Chapter 7
The moon hung low over Valthorne, its silver light spilling across the city's jagged streets like liquid metal. Solvane leaned against the balcony railing, his golden fur catching the pale glow. Below, the city pulsed with life—merchants called out their final sales, drunkards stumbled through torchlit alleys, children laughed as they chased each other barefoot. To most princes, such sights were beneath notice, trivial compared to the weight of crowns and councils. To Solvane, they were a lifeline, a glimpse of a world unbound by the golden crest that burned against his forehead. He watched a group of human youths weaving through the crowd, their laughter free, their lives untouched by prophecies or thrones. His claws tightened on the stone, a quiet ache in his chest.
Four years had passed since that night—the night he should have died. He remembered the darkness closing in, his father's face above him, tight with an emotion he couldn't name—fear, fury, or something colder. No breath. No pulse. Death had claimed him, he was sure. Yet he woke in clean sheets, his body whole, no scars to mark the nightmare. His bloodstained clothes were gone, burned to ash. King Aubrean never spoke of it, his silence a wall thicker than the palace's stone. Solvane tried to believe it was a dream, but dreams didn't linger in the marrow, whispering that the world had shifted in ways he couldn't grasp.
Sleep eluded him, not just tonight but for years. The memory of that stillness—his heart silent, his lungs empty—haunted him. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his pulse, as if to prove he was still alive.
Yesterday was his fifteenth birthday, the age when a Golden Asper's gift should awaken. A power unique to each soul, swelling like a tide, reshaping them for Avallah's brutal demands. Others felt it—a surge of heat, a pressure in the heart, a pull toward destiny. Solvane felt nothing. No spark. No power. Just silence, heavy and unbroken.
The Council's whispers had begun. Some called him a late bloomer, others dared voice what Aubrean surely thought: he was cursed. The Yellow Aspers saw his failure as an insult to their legacy, a crack in the Golden Asper myth. Aubrean's silence cut deeper than any blade. Once, his father had told him stories of valor, of Golden Aspers shaping Avallah's fate. Now, his eyes held only judgment, as if Solvane's lack of power was a personal betrayal. Solvane wanted to prove himself, to earn the pride he'd chased since childhood. He trained harder, pushed his body beyond its limits, but each day widened the chasm between him and Aubrean's expectations.
Yet, in that silence, Solvane found a strange relief. Without a gift, he was invisible, a shadow in the palace's glare. The Council's eyes turned elsewhere, their whispers no longer his burden. When Master Fog vanished, replaced by a fool in uniform who called himself a trainer, Solvane saw his chance. He trained in secret, sharpening his body in the palace's hidden corners, building strength they didn't expect. If they thought him weak, he could slip away. Escape the prophecy, the throne, the weight of his father's gaze. He imagined crossing the wastelands, finding an oasis where no one knew his name, where the crest was just a mark, not a chain.
"Maybe if I'm nothing to them," he murmured, lips curving in a bitter half-smile, "I can be free. See the world beyond these walls."
His fingers brushed the hairpin in his braids—dull, worn, shaped like a dragon coiled upon itself, its mouth open as if breathing fire. He didn't know where it came from, no memory tied it to his past. Yet its touch warmed his chest, a quiet comfort like an embrace he couldn't name. It was the only thing that felt like his, a piece of himself outside the palace's grip.
The night wind curled around him, carrying the salt tang of Valthorne's distant river and the faint aroma of baked bread from the streets below. He breathed it in, savoring a life that wasn't his, the simplicity he craved. The festival from years ago flickered in his mind, the humans' laughter, his mother's tears. She'd asked if he wanted their happiness, and he hadn't known how to answer. Now, he did. He wanted to be free, to choose his own path, not the one Aubrean had carved.
A figure stepped into view at the balcony's edge, cloaked in midnight blue, moving with silence so perfect it was almost inhuman. He bowed, slow and deliberate, his presence cold as the stone beneath Solvane's feet.
"Your Highness," the figure said, voice low and measured. "It's time."