Vorthryn breathed like it hadn't in years.
The capital of Valern, usually a fortress wrapped in silence and storm, had opened itself to joy. Not cautiously. Not in fragments. But fully.
Magic lanterns drifted between tower spires, their glow reflecting off snow-dusted rooftops. Musicians filled every plaza and bridge with melodies spun from wind and string. Spellcasters danced illusion-fire through the streets—ribbons of starlight, birds made of glowing mist. Children chased each other past vendors hawking candied roots and smoked chestnuts, faces painted with dragons and silver suns.
Even the watchtowers bore wreaths tonight.
The prince of Valern had turned twelve.
And—for the first time—he'd allowed the city to celebrate him.
Ajax didn't join the revelry.
He stood at the edge of the market square, where the light of paper lanterns blurred against the snowmelt pooling in the cracks of old stone. The crowd buzzed around him, cheerful and unaware, but he felt separate from it all.
Not by force.
By gravity.
His Spiral Core had been humming beneath his ribs for days now—a low, insistent pulse that refused to fade. It didn't feel like pressure or danger. It felt like movement. Inward. A spiral tightening into something denser than before.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he could feel a change coming.
And so, while others toasted the boy they'd never seen, Ajax turned his back on the square and slipped into the south wing of the fortress—quiet, cold, and untouched by celebration.
Here, in the unadorned halls where planning rooms and storage archives lined the walls, the air was still. And cold.
He didn't mind.
He wasn't in a festive mood. His Spiral Core had started resonating again—subtle at first, but now near-constant. A low hum beneath his ribs. Not painful. Not loud. But… insistent. Like a storm coiling in reverse.
He wasn't sure what it meant.
It didn't feel like the opening of a new gate. It didn't feel like more power. It felt… tighter. Denser. Focused.
He needed to understand.
He turned a corridor near the records room—and stopped.
There, sitting on the stone floor beside a tall narrow window, was a boy.
Black-haired, pale-skinned, cloaked in a clean, high-collared coat. No guards. No fanfare. Just a thick book laid open on his knees and the silver wash of moonlight over both.
The boy looked up.
"You're Ajax," he said.
Ajax narrowed his eyes slightly. " And you are?"
The boy didn't answer that. Instead, he closed the book softly and studied him.
"You're not supposed to be down here."
"I could say the same."
The boy offered a small nod, conceding the point. "Fair."
He returned to his book.
Ajax stepped forward, noticing the intricate sketches and mathematical notations on the open pages. Some of them were familiar, others completely foreign.
"You're reading core theory?"
The boy nodded. "Trying to understand something."
Ajax crossed his arms. "Like what?"
The boy's voice was casual, but there was weight beneath it.
"Why some people advance… and others evolve."
That made Ajax pause. "What does that mean?"
The boy shut the book gently and looked up.
"In Cairn, mages develop their mana cores in stages. We call them circles. A First Circle mage is just beginning. Fifth Circle is the upper limit—at least by current standards."
Ajax blinked. "I've never heard that before."
Now the boy's eyes narrowed, curious. "You didn't know?"
"I've felt… something changing. But no one ever told me there were stages. Or what I'm supposed to do."
The boy tilted his head. "That's because your core isn't standard."
Ajax tensed slightly. "And what makes you say that?"
"I've read the reports. You manifest weapons from pure mana. Without casting. You redirect energy like a gate exists inside your thoughts. That's not how Valern magic works. It's not even how Cairn conjuration should work—at least, from what little we understand of it."
He tapped the cover of the book in his lap.
"You're not building outward. You're folding inward. Every maneuver you make is tighter. Denser. Like something is compressing instead of expanding."
Ajax said nothing.
The boy looked up again. "I think your core isn't growing in circles. I think it's turning. Spiraling."
Now Ajax stared at him—not in shock, but realization.
"I never said that word."
"No," the boy said. "But I see patterns. And you break them."
Ajax slowly crouched beside him, setting his elbows on his knees. "You figured all that out from a few battlefield logs?"
"I suppose I did."
Ajax met his gaze.
"You're not far off."
The boy gave a small, dry smile. "That's why I read. People lie. Effects don't."
They sat in silence for a moment—Ajax crouched beside him, the flicker of a torch on the far wall casting slow shadows across their faces.
Ajax broke the quiet. "You always talk like this?"
"Only when someone might actually understand."
Another pause.
Then Ajax stood.
"There's a party upstairs," he said.
"I'm aware."
"You going?"
"I wasn't."
Ajax started walking.
Then stopped. "You should. Just to see what they say when they think you're not listening."
The prince closed the book.
"Maybe I will go."
____
The grand hall of Vorthryn shimmered like a dream.
Velvet banners replaced Tribunal flags. Spell-lamps drifted near the vaulted ceiling, pulsing in rhythm with live music that resonated from the gallery above. Floating trays offered glass-cut desserts and emberfruit wine. Nobles mingled beneath enchanted chandeliers, their laughter deliberate, their smiles trained.
Ajax slipped through the outer edge of the crowd, now changed into a formal outfit. He watched with the detachment of someone who understood war better than dancing.
He was nearly to the corner stairwell when he saw her.
Reva stood near a marble pillar, half-silhouetted in lamplight.
Her dress was dark silver, sleeveless on one side, while on the other, her sleeve ran down to her wrist, cut in a way that balanced elegance with readiness. Her hair, normally bound back for training, now fell in soft waves, pinned with a crescent-shaped clasp above her left temple. She didn't wear jewelry. She didn't need to.
She wasn't trying to look beautiful.
She just was.
But more than that—she looked like someone who had stepped into a role others had written for her and torn out the pages that didn't fit.
Ajax approached without ceremony.
"You look ready to leave," he said quietly.
"I might," Reva replied. "One more lecture about noble etiquette and I'm climbing out a window."
He smiled faintly. "Back entrance or balcony?"
"Whichever gets me out fastest."
They stood in stillness together, just beyond the noise.
"You always stand on the edge of rooms," she noted.
"It's the best place to see everything."
"And the safest if someone starts throwing fireballs."
He glanced sideways. "Not that kind of party."
"I still don't trust parties."
He nodded once. "Neither do I."
They didn't speak again for a while.
They didn't need to.
Music swelled, nobles danced in slow spirals across the polished stone. A pair of battlemages demonstrated synchronized spellwork near the west alcove—illusion-glass daggers, timed bursts of wind.
Reva barely watched.
"I don't like this place," she said finally.
"Why?"
"It pretends too well."
Ajax followed her gaze.
"It's a fortress pretending to be a ballroom."
"It's a battlefield," she said. "Just one with better shoes."
The doors opened.
The prince entered without ceremony.
No crown. No trumpets.
Just a boy in a black coat.
He walked calmly across the floor, slipping between nobles who parted like wind through trees.
And when he saw Ajax—
He nodded.
Small. Precise. Intentional.
Ajax returned the gesture, slow and steady.
Reva noticed.
"Friend of yours?"
Ajax considered the question.
Then answered without looking away:
"Yeah, I think he is."