Footsteps, frost‑cold. Captain Myr guides us through half‑lit arches while the wards along the ceiling wake and whisper. I can't see more than a smear of pearl light at each doorway, but the mana threads walk with us: Julius's ember snug at my elbow, Kate's wind snapping my braid, Dr Lorre's river hush behind.
Out on the east terrace the crowd is nothing but pale silhouettes, yet their auras glint like scattered gems—citrine curiosity, iron envy, one ugly twist of rust. King Beren stands above them, a redwood crowned in sunrise.
He reads the names—Julius Pyrelight, Kate Skybreath, Daniel Ironbark Wyn Dawnmere, Lirael Willowgrace, Rolim Sinderra—then pauses for Randall Talon and Zahor Greywind. Silence weighs the stone. Last he calls "Annabel Valor." Every aura tilts toward me like iron filings to a magnet.
He lifts a parchment lit silver.
"By sunrise's seal, do you swear fealty to the Sylvan Crown?"
I draw frost into my lungs.
"Not until my family is found—Alaric, Elara, Ramon. Reach them first; bind me second."
Gasps skitter. Rust‑aura flares, delighted by cheek. Beren's power bulges, then eases—more amused than angry.
"Spoken like a girl who stared down a demon. Very well—every scout, every scryer. Find them."
I press thumb to glowing sigil. Heat bites, cools. Pact planted.
Two Summers Later
I measure seasons by bruises now.
When King Beren realized I was leaning on mana sight in his throne room, he issued a curt order:
"Sharpen the girl's ears—no crutches."
The very next dawn Dr. Lorre slipped a silk band over my eyes.
Not an ordinary blindfold—runes inside the weave smother mana resonance within arm's reach.
No auras, no element‑flashes.
And the faint shadows I was born with?
Gone—erased to perfect dark.
They built my world out of sound.
Daniel nicknamed me "Bat," swearing I can map a courtyard from a single exhale. He's not wrong: I tag devil scouts by the crackle of sulfur in their lungs long before normal senses would notice.
First summer—learning to parry by heartbeat alone.
Second summer—learning to punch holes in night‑silence with a sword tip.
Kate drills etiquette between knife drills: curtseys, dance steps, wind magic. I still bow like I'm dodging a blade, but at least I no longer threaten dignitaries with soup spoons.
Bruises bloom under practice leathers like midnight roses; Julius says they're proof the kingdom invests in durable assets. I say they're proof he hits too hard.
Every dawn repeats:
Blindfold tied.
Mana damped.
Breath low.
Count echoes.
Strike before the fire‑mage thinks of flame.
King Beren calls it insurance. A Stage‑Zero candidate should be able to fight with every disadvantage possible.
The limestone court rings with morning chill.
Gravel underfoot, oak staves in hand, and the rune‑blindfold snuffing every aura except my own heartbeat.
Kate opens the dance first—two quick slashes that slice the air, boots whisper‑quiet on sanded stone. I angle my staff by echo alone, catch her second strike, and feel the shock rattle through the hickory grain into my elbows.
Daniel crashes in from the flank—footfalls like falling pillars, the whoosh of a boulder‑heavy mace. I pivot, letting his swing gust past my shoulder, the wind of it fluttering my braid.
Julius waits until the exact beat my breath resets.
A single pop of heated air warns me—snap—then a flash‑boiled kernel of flame races for my ribs. I drop, roll beneath it, gravel stinging palms, and jab my staff backward into the hollow of his knee. The thud of his grunt is music.
Staffs clack, boots skid, breath clouds. I paint the yard with sound: Kate's light taps at ten paces, Daniel's seismic thuds, Julius's softly sizzling feints. No mana sight, no blur‑shape advantages—only rhythm, pressure, and the mana i feel in the wind.
On the thirtieth exchange I hook Kate's ankle, flip over her sweep, and lay my staff across Julius's collar before his next spark ignites.
"Good!, Annabel," Kate concedes, breathless.
"Again," Julius grumbles, already resetting stance.
I grin—half feral, half dizzy behind the rune‑blindfold.
That's when the urgent footsteps hammer the walkway
Footsteps—fast, urgent—hammer the walkway.
Dr. Lorre's water‑mana (the only aura the blindfold runes permit through) surges in like a tide set loose.
"Enough!" she calls. "Drop weapons and listen."
Even without sight I catch the quake in her voice.
"Your family," she says. "Alaric, Elara and Ramon Valor—alive. Located in the human continent, estate of House Saint‑Clair. We leave at first light."
The yard freezes.
My heart detonates. Every bruise thrums like struck drumskin.
"Saint‑Clair?" Julius whistles. "One of the richest line in our three kingdoms."
Confusion swirls hard enough to steal my breath.
House Saint‑Clair? When I left them at five, my parents could barely keep a roof of river‑stone. How—
Kate must read the tension in my shoulders. "We'll sort the why later," she says, voice gentler than her wind‑blades.
I keep the blindfold tight; discipline first. "How bad do I look?"
"Like a mural of bruises," Kate answers, half exasperated, half proud. "All warrior, zero lady."
"Mother will implode a continent when she hears," I mutter. "She hated skinned knees—what'll she do with cracked ribs?"
Daniel laughs so hard he drops his mace. "Can I watch?"
"Absolutely not," Kate snaps, already hauling me toward the baths. "We have one night to turn you from battle‑goblin into respectable daughter."
Before we move, Dr. Lorre presses a cool vial into my hand. A faint, leafy pulse—Lirael's crafting.
"Plant‑brewed bruise tonic," she says. "It'll dull the swelling, mend the worst capillaries. Don't expect to look pristine by dawn."
I unstopper the vial; mint and willowbark sting the air. "So… less mural, more watercolor?"
"Exactly." I hear the smile in her voice.
I down the tonic—bitter‑sweet, cool. Warmth seeps beneath each bruise, easing the burn.
Julius smirks—an ember popping at his fingertips. "Think of this next part as another spar: etiquette versus bruises. Don't let the forks win, Bat."
I groan—but something bright and sharp uncoils inside.
Tomorrow at first light, I go home—
—to discover how commoners became nobles,
and why the richest house on three continents is sheltering the family I lost.
Bruises or not, I'll stand before Mom, Dad, and Ramon.
and they'll know at a touch that every bruise is proof I kept moving toward them.
Later that night, after my bath that Kate forced me to take i went Inside Julius's quarters a single rune‑stone glows amber, but through the warded blindfold it's only warmth against my skin—no silhouettes, no mana glow. All I have are sounds, scents, and the faint push of air.
Julius pushes back from the desk. Leather creaks; smoke and steel drift with him—training. Three measured steps and his boots stop a stride away; the pressure shift tells me he's holding out a hand.
I find his fingers by their heat. He guides me to the bunk edge and sits, keeping a respectful span between us.
"Head still pounding?" he asks.
"Just nerves." I lift Kate's compress. "And this blindfold snuffs every scrap of mana. World feels small."
"That's the plan," he says, sympathy roughening his tone. "King's prescription."
Silence hums—rune‑stone, two steady heartbeats, cloth settling. I breathe deep.
"You've never met my family," I start quietly. "Mom—Elara—could heal anything with roots and a smile. Dad's a flame mage who always said the front lines were just practice for becoming a blacksmith. And Ramon…" I swallow. "He's my big brother. Probably jokes taller than the house by now."
My voice hitches. "They were commoners, Julius. How do folks like that end up under Saint‑Clair's roof?"
"I don't know," he answers. "But we'll learn at first light."
He rubs the back of his neck; leather bracer creaks. "They'll recognize you, Annabel. Maybe not the armor or the bruises—but the voice, the stubborn way you square your shoulders? That's still you."
The reassurance quiets my pulse. I angle the compress; Julius adjusts it with a careful nudge, then pats my shoulder—steady and warm.
Julius chuckles. "Kate's already threatened me with ruffles for dawn—says you have to greet your parents 'looking every bit the lost princess.' "
A groan slips out. "If she stuffs me in another dress and heels, I'm duelling the hemline."
"Duelling a skirt is still footwork," he says, unapologetic. "Call it training."
"I'd rather spar blindfolded against Daniel's mace."
He laughs. "I'll pass along your preference, but I doubt it'll matter—Kate's requisitioned silks from the royal wardrobe. She claims a Valor homecoming demands ribbons."
"Tyrant seamstress," I mutter, tugging the blanket higher.
Silence settles—total, but not lonely. Julius's steady breathing anchors the room like tide against quay. Tomorrow brings answers, family, and—apparently—ruffles.
If questions outnumber answers, and silk outnumbers leather?
We'll face it all together.