed his head in thanks.
A general in iron-grey armor stood next.
"To the boy who will one day command us all. May his hand be firm and his heart just."
Yet another wave of cheers, this one rougher, like soldiers on campaign.
Varyn felt his heart thump so hard he thought they might see it under his robes.
He caught sight of the Empress at the far end of the table. She had arrived late, slipping in with the cold precision she carried everywhere. Her black eyes locked on him now, measuring, assessing, unreadable.
When the room settled, she stood.
She didn't raise her goblet immediately.
"Valcrest is not just an Empire," she said, voice clear and sharp enough to cut meat. "It is a promise. A promise to our ancestors that their sacrifices were not in vain. A promise to our children that they will inherit a realm worthy of them."
She turned her gaze deliberately to him.
"And it is our duty to fulfill that promise, no matter the cost."
She lifted her goblet at last.
"To Valcrest. And to its future."
They echoed her words like a prayer.
He stood, fingers tight around his own goblet, mirroring her.
His mouth was dry, but he found his voice.
"To Valcrest," he managed.
When the Empress sat, the Emperor himself rose at the other end of the table.
Silence fell like a dropped curtain.
He didn't speak immediately. Just let the silence stretch until even the generals fidgeted.
Then he lifted his goblet.
"To Varyn," he said. His voice was lower, but it carried perfectly. "The future of our Empire."
The hall shook with applause.
They chanted his name.
He tried to bow again, but his knees felt locked.
He forced himself to look at his father.
Aurelius Von Valcrest was watching him without a smile, but with something worse—expectation.
Varyn's heart thundered in his chest.
Pride. Terror.
He clenched his jaw so his teeth wouldn't chatter.
I will not fail them.
The words were a promise in his blood.
By the time they dismissed him, his cheeks ached from smiling and his head rang with half-remembered toasts. He was escorted down the long marble corridors in silence, flanked by two imperial guards in enchanted armor that glowed faintly with protective sigils.
He didn't look at them. He kept his chin high, shoulders back, moving with deliberate grace.
When they reached his chambers, the doors swung open at a word from a servant.
Warm light spilled from glow-orbs suspended in rune-carved sconces. The air smelled of lavender and cedar smoke.
He hesitated on the threshold for just a moment. Then stepped inside.
Servants immediately crowded him with quiet efficiency. One unfastened the heavy formal robe, careful not to disturb the protective wards.
He stood perfectly still as they worked.
A prince does not fidget.
The Empress's voice in his head, cold and precise.
They guided him toward the bath, where enchanted steam wafted from water that glowed with healing runes. He stepped in with slow, careful movements, teeth set against the heat that made his skin prickle.
For a moment he let his eyes close.
Silence.
No nobles bowing.
No generals watching.
No Emperor's weighing gaze.
But he didn't relax. Not really.
He forced himself to replay the day.
Your posture was good.
But you fidgeted when you were uncertain.
He clenched a fist under the water. Steam curled around his knuckles.
I won't make that mistake again.
He remembered the luncheon. How the old count's eyes had flickered with skepticism before he remembered the man's daughter's name.
He would remember every name. Every family. Every petty demand and fear.
They want to love you. Make them.
He could hear his father's voice now.
Fear is a tool. Love is a bond. Both bind. But love lasts longer.
He forced himself to breathe in the steam, to feel its heat in his lungs.
He opened his eyes and stared at the surface of the water.
"I will be perfect," he whispered.
His voice didn't tremble.
When the bath was finished, servants dried him with enchanted cloths that absorbed every drop. He let them. He forced himself not to move unless directed.
They dressed him in a night-robe lined with soft, warded silk. Led him to his bed—a vast thing of dark wood and silver inlay, draped in heavy blankets stitched with protective spells.
He sat first. Then lay back slowly, pulling the blankets up himself.
The servants bowed in silence and retreated. The doors closed with a hush of well-oiled hinges.
He was alone.
Glow-orbs dimmed at a whispered command, leaving the room in soft, flickering twilight.
He stared at the ceiling, watching the rune patterns pulse like a heartbeat.
He tried to slow his breathing.
They all watched me today.
He thought of the Tower mage's words: The Empire is blessed to have such an heir.
Of the Emperor's voice booming across the banquet hall: To Varyn. The future of our Empire.
He let the words burn into him.
He felt something in his chest harden. Solidify.
I will make them proud.
I will be Emperor.
I will be perfect.
Slowly, deliberately, he pressed his palms together under the blanket. He whispered the short, clipped prayer to the ancestors he had been taught since he could speak.
"Guide me. Make me worthy. Make me strong."
He felt the silence press in. The magic woven through the palace walls, the hum of distant wards and protective sigils.
I will not fail them.
His eyes finally closed.
His last thought before sleep was not of toys, or games, or comfort.
It was a vow.
I love them. I will never let them down.