The boy on the bed stirred.
Aeldir's small body lay among five identical beds arranged around a circular fountain, the soft hush of water echoing gently through the recovery chamber. Sunlight spilled through tall, arched windows, casting patterned ribbons across polished stone floors. Blue mana crystals glowed faintly in each headboard, their light reflecting off polished wooden beams embedded in a ceiling of pale stone.
The entire room exuded serene luxury—an elven design meant to calm even the most distressed patient.
Aeldir tried to sit up.
Pain lanced through every mana vessel, sharp enough to draw a gasp. His breath trembled. His core throbbed dangerously—as if expanding and shrinking at the same time.
A shadow fell across him.
A healer stepped inside the room. She was young—barely past adulthood—clad in the immaculate white of the Elven Healing Order. Her uniform was pristine, collar rising to her throat, sleeves fitted seamlessly into snow-white gloves. Her hair was raven-black, straight and neatly tied; her green eyes were calm but sharp, typical of half-elf blood.
"You shouldn't move yet," she murmured. Her voice was soft, airy, like dew settling on morning leaves.
She lifted his head just enough to slip a small glass vial to his lips. The liquid inside shimmered a soft purple—the basic elixir, diluted for children.
Aeldir swallowed. Warmth spread across his chest, lowering the pain to a dull ache.
Then she placed a hand over his sternum and whispered foreign syllables. A mana circle blossomed beneath her palm. A sudden coolness swept through his body; the agony in his vessels faded entirely.
"I've disabled your pain receptors for the moment," she said. "It won't last more than an hour. His Majesty awaits you in the throne hall. Lean on me."
Aeldir nodded weakly.
The healer guided him through corridors of white-stone pillars, etched with veins of glowing sapwood. Mana lamps floated overhead, blue fire flickering inside crystalline sconces. Servants passed silently, bowing in acknowledgement.
Finally, massive double doors opened.
The red carpet stretched from the grand entrance to a raised platform where three thrones stood—each a masterpiece of living wood and embedded mana stones.
Eight armored royal guards lined the hall, silver helms hiding every feature. Their spears were upright, angled to strike at the slightest threat.
Upon the central throne sat the Elven King.
He appeared young—white hair falling smoothly to his shoulders—but his blue eyes carried centuries of quiet authority. He wore a spruce-green noble coat threaded with magical embroidery that shimmered when he breathed.
To his right sat the Queen.
Her black gown flowed like a shadowed river, contrasting with her snow-white hair. Her eyes—cosmic purple and speckled like galaxies—glowed with gentle warmth. Though she looked youthful, her aura was ancient, serene… terrifyingly powerful.
On the King's left sat the Old King, the former ruler. His trimmed white beard, sharp green eyes, and red-stoned ring lent him an ageless, imperial grandeur.
The healer kneeled. Aeldir followed, trembling as much from nerves as weakness.
The King spoke first.
"You are the one who assisted our daughter's escape, are you not?"
Aeldir swallowed. "Yes, Your Majesty."
The King's expression was unreadable. "My daughter wore a mana-linked cloak. It alerts her guardian to her location at all times. Yet during the attack, the signal vanished. Who disabled it?"
Aeldir hesitated.
Barrier magic, Aeldir whispered inside Ryn's consciousness. The kidnappers must have cast one. When you used fire to signal help, the barrier probably collapsed.
Aeldir repeated the explanation.
The King nodded slowly.
"Reasonable."
His gaze sharpened.
"One question remains. How did a child acquire shadow-fire?"
The guards reacted instantly—spears lowered, tips a hair's breadth from Aeldir's throat.
Aeldir forced his voice steady. "By chance, not training. I do not fully understand it myself."
The King studied him for a long moment, then gestured. The spears withdrew.
"And what do you intend to do now?" the King asked.
Aeldir exhaled shakily. "Go home. Find my parents."
Silence fell.
The Old King leaned forward. "Child… your parents are gone. Assassins struck months before you arrived here. You cannot return."
Aeldir's fists clenched. A faint tremor ran through him—rage, grief, betrayal.
The current King continued, gentler this time.
"We regret what the council ordered. We had no part in it. But the truth remains: you have nowhere to go."
Aeldir's lips parted, but no words came.
Then the Queen spoke softly, breaking the tension.
"If you wish… you may stay."
The King lifted a brow. "As what, precisely?"
"A page," the Queen answered. "Assigned to our daughter."
Both kings—present and former—stiffened.
"He is no elf," the Old King protested. "And a boy at that."
"It is her request," the Queen replied. "Not mine."
Silence.
Finally the King asked, "Aeldir Starveil, are you willing?"
Aeldir's breath hitched.
He had nowhere else to go. No home. No certainty his parents even lived.
And Ryn's quiet voice inside him urged caution—but also survival.
"…Yes," Aeldir whispered.
The Queen smiled softly.
"It is decided. Take him for full treatment."
The healer lifted the boy's frail body gently and guided him back to the recovery chamber.
The last thing Aeldir saw was the princess standing behind her parents—hidden behind her cloak, wide cosmic-blue eyes watching him with a mixture of relief… and curiosity.
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[A/N the story before castle was planned long before but I have to set it afterwards I don't even expect it to get 1k till now but your support have lift me to 8k thank you and I will try to be regular see ya 🫡😉]