The Great Hall of the Myers Castle was not designed for comfort; it was designed for intimidation. The ceiling was lost in shadows, supported by pillars thick enough to house small families. Chandeliers the size of siege engines dripped with crystals, casting a fractured, diamond light over the assembly.
Stars stood at the head table, flanked by his parents.
He was the centerpiece of the evening. At two years old, his features had sharpened, shedding the amorphous roundness of infancy. He possessed Darran's raven-black hair and the distinct, aristocratic jawline of the Myers patriarch. But his eyes were Ariel's—a piercing, storm-cloud grey that seemed to dissect whatever they rested upon.
To the guests, he was a marvel. A "Miniature Patriarch."
"He stands so still," whispered a Duchess from the House of Solara, hiding her mouth behind a fan.
"Most children would be squirming or crying by now. He looks like a statue carved from obsidian."
"He has the Myers blood," her companion replied. "Ice runs in their veins." Stars ignored the whispers. He was busy cataloging the room.
He felt a tug on his sleeve.
"Go," Ariel whispered, nudging him gently toward a designated play area where the scions of the other
Noble Houses had been corralled. "Diplomacy begins in the nursery, my Star."
Stars descended the dais. He approached the group of children with the caution of a bomb disposal technician.
The first to intercept him was a boy slightly younger than himself, round-cheeked and currently clutching a pastry with both hands. His tunic bore the golden lion of House Leone.
"I'm Marcus," the boy mumbled through a mouthful of cream. He offered the half-eaten pastry to Stars.
Stars analyzed the offering.
"Greetings, Marcus of Leone," Stars replied smoothly. "I have already eaten. But your appetite is... robust."
Marcus blinked, not understanding the words but sensing the polite rejection. He shrugged and finished the pastry himself.
Nearby sat a girl who looked less like a human and more like an exquisite porcelain figurine. This was the heiress of House Sterling. Her hair was spun gold, her dress a cloud of pink lace. She sat perfectly still, hands folded in her lap.
"Hello," she piped up, her voice high and melodic. "I am Elara. My nanny says I am not to get my dress dirty."
"A sound strategy," Stars noted. "Stains are inefficient."
Then came the commotion. Two boys, clearly brothers, were wrestling over a wooden sword. They wore the grey and green of House Ashford.
" yield!" the younger one shouted, trying to pry the toy away.
"Never!" the older one laughed, pinning him down.
Stars observed them. The older brother radiated extroverted, kinetic energy—a chaotic waveform. The younger, once he lost the sword, retreated to a corner, sulking with a dark, brooding intensity.
Stars stood amidst them—the Glutton, the Doll, and the Rivals. He realized with a pang of isolation that he had nothing in common with them. They were children. He was a singularity.
Suddenly, a gong resonated through the hall. The chatter died instantly.
The massive doors at the far end of the hall groaned open.
"The Assessment begins," Darran announced, his voice carrying without effort to the back of the room.
An old man entered. He did not walk; he glided. He wore robes of heavy, embroidered velvet that dragged along the stone floor. His face was a map of wrinkles, but his eyes were sharp, holding the vastness of seven decades. This was Elder Thorne, a senior member of the Myers Council and a scholar of the arcane.
He carried a device that looked like a sphere of armillary rings, spinning slowly around a core of clear crystal.
"The Talent is not the destiny," Elder Thorne rasped, his voice dry as parchment. "It is merely the tool. A sword is useless in the hand of a coward, and a pen is a weapon in the hand of a genius. We measure the potential, not the man."
He set the contraption on a pedestal in the center of the room.
"However," the Elder smiled, a thin stretching of lips, "it is good to know the grade of the steel before we forge the blade."
The room held its breath. The grades were common knowledge: Nil. Low. Mid. High. Most nobility fell into the Mid category. High was rare—a generational gift.
"Stars of House Myers," the Elder beckoned. "Step forward."
Stars walked to the pedestal. He felt the eyes of the Empire on his back. The Leone patriarch, the Sterling matriarch, the Ashford—everyone was watching.
"Your hand, child," Thorne requested.
Stars extended his hand. The Elder produced a small silver needle.
Pain is just a sensation, Stars reminded himself.
The needle pricked his finger. A single drop of blood, dark and rich, welled up. Thorne caught it on his finger and pressed it against the crystal core of the sphere.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, a low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The crystal drank the blood.
Flash.
It didn't flicker. It didn't warm up. It exploded with light.
A pillar of pure, blinding azure light shot upward from the sphere, hitting the vaulted ceiling and illuminating the darkest corners of the hall. The armillary rings spun so fast they became a blur. The light was stable, dense, and terrifyingly bright.
The crowd gasped. A glass dropped somewhere in the back of the room, shattering in the silence.
"High Grade," Elder Thorne whispered, shielding his eyes. "Pure High Grade. I have not seen a reaction this volatile since..." He glanced at Darran, then back to the boy.
The light slowly faded, leaving spots dancing in everyone's vision.
"A Prodigy," the Elder announced, his voice shaking slightly. "The Myers have secured their legacy."
"He will rule the Royal Academy when he comes of age," a voice rang out from the crowd—the Duke of Ashford. "Mark my words. The Myers have birthed a monster."
Darran walked forward, placing a hand on Stars' shoulder. The weight was grounding.
"He has the tools," Darran said to the room, his face impassive, though Stars felt the slight tightening of his father's grip. "Now begins the work."
Stars looked at his finger, where the small wound had already stopped bleeding. He looked at the sphere, now dormant.
High Grade.
He felt a surge of satisfaction, but he stamped it down. Talent was just a battery. He still needed to build the machine.
He looked at the other children. Marcus had stopped eating. Elara was staring with wide eyes. The Ashford brothers were silent.
The game had changed. He wasn't just the weird quiet boy anymore. He was the target. He was the standard.
Stars squared his shoulders, mimicking his father's posture. Let them look. He was ready to learn.