Five years.
That's how long I've been stuck in this small, rotting slice of nobility on the edge of the world.
I say "stuck," but truth be told, it's been useful—like a rat scurrying through the gaps of a crumbling manor, watching, learning, growing teeth. No one expects much from a second son. That's the beauty of it. I've had time. Time to adapt. Time to understand this broken world.
This world… Veloria.
A place teeming with monsters, politics, and ancient powers that never truly died. I've learned its languages, its customs, its blood-soaked history. All while wearing the mask of a quiet, clever child with a weak constitution and a suspicious tendency to stare just a little too long at anything bleeding.
I wasn't like the other kids. Not just mentally—though that's obvious. I mean physically. My body's always been a mess. I bruise too easily, heal too quickly, and whenever I get a cut—accidental or otherwise—the blood doesn't behave… right.
Once, when I scraped my knee falling from the stables, the blood didn't drip. It crawled. Slithered back toward the wound like it didn't want to leave me. The stable boy saw it. He said nothing.
But he quit the next day.
There's a word in this world for people like me. Awakened.
Beings who surpass the natural limits of their species. A fancy title for those who defy the rules and live to tell about it. They're rare. Revered. Or feared. Sometimes both.
There are ranks, too.
From F—barely more than a trained soldier—to X, which is basically a walking natural disaster. Most people don't make it past D. You get to B or A, you're somebody. S and above? Kingdoms watch you.
I'm… not ranked. Not yet. I haven't Awakened—officially.
But I know I'm different.
The blood tells me that much.
I've read books hidden in my father's study, scrolls he doesn't know I can read. I've pieced together myths, theories, truths disguised as bedtime stories. And they all point to the same thing:
Blood is a derivative of water. A rare element to control. But some—some—are born with a deeper connection to it.
A lineage trait, perhaps. Or something else entirely.
I don't remember how I died. Not really. But I do remember feeling incomplete. Wrong. Like I never quite fit into Earth's mold.
Here? In Veloria? My skin fits a little too well.
The Caspian family is minor nobility. Landowners of the Duskwatch territory—cold, misty, perpetually forgotten by the crown. We're not rich, not powerful. But we're respected. Or were.
My father, Alex Caspian, is a proud man. Traditional. Practical. Dangerous in a way most men aren't anymore. He trains my older brother, Julius, with sword and flame—literal fire, apparently his affinity. Julius shows promise.
He's what a noble heir should be.
And me? I'm the pale boy who reads too much, asks too many questions, and spends too much time watching insects die in jars of my own blood.
They say I'm sickly.
Let them.
They don't see me when I press my hand to a bleeding rabbit and feel its lifeforce vibrate under my fingers. They don't hear the way blood speaks—a language made of pulses, warmth, and terrible secrets.
They don't know I can stop it.
I did it once.
To a bird.
It chirped too loudly.
One thought—one whisper in my mind—and the blood in its veins froze mid-flight. It dropped. Twitched. Then stopped.
It never made a sound again.
Was I horrified?
A little.
Fascinated?
Absolutely.
My mother died two winters ago. Fever. Or poison. The whispers change depending on who you ask. Father doesn't speak of it. Julius cried once. I didn't.
Not because I didn't care. I just knew crying wouldn't change anything.
Instead, I buried myself in knowledge. Learned about the six base elements—fire, water, air, earth, dark, and soul—and their derivatives. Blood, of course, falls under water, but also under soul, depending on the context. That's where things get… messy.
Soul magic is rare. Dangerous. Mostly outlawed. Its derivatives—necromancy, summoning, possession—aren't exactly dinner table topics.
But sometimes, when I stare into a mirror long enough, I feel like something stares back. Something stitched from bone and memory, lingering just beyond the glass.
I don't tell anyone.
Julius is fourteen now. Strong, handsome, burning with that golden-child aura. Father's pride.
Me? I turned five last week.
Got a wooden box filled with black feathers. Father said it was a test of patience and symbolism.
I said it was dramatic nonsense.
He laughed.
That's the only time I've heard him laugh around me.
They're planning something. I can tell. Julius trains longer hours. Father whispers more with his advisors. Our guards are shifting. Nervous. Some have stopped sleeping in the barracks altogether.
I think something's coming.
And I think they know it has to do with me.
Tonight, I stood beneath the moon in the courtyard. Alone. Watching the shadows lengthen as the torches went out one by one.
Then I felt it.
That hum.
Not mine. Not internal.
Something beneath the ground. Far below the stone and soil of Duskwatch.
A thrum. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a heartbeat—deep, ancient, hungry.
I knelt.
Pressed my palm to the dirt.
And I heard it.
"You are not the first."
The earth shifted beneath me. Just slightly. As if exhaling.
I pulled my hand back, heart pounding. The blood in my veins trembled. Not from fear. From… recognition.
Something is waking up beneath this land.
Something old.
And I think it's looking for me.
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End of Chapter 3