Dawn painted the gothic windows gold as Alaric von Drachenherz opened his eyes. Three months. Three months since his rebirth into this noble child's body, three months spent observing, learning, and secretly experimenting. Today, everything would change.
Shadows danced across the tapestries as he walked the palace corridors. Servants averted their gaze as he passed, but Alaric caught their whispers:
*"...the young lord... magic trial today..."*
*"...if he turns out useless like Uncle Luthor..."*
A slamming door cut through his thoughts.
"By the gods! Today of all days you wake early?" Seraphine, his elder sister, appeared in her practice uniform stained with magical soot. "Nervous about the trial? Don't worry, little brother." She pinched his cheek with false condescension. "Even if you only have an affinity for dry soil, you can always be my assistant."
Alaric forced a smile. Behind that mockery lay genuine concern. In Valtheria's aristocratic world, magicless sons were worth less than a pedigreed horse.
The Grand Hall of Crystals hummed with solemn energy. Seven black marble walls displayed runes of the Seven Magical Catastrophes, while the vaulted ceiling shimmered with artificial constellations. At the center, upon an ebony pedestal, the Axiom Crystal pulsed with inner light.
"Approach, child." Magister Orlan, an elf with silver hair and storm-gray eyes, extended a bony hand. "Today we shall see what gifts the magical flow has granted you."
Alaric stepped forward under the weight of watching eyes: curious servants, impassive guards, and in the shadows, the imposing silhouette of his father, Duke Edric.
"Before we begin," the elf inclined his head, "tell me, what do you perceive when gazing at the crystal?"
Alaric swallowed the truth. He saw fractures in the artifact's energy matrix, as if someone had tampered with it. "It shines... unevenly," he murmured.
The crystal felt icy to the touch. When his small fingers made contact, the artifact emitted a deep pulse that resonated in his bones. The wall runes ignited in sequence.
The phenomenon began without warning. The crystal vibrated violently enough to shake the floor. Its white light shifted to gold, then scarlet, then deepest blue. It projected flames identical to Seraphine's, replicated the tutor's concealment mist, and for one blood-chilling moment, emitted a flash of sacred light that made Magister Orlan stagger back.
"By the lost arcana!" The elf paled. "A Miracle Incarnation! But that's impossible without prior training!"
On the threshold, Seraphine dropped the book she'd been holding. The crash echoed through the sudden silence.
Without thinking, in his past life's tongue, Alaric whispered: "Should stop."
The crystal obeyed. It snuffed out like a smothered candle.
Duke Edric stepped forward with measured steps. "Magister Orlan," he said in a voice that froze the hall, "what manner of affinity can seal an axiom crystal?"
The elf swallowed. "None known, Your Grace. Only the Incarnates from forbidden texts could—"
"Enough." The duke's gesture cut the air. His gaze swept the room. "This examination never happened. Should anyone speak of it..." He let the threat hang like an executioner's blade. "...they'll lack enough body to fill a teacup."
As he was escorted out, Alaric felt his father's stare burning his neck. What gleamed in those gray eyes wasn't pride. It was hunger.
That night, in his new quarters in the north wing (reserved for "problematic" nobles), Alaric found a book on his pillow. *Treatise on Lost Miracles* glimmered in gold lettering. The marked page showed an illustration of a golden-eyed child being consumed by inner flames. The text warned:
*"Incarnation is no gift, but a parasite. It feeds on memories until only a husk remains."*
The wind turned pages unaided, revealing a phrase in his native tongue: *"They are watching."*
Fever came at moon's zenith. Alaric writhed in bed, visions stabbing his mind like daggers:
A man with his face screaming amidst ruins... A golden-eyed woman whispering warnings... A throne of bones beneath a dead sky... An adult Seraphine, chained, her eyes hollow...
Between visions, a voice whispered in his tongue: *"Beware broken mirrors."*
When Seraphine burst in with cold water, her usual sarcasm broke at the sight of blood on the pillow.
"Idiot! Why pretend to be mediocre?" She wiped his brow with trembling hands.
Alaric, shivering, gripped her wrist. "I didn't. Someone put this inside me... and now it wants out."
A rustle in the garden. Between the bushes, two golden points glowed then vanished. Like eyes closing.
Alaric understood then the terrible truth: his gift was a trap. And someone else in the palace had already fallen into it.