I sat alone in the dim chamber, blood trickling down my temple, mixing with the grime of battle. My body ached like an old sword left out in the rain — beaten, bent, but not broken. The training dummies around me stood unscathed. I couldn't say the same for myself.
The pain was nothing new. I sat still, back against the cold stone wall, breathing slow. Blood dripped from my brow onto the floor, dotting it like a crimson flower. I didn't win. But I didn't quit either.
My arms felt like lead. My ribs screamed with every breath. I wasn't sure if I was shaking from pain, rage, or both. I was supposed to be strong by now. What the hell went wrong?
My name?It's not worth remembering.At least, not yet.But if you really want to know... they used to call me Kael Vidarson , the cursed heir. The one born without magic. The one left to rot in a training room like this.Funny how things changed .I wasn't always like this.Once, I had a name that meant something — Kael, son of a knight, fiancé to a noble's daughter.Now? I'm the ghost they forgot to bury.Broken bones, blood-stained floors, and a heart full of rage — that's all that's left of me.
Dressed in black from head to toe, Kael had an unsettling presence. His dark, curtain-like hair parted neatly in the middle, falling just to his jawline, framing a pale face and eyes black.
Kael sat in silence, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. Blood had dried along his jaw. The ache in his muscles throbbed like a second heartbeat.
He exhaled slowly. "Everyone leaves," he murmured. "Everyone lies."
A pause. His eyes flicked up toward the mirror — that tired reflection staring back at him.
"Except her," he whispered, softer this time. "At least I have Clara... the only woman who'll never betray me."
He stood. Not fast — as if any sudden movement might break the moment. His fingers lingered at the hem of his shirt before pulling it off, revealing the map of scars and silence etched into his skin.
The water ran hot. Steam curled like phantom hands across the room. Kael stepped into it, letting it wash away the dried blood, the doubt, the weight of the day — even if just for a moment.
After the bath, he dressed with quiet purpose. Black shirt, coat, gloves — neat, sharp, familiar. But something in his eyes had changed. There was a light there. Faint, but real.
He smoothed his middle-parted hair in the mirror, exhaled once more, and opened the door.
Time to see her.The one who still made him feel human.
"My name is Kael.""Son of a dead man. Heir to nothing.""Once, my family stood tall — nobles of the western isles, our banners high, our halls bright.""Now? Nothing remains but a ruined crest and an old name no one dares to speak."
Kael pulled on his coat slowly, the scent of fresh soap still clinging to his skin. His breath fogged the mirror as he spoke, not to anyone, but to the ghost in his chest.
"After my father died... the world moved on. No one mourned a forgotten house. No one came to save us. So I had to become the kind of person who could save himself.""That's why I joined RagDon."
He looked at his reflection — at the eyes that had seen too much, too young.
"The Clan of RagDon — a creation of desperation.""Forged by the eight strongest empires on the continent — enemies, rivals, kings — forced to unite because they knew something darker was coming.""A clan not built on bloodlines, but on purpose."
He smirked faintly, bitter.
"They train people like me — broken weapons with no place left to rust.""We are meant to become shields, swords, and sacrifices."
Kael adjusted his gloves, eyes narrowing.
"There are millions of empires out there, but only eight that truly rule.""Each holds a piece of this continent like gods grasping a shattered world — the northern empire that commands the ice-lands and war tribes; the southern lord who rules the Great Forest with beasts and old magic; the eastern storm lords; the western iron dukes; and the final three... deep in the center, where power hides behind temples and thrones.""Each of them holds at least a hundred thousand kingdoms — a joke, when you think about it. Ten percent of the land, but a hundred percent of the control."
He opened the door to his room, a gust of evening air brushing against him. Somewhere, far off in the courtyard, bells rang softly.
"And in the middle of all that... there's me.""Kael of nothing. Trainee of RagDon. Not a prince. Not a warrior. Not yet.""But I have Clara."
His voice softened — the first time the edge left his words.
"The only person who looks at me and doesn't see a failure or a future weapon.""The only one who stayed.""Maybe... that's enough for today."
And with that, Kael stepped into the fading sunlight, heading toward the one place in the world that still felt warm.
Kael stepped through the stone courtyard, boots clicking softly beneath the twilight. The air was cool, kissed with wind, and for once, he let himself breathe without the weight of memory.
He was going to see her.Clara.
She wasn't just beautiful — she was ethereal.
Her hair was white — not plain white, but the kind that shimmered faintly under light, like freshly fallen snow. At the ends, it deepened into a rich dark blue, like midnight ink bleeding into frost. It flowed down her back like a silk curtain dipped in starlight, fell past her shoulders in soft waves, the ends dipped in midnight blue, like snow melting into twilight. Her eyes, dark blue and deep, held oceans of calm — or so he thought. She moved like a secret kept safe, her body graceful, elegant — almost royal. But what Kael had always loved most was how she looked at him — like he wasn't broken.
"She stayed," he whispered to himself. "When no one else did."
But as he reached the garden doors, something stopped him. Voices. Breathless. Low.
He turned the corner.
And his world shattered.
There she was — Clara, wrapped around another man, her body bare, her lips on his neck, his hands gripping her hips. Kael froze. His heart stopped before it even had the chance to break.
"Clara?!" he shouted, voice cracking like glass. "What the hell are you doing?!"
She turned, startled. But there was no guilt in her eyes — only annoyance. The man behind her stood up slowly, taller than Kael, broad-shouldered, wrapped in an open black robe marked with a golden sigil Kael knew all too well.
"No..." Kael whispered. "No, it can't be—"
The man stepped forward, unfazed.
"You must be the mutt from RagDon," he said, voice smooth, smug. "Cute. I can see why she entertained you."
"Shut up!" Kael hissed, fists clenched. "Clara, say something! Tell me it's not what it looks like!"
Clara looked him in the eye — and didn't flinch.
"It's exactly what it looks like, Kael," she said coldly. "I don't owe you anything."
Kael's chest tightened, rage and heartbreak battling for air.
"You said you'd never betray me—"
The heir didn't let him finish. With a flick of his hand, a surge of invisible force slammed into Kael's chest, launching him backwards like a ragdoll. He crashed into a pillar, coughing blood.
The man stepped forward lazily.
"Next time you speak to me, peasant, remember your place. I am Vaelion Elarion, heir to the Elarion family. Your entire bloodline wouldn't be worth a single hair on Clara's head."
Kael tried to rise, vision swimming, body shaking — but not from pain.
From rage. From betrayal. From the death of the last thing he believed in.
He looked at Clara one last time.
She didn't look away.