Mana bubbled up from Amara’s heart, threading through her veins. Just a year ago, such a thing would have left her writhing in agony. Her body would’ve rejected it, her blood screaming with every pulse of magic. But now… now it felt almost pleasurable. The flow was comforting.

She exhaled, focusing her gaze on the weathered spellbook open before her. Her eyes traced the lines of the diagram, committing the structure to memory, and slowly she began to form it in the air.

Blue light shimmered before her fingertips, coalescing into lines that blended into each other like water and thread. The spell’s frame emerged. She felt it—actualized mana tugging water from the very air, bending it into a rising dome-like structure that encircled her feet. It glistened, forming a soft shell around her feet.

She was holding it well this time, longer than her last try. But out of nowhere, her focus moved, and without a warning, all the control she had slipped.

A pulse wavered, making her mana spasm. And the bubble burst.

It splashed, echoing through the room as water soaked her boots and hemline, drenching the floor.

“Ugh,” Amara muttered under her breath, frowning as she looked down at her dripping dress. The silken fabric clung to her thighs. It was cold and clinging on to her for dear life. “Perfect.”

She rubbed her palms together, brows furrowed in frustration. [Aqua Ward]—a peak second-circle spell seemed to be completely out of her bounds right now. Maybe that was the problem. She hadn’t broken into the second circle yet, and that spell demanded more than just theory. She could read about it the whole day, but without proper control, she wouldn’t know how to properly execute it.

Still, giving up wasn’t an option. She had to learn it.

Amara stood in silence, staring at the circle that now flickered faintly on the page. She wasn’t just doing this to feel powerful. She wasn’t chasing magic for glory or vanity.

She was trying to survive.

The kingdom was shifting. Anyone with eyes could see it. And the Assembly? A farce. Putting Count Arzan on trial for standing against his own brother without delving into the facts?

Only a rotting kingdom would do that.

She clenched her fists. Anya had been slipping her whispers for weeks. The Watchers, too, were speaking more openly now during their interactions. Even without hearing it outright, Amara could feel it in the castle walls: her father was losing support.

With only hints of her mother’s true intentions, Amara lived each day with dread tightening in her chest. It was always there—an ever-present tug that something darker was looming. And the last thing she wanted was to be someone who needed protection.

Her gaze fell again to the spellbook, lips pressed into a thin line as she studied the spell’s structure. She traced the runes in the air with her fingers, mouthing the incantation under her breath, determined to get it right this time.

Then came two sharp knocks on the door.

She didn’t need to ask who it was. “Come in,” she called.

Anya stepped inside, taking one glance at the drenched floor and instantly sighing. “Princess, you’re soaked,” she said, pinching her brow. “I’ll bring you a new dress. You’ll catch a cold like this.”

“It’s fine,” Amara replied, not looking up. “I’m going to keep practicing, and I’ll probably ruin the next one too.”

Anya huffed, stepping carefully around the puddle. “Then at least let me put the hearth on. And Princess, why don’t you ask another Mage to help? Just one session could help you with the flow structure—”

“I can’t ask anyone,” Amara said firmly, cutting her off. “It’s already enough that people are whispering about how my health miraculously improved. If they find out I’m learning higher circle spells too… it’ll just add more fuel. I want to keep this quiet.”

“I’m sure I can find someone from the Archine Tower who can keep his mouth shut.” Anya prompted, though she already knew the answer.

“I don’t trust them. Not after everything they’ve done.”

Anya fell silent for a moment, then let a mischievous smile slip onto her lips. “Well… I believe there’s one Mage in the city you do trust.”

“Who?” Amyra asked immediately.

“Count Arzan,” Anya said, eyes twinkling. “He was spotted at the eastern gates yesterday. He’s here for the Assembly. I heard he’s staying at the Serenthia Inn, along with the rest of his cohort.”

Her hands fell to her sides almost immediately and eyes widened as she stood up. “What? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!”

“I just overheard the Knights talking about it,” Anya said, trying not to laugh at Amara’s sudden urgency. “It was late evening when he arrived. It wouldn’t have been proper to barge in.”

Amara nodded, though her face clearly betrayed the excitement bubbling inside her. How long has it been? A few months? Maybe longer. Yet it had felt even longer than that. So much had changed. So much had happened.

And all this time, she’d only heard of Arzan through the whispers. Through half-truths carried on the lips of merchants, through hushed murmurs of the Watchers. Of how he’d headed into Vanderfall after hearing of the approaching plague and how he had stopped it.

Her mother and the Princes had done everything they could to stomp out those stories before the Assembly, but like a wildfire, they only spread faster when smothered. Especially now, when the merchants from the Sylvan Enclave were entering the capital.

Should she go meet him right now? Amara wondered and hesitated.

There was so much she wanted to say to him. All the work she’d done. The support she’d gathered. The risks she’d taken all for him. But… What if he was tired? What if he thought she looked like a mess? Her dress was soaked, her hair clinging to her cheek like seaweed. No. No, it would be better to send a message. A quiet invitation to meet him in the evening. That would give her time to clean up, compose herself… and look her best.

Just as she turned to Anya, mouth parting to share her plan—

A thunderous knock slammed against the door.

Amara flinched, heart lurching. That wasn’t a guard’s knock. Or a polite servant’s knock. That was… well. She exchanged a quick glance with Anya, both of their faces suddenly tense.

Slowly, Anya moved to the door and cracked it open.

They both froze at the sight of what was before them.

Standing there, tall and sharp and radiating a cold fury, was her eldest brother.

His white hair—messy and slightly damp from the fog outside—hung low over his forehead. His usually impassive expression was carved with disdain, and his dark eyes swept across the room, locking onto the wet floor and then her.

His gaze narrowed.

“What the fuck are you doing, Amara?” he said, voice low and biting.

Amara stiffened.

Her spine went rigid, words tangling in her throat before they could form. Despite everything—despite her magic improving, despite her strength returning—when it came to him… she still didn’t know how to react.

Eldric. Her brother. Her mother’s favorite. Her warden in silk robes.

He looked furious.

Did he find out? About the messages she had sent? About the Watchers she had been conversing with? About her efforts to gather support behind the scenes? No, he would have known about it for a while now. At least the last part.

But then… Why was he here only now?

While thinking, her eyes narrowed and she took a closer look at him. He looked… horrible. Everything was off about the man. His cheeks were red, not the flushed kind, but how it’d look like when someone got slapped repeatedly. She had seen it on him before.

Her stomach twisted.

Did Mother hit him again?

Before the thought could settle, Eldric scoffed.

“Why are you quiet?” he said. “Lost your voice in exchange for your health?”

The words cut deeper than she expected. Still, she held firm. “No.” Her voice was soft but steady. “Why are you here, brother?”

His brow lifted, amusement flashing in his eyes. “It seems your health brought a bit of confidence too. I don’t remember you ever speaking to me with that tone.”

Her instincts screamed at her to lower her head. To apologize. To submit. But she didn’t. She met his eyes and said, “I just asked a question.”

“Very well. I don’t intend to stay long anyway. I have work to do.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out an envelope. Without ceremony, he tossed it toward her. She barely caught it before it splashed into the puddle at her feet. The wax seal was unmistakable—the royal sigil, pressed in deep crimson.

“What’s this?”

Eldric didn’t look at her.

“Give it to Arzan Kellius,” he said. “Mother sent that. Apparently he wants to meet him.”

Hearing that, her eyes widened even further. “What does Mother want with him?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she wants to finish him herself. Over dinner, perhaps. I don’t know. Just deliver it. I hear you two are… close. There are rumors, you know.”

Amara didn’t look down at his suggestion, if he thinks they’re close, then so be it.

Eldric took one last glance around the room, at the puddles on the floor, the open spellbook, her soaked dress and turned on his heel and strode out. He clearly wish to stay more than necessary.

The door slammed shut behind him.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t calm. It was the kind of silence that pressed on her ribs and made her ears ring. Amara just stood there, staring at the envelope in her hands. The royal seal stared back, crimson and accusing.

Mother wants to meet him?

Her throat tightened.

Nothing good ever came from anyone meeting her mother. Nothing. Her mother didn’t “meet” people—she summoned them. And when she did, it was either to command, to twist, to poison, or to destroy.

Would she really attack him? No… right?

Then again, this was Arzan. The man who had risen too fast. The one whose name was on every tongue. The man her mother had tried to kill, if he was to be believed.

Even she wouldn’t dare strike him in the open, especially not before the Assembly. But… Honestly?

Amara wasn’t sure anymore.

“What are you going to do now, Princess Amara?”

Anya’s voice broke the quiet, soft but trembling slightly. The maid stepped closer, shoes splashing lightly against the wet floor. Her eyes went to the envelope.

“Count Arzan will surely want to meet her if he gets that letter. You know that.”

Amara nodded slowly, her grip tightening around the parchment. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

If there was one thing she knew about him… it was that he was reckless. Not in a foolish way or in arrogance or overconfidence.

The man was filled with curiosity. He wouldn’t ignore the letter. Not a chance. If she gave it to him, he would go. And once he did, anything could happen.

The excitement she’d felt just moments ago—at the thought of meeting him again, showing him how far she’d come—was gone.

It was dread now, suffocating her lungs. And for the first time since regaining her health, Amara felt sick.

***

Eldric moved through the marble halls of the royal castle with a slow-burning fire in his chest. His footsteps echoed, but now and then, he faltered, one hand twitching upward to touch his cheek, as if checking whether the sting was still there.

It was.

Two Knights followed behind him, both newly assigned. They always were. Mother’s decree: No Knight or maid should serve the prince for more than two months.

“Loyalty breeds delusion,” she had once told him. “Delusion makes weak Kings.” It was one of her many lessons. One of her many shackles.

She never wanted him to trust. Not people, not feelings, not even himself. “Fragile bonds,” she called them. “Learn to break them before they break you.”

He hated that lesson. Hated everything she’d carved into him under the guise of making him stronger. Hated how even now, as a grown man and one of the heirs to the throne, she could still reduce him to nothing with a single morning visit.

Not even with a blade. Just with words. And hands.

His cheek throbbed. The skin felt hot and stretched where her ring had cut across it. She had struck him for failing. Again.

Failing to keep Arzan Kellius from gathering more power. Failing to act fast enough. Failing to think like her.

And then, the final insult, she handed him a sealed letter and said, “Take it to Amara. Since you’re useless everywhere else, at least be my errand boy.”

He clenched his jaw. He wasn’t a child anymore. He wasn’t her puppet. But at that moment… he had been. A Knight’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Your Highness, you are expected at the spell lesson next. Mage Jasper is waiting. After that, there’s the strategy review with the other young nobles before the Assembly, then—”

“Shut up,” Eldric muttered.

The Knight paused, clearly confused by what he’d said. Eldric couldn’t hear his steps for a moment, until they returned. “What?”

“I said shut up!” Eldric roared, spinning to face him. “I will do whatever the fuck I want to do!”

“But, your highness,” a more throaty voice came from behind. It was his other Knight. The one with the broader neck, and wait, what was his name? Doesn’t matter. “We have orders from Queen Regina herself. We can’t just—”

The man didn’t get to finish. Eldric rushed towards him in two steps. His mana rolled in angry waves and formed a crimson spell structure around his hand. Before the Knight could raise a hand to defend himself, Eldric’s hand wrapped around his throat and pushed against the wall.

The Knight let out a strangled scream, his armor doing nothing to stop the crimson, burning hand from searing into his flesh.

“I know you have children,” Eldric hissed, watching as the man writhed beneath his grip. “So speak the words I want to hear… if you don’t want them growing up with only their mother.”

Then, just as suddenly, Eldric released him.

The Knight crumpled to the floor, coughing and choking as blood and blistered skin peeled under his trembling fingers. His throat was ruined—seared deep. The pain alone would knock most men out. But he was still awake, squirming like a worm.

Eldric scoffed.

“Go see a healer,” he muttered coldly.

He turned to the other Knight who hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Follow me,” Eldric said, voice sharp and cold as glass. “And I will make sure that I don’t remove my hand next time.”

Without waiting for a reply, he walked off. The sound of his boots against the floor echoed louder than before, each step dragging with the weight of exhaustion.

He didn’t look at the servants watching from the corners, their eyes wide with fear or pity. Let them stare. Let them whisper. They were nothing.

All of them were nothing.

His mother had taught him that, hadn’t she?

He turned left, then right, his steps carrying him deeper into the castle, toward one of the old storage rooms tucked away in a forgotten wing. No one ever came here. No one cared what these rooms once held. Probably old furniture, or armor sets that no longer gleamed.

He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and slammed it shut. The silence inside was thick. And finally—finally—his shoulders slumped.

The room was filled with clutter. Forgotten relics of nobler times—bent swords, cracked armor plates, faded silks that had once been royal robes. A tarnished mirror leaned against the wall, its glass spiderwebbed with age. He didn’t bother looking into it.

Instead, he stood up and made his way to the far corner. There, half-covered by a torn tapestry, lay a mat. He kicked it aside.

His eyes immediately caught the small, rusted box that sat beneath. He knelt and pulled a key from his boot. It had taken him weeks to steal the original and forge this duplicate. But he had done it. For this.

The lid creaked open. He almost sighed in relief as he saw the bed of dried velvet and the vial on top of it. The liquid churned like a restless shadow.

The one he’d stolen from his mother’s personal stock, the one he’d desperately wanted to drink.

It had become an addiction before he knew it. Eldric reached for it with trembling hands and uncorked the vial.

A scent rose from it—like cold fire. It made his vision blur, just for a second. Made his blood hum. So many thoughts rushed through him: his mother’s voice, her disdain, the sting of her slap this morning. His failures. The Assembly. Arzan.

The throne.

He tipped the vial to his lips.

One gulp.

Then another.

It was bitter—like drinking ash and starlight—but it burned its way down and when it reached his core, he felt it.

The roar and the power surging through his veins…. And yet, it was so, so calm. It was so quiet.

His limbs gave out as his back hit the cold floor.

He didn’t care.

He lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling. The shadows in the corners deepened. Something pulsed inside his chest.

And as his eyes fluttered closed, the power eruptded inside him. He smiled, basking in the way the liquid made him feel.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep