The ball had been a grand affair—an elaborate tapestry of silk gowns, clinking glasses, and smiling masks. Nobles from every prominent clan graced the royal palace, the evening meant to celebrate the Aether Ascension of the third-born princess of the royal family. Her name was Seralyn Ambrose, a jewel in the court, known not only for her ethereal beauty but her prodigious affinity for the illusions that defined her bloodline.
The palace shimmered that night with threads of glamour and veiled truths. But behind the satin and gold, betrayal festered.
Somewhere beyond the main hall, away from the laughter and dancing, Seralyn had slipped into the royal bathhouse—a private chamber sealed by wards and reserved only for the royal family. No one expected her to be found there minutes later, half-conscious and disheveled, with Zephyr kneeling beside her.
That moment shattered everything.
The guards had dragged him out before he could utter a word. They said he'd drugged the princess. That he'd meant to rape her. No trial. No questioning. Only outrage.
The Demios Clan—the very clan that had raised him, that had forged him in the dark, brutal Pit from the age of five—had cast him away. He was labeled Aetherless trash, a failed offspring of the prestigious black flame bloodline. They claimed he had nothing to do with them. "A mistake that should have been discarded," they said.
They never mentioned they were the ones who had given the secret order that night. An order to assassinate Seralyn. To send a ghost through the corridors during the chaos of celebration and sever the royal bloodline's rise.
But Zephyr hadn't done it.
He had stood over her, dagger in hand, and faltered. Something—perhaps mercy, perhaps the last shred of his humanity—had stayed his hand. And in that pause, everything crumbled.
He was dragged to the dungeons beneath the palace—a place carved from blackened stone, etched with old sigils to suppress Aether. The air was stagnant with the stink of mold and rusted iron. Chains clinked in the distance. Rats scurried through pools of water that had no source. The walls whispered. The floor bled cold.
He was tortured. Not just by blades and fire, but by the cruelty of those who looked into his eyes and saw a beast. A mistake. He was starved, beaten, broken. And when Seralyn's mother, Queen Avaria, stood above his chained body, her voice was steel wrapped in silk.
"He will die. Tonight. His blood will cleanse her honor."
And so he did.
But that was the night a soul descended on the body.
Now, as the dungeon doors groaned open, the Royal guardians stepped in—enforcers of royal justice, clad in spectral armor forged from the domain of the king. Each bore a crest of authority over the clans. Behind them came the royal family. The Queen. Her sons. Her daughters. And Seralyn, hidden in a veil of illusion, her expression unreadable.
The guards dragged Zephyr's limp form across the stone. He was barely conscious, blood still drying on his lips, the scent of rot in his nose. His body remembered the agony. But his soul—his soul had begun to change.
The air outside the dungeon was sharp, a contrast so fierce it scraped against his skin like shards of ice. The world above ground was blinding. After so many years buried beneath stone and shadow, the sunlight felt foreign. Painful.
Zephyr squinted, the glow lancing through his pupils like needles. His body flinched instinctively, drawing further disdain from the guards dragging him forward. They wore blackened armor trimmed with silver—a sharp, ceremonial design embossed with the royal insignia: a coiled leviathan wrapped around a sunburst. Their expressions were set in contempt, not of justice, but of something they deemed a waste of breath. One of them spat to the side when Zephyr stumbled.
"Can't even walk straight," the guard muttered. "Figures."
Behind them trailed a procession of power: the Crownkin of the royal family adorned in layered cloaks of violet and gold, moved like sculpted statues come to life. They were followed by the Royal Family. The Queen herself—the mother of the princess—stood tall, her features drawn into a mask of cold fury. Her voice, when it rang out earlier that day, still echoed in Zephyr's head.
"He shall pay with his life."
Her daughter, veiled in translucent white, stood to the side in silence. She had said nothing since that night. Perhaps guilt gnawed at her, perhaps not. None of it mattered now.
The execution grounds had been readied quickly. A small elevated stage of darkstone, etched with runes to suppress Aether, stood at the courtyard's center. Onlookers from lesser clans, nobles, and servants gathered beyond the perimeter, murmuring and whispering, their faces painted with morbid curiosity.
As Zephyr's feet scraped across the rough stones, fragments of memory burst behind his eyes—some his, others… not.
He remembered being five, being led by cold hands into the Pit—a jagged chasm beneath the Demios estate where the unwanted trained. No Aether meant no status. No status meant no name.
He remembered the endless drills. Bloodied knuckles. Sleepless nights. The steel-toed boots of instructors pressing into his spine as he gasped for breath. His body learned to move even without strength. His mind learned to endure even without hope.
Years passed.
The clan never acknowledged him. He was trash. Filth. A dog trained for obedience. When the princess became a political threat, they sent him.
He had stood by the water, blade trembling in his hand. But when he saw the girl—so unaware, so human in that moment—he couldn't do it. He turned, and that was when they came.
They caught him with her.
No poison was found in her cup, yet the scandal was already written.
He remembered the trial. If it could be called one. No defense. No evidence. Just judgment.
Now, he stood beneath the sky once more. For the first time in years, the sun touched his skin—not in warmth, but in finality.
His memories ended as he was pushed onto the execution stage. The blade was raised.
And Zephyr opened his eyes fully.
But his eyes clamped shut against it, searing white behind his lids.
He was a phantom among firebearers. A name with no flame.
And so they erased him.
They tore his name from the records. Assigned him only a number. "Subject 23." That was who the Demios Clan had sent to kill the princess. A ghost no one would mourn.
The sword of execution, The executioner—a masked knight loyal to the Crownkin—lifted it high.
"No final words?" someone asked, almost bored.
Zephyr's lips parted, but no sound came. He wanted to say 'too bright', but he didn't have the luxury of getting comfortable. And so the sword swang down, and so stone splattered every where.
Yes stone not blood.