The city of Valenford rose from the earth like a crown forged of stone and ambition. Gleaming towers stretched toward the sky, their polished surfaces catching the last gold of the sun as evening settled. Noble banners fluttered from balconies made of white marble. Carriages clattered along paved roads that wound between estates older than the nation itself.
It was a city of wealth. A city of secrets. A city where names mattered more than lives.
And none carried more weight than 'Ackerman.'
Their home, House Ackerman Manor, sat high on the eastern terrace, overlooking the river that carved Valenford into two glittering halves. Stone lions guarded the entrance. Ivy crawled up the pillars like ancient veins. Servants moved with practiced precision, keeping everything spotless, perfect, quiet.
Perfection mattered here.
Because imperfection, in the Noble Rings, was a weakness others exploited without hesitation.
Inside, the manor smelled faintly of cedar wood and old books. Tall windows framed the fading light, casting long shadows down the hallway that led to the study, the one room where silence was mandatory.
Rovan Ackerman sat inside that silence.
He always did.
His wheelchair was positioned beside the window, an old blanket laid across his legs to ward off the cold. His hands rested calmly on the wooden armrests, fingers long and steady, though slightly pale from lack of movement. He looked out at the city below, his dark eyes reflecting the rooftops, the river, the distant glow of prosperity he would never freely walk through.
He had been crippled since childhood.
Not from birth. Not from illness. From betrayal.
A fall engineered by someone who hadn't wanted him to stand tall as the heir of House Ackerman.
He remembered none of the fall, only the aftermath: the numbness, the doctors whispering, the weight of understanding as it all came crashing in.
But he had never complained.
Not once.
Pain, after all, was a quieter enemy than envy.
Behind him, footsteps echoed, measured, strong. His father's. Marcus Ackerman entered with the presence of a man who fought wars in his youth and won them through sheer discipline. His dark beard was streaked with silver, and his eyes; stern yet tired, moved to Rovan with fondness softened by worry.
"You should rest," Marcus said. "Your body--"
"My mind is still awake," Rovan replied, voice calm, steady.
"Still." His father moved behind the wheelchair, adjusting the blanket though it didn't need adjusting. It was a habit, both a show of care and a silent apology for a life neither could change. "You don't need to push yourself."
Rovan smiled faintly. "You raised me to do exactly that."
Marcus huffed a breath that might've been a quiet laugh.
But then the door swung open again with a burst of cold air and a very different presence stormed inside.
'Lyor Ackerman.'
Nineteen years old. Sharp as a blade. Eyes bright with ambition, dangerous with hunger.
He dressed immaculately,crisp coat, polished boots, a family crest pinned to his collar. He looked every bit the heir to House Ackerman, except he wasn't supposed to be.
The title belonged to Rovan.
Even if he couldn't walk.
Even if Lyor resented him for it.
"Father," Lyor called, barely acknowledging Rovan. "I heard the council summoned you again. Another meeting on trade routes? Or security?"
His tone was polite.
Too polite.
Marcus stiffed his form, a subtle warning sign Rovan didn't miss.
"It is not your concern," Marcus said without looking away. "Your lessons for today aren't finished."
Lyor's jaw clenched.
He hated being dismissed.
"And yet," Lyor replied, stepping further into the room, "a future head of house should be informed about matters concerning his family. Should he not?"
Marcus's eyes sharpened. "A future head of house must first learn discipline."
Rovan lowered his gaze.
The tension was familiar. Predictable. Dangerous.
Lyor's ambition was not subtle. He wanted everything, the name, the influence, the authority their father carried. And he wanted it desperately enough to resent the crippled brother who still held the position by right.
Marcus walked past Lyor toward the shelf of old ledgers. "Your brother is the future of this family. You will support him, Lyor."
Silence.
Then a cold, soft laugh.
"Support him?" Lyor repeated. "How? By pushing his chair through council halls? By guarding him from nobles who already whisper about weakness in our bloodline?"
Marcus turned sharply. "Enough."
But Lyor didn't stop.
He stepped closer to Rovan, leaning slightly toward him. "Tell me, brother—how does it feel to hold a power you can't even stand on your own two feet to use?"
Rovan didn't flinch. Didn't glare. Didn't respond with anything sharp.
Instead, he met Lyor's gaze with quiet steadiness.
"It feels like a responsibility," Rovan said. "One I never asked for, but one I won't abandon."
Lyor's eyes narrowed, anger and something like frustration swirling in them.
Marcus's voice cut through the air, low and dangerous. "Lyor. Out."
The younger boy finally looked away, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. But he bowed, stiff, forced, and turned toward the door.
Before leaving, though, he paused.
"Father?" he said without turning back.
Marcus raised a brow.
"One day," Lyor murmured, "you will realize that strength matters more than sentiment."
And with that, he walked out, the door closing softly behind him.
The silence that followed was much heavier.
Marcus sank into the chair opposite Rovan, rubbing a hand over his face. "He grows more restless by the day."
Rovan understood why.
Lyor was brilliant, strategic, cunning, charismatic. In another life, he would have been a perfect heir. But here, he was second. And the second was never enough for him.
"Give him time," Rovan said quietly. "He wants to prove himself."
"He wants more than that." Marcus's voice was weary. "He wants the seat that belongs to you."
Rovan's heart tightened.
Not because he feared Lyor. But because he feared what ambition could turn his brother into.
"He is my blood," Rovan whispered. "My responsibility too."
Marcus looked at him long and hard.
"You are too kind," he said finally. "Too forgiving."
Rovan tilted his head. "Is that not what you taught me?"
Marcus blinked, then chuckled under his breath, the tension easing for a moment. He reached forward, squeezing Rovan's shoulder.
"You are wise," he said. "Kind. Honest. These are the qualities of a true leader."
Rovan's throat tightened. He never felt like a leader.
Not when he couldn't walk into the council chamber. Not when he couldn't train with the guard. Not when whispers followed his name like ghosts.
Even so...
He would carry the Ackerman legacy if he had to drag it with his bare hands.
Marcus stood, a heavy cloak shifting with him. "Rest. I'll speak with Lyor later."
Rovan nodded.
When his father stepped out, the room dimmed, lit only by the last amber glow of sunset. Shadows stretched across the floor, pooling at the base of Rovan's wheelchair.
He stared at them.
Lyor's words echoed in his mind.
"How does it feel to hold a power you can't even stand on your own two feet to use?"
Rovan exhaled slowly.
He would prove Lyor wrong.
Not through force. Not through anger.But through steadfastness.
Strength wasn't only muscle and movement. Strength was resolve. Strength was wisdom. Strength was knowing when to speak, and when to remain still.
His wheelchair did not define him.
His brother's jealousy would not shape him.
His father's expectations would not break him.
He was an Ackerman.
And Ackermans endured.
He glanced out the window again, watching the lights of Valenford flicker to life one by one. In the distance, beyond the noble districts and the river and the hills, the world stretched into shadows he had never traveled.
But someday, he would.
Even if he rolled every inch of the way.
Somewhere outside, a bell tolled, deep, solemn, echoing across the city.
Rovan straightened.
A shift in the wind. A change in the night.
Something was coming.
He didn't know what.
But instinct, sharp as any blade, told him their family's peace was nearing its end.
And for the first time in years, Rovan felt a spark of something fierce ignite in his chest.
If the world was changing.....Then so would he.