Chapter 1 

Fyron studied his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his collar and tucking a stray lock of dark hair behind his ear. Did he look the part of next heir to the family? No, not really. He was still as lanky as a teen despite his 23 years. His ebony hair was unruly, just a hint of wave keeping it from ever laying flat. His eyes were just a bit too wide, giving him an innocent look that he had often used to his advantage as it made others underestimate him. His lips curled into a smirk as he eyed his outfit; he may not present the image of a noble heir but his clothes certainly did.

His shirt was flawlessly white and starched to perfection, his waistcoat an antique gold brocade with stained bone buttons engraved with rearing horses (Fyron was especially proud of that touch, as the family crest predominantly featured a rearing horse), his coat was knee length navy velvet with gold stitching and a subtle floral pattern embroidered along the hem. The final touch was his shoes. While he should go for the typical heavy buckled dress shoes, he reached instead for his riding boots; even with all the attention he had invested in his outfit, he didn’t wish to appear a useless fop. 

The glare of sunlight glinted off his mirror, indicating that his time was up. He pulled his hair back into a tail and tied it with a thin strip of leather and left the room without a backwards glance.

The morning meal passed as most did, in a chilly silence. Mother sipped her tea with quiet grace, bestowing her youngest son with a small smile and nothing more. Father read the paper and grunted his displeasure at the headlines. And Dafyd… was absent as usual. Fyron dared not celebrate outwardly but on the inside he did a happy dance. A man who could not even attend a family meal on the day he might be named heir to said family surely did not deserve the title, no matter that he was firstborn.

Following breakfast, Fyron retired to the library to await his father’s summons. He hummed absently as his fingers traced the spines of the books. He’d read every one of them in his 23 years, starting with the books on nature, full of diagrams and drawings, and most recently the ones on the political history of the Vedrisian Empire. Some of the books contained on these shelves had been banned by the Imperial family decades ago, but Lord Eduard Kyde wasn’t one to waste anything, be it a minute or a single coin, and so the expensive books remained, just out of sight of casual passers by. 

A gentle knock on the library door interrupted his musings and he sighed almost happily, checking his reflection in the spotless glass of the library’s single window before answering the knock. He opened the door to a young maid, her hair scraped into a harsh bun from which tiny wisps rebelliously escaped. Her skirt was spotted with tea stains and her young face bore frown lines and a harried expression. What was her name? Corsha? 

“Your father wishes to see you in his office at once.”

Fyron nodded as she scurried away and squared his shoulders, striding confidently toward his father’s office on the second floor. He rapped on the doorframe to announce his presence, noting the door stood slightly ajar. 

“Enter!”

The gruff baritone of his father’s voice sent shivers of anticipation and nervousness down his spine. This was it. Everything he had spent years planning for, training for, manipulating the household like pieces in a chess game for, all of it was for today. 

“Sit!” 

Fyron sank gracefully into a stiff wingback chair, his legs crossed at the ankles and stretched slightly to showcase his well worn but freshly polished boots. He noted silently that he and his father were the only two in the room. Dafyd had not arrived yet, though as firstborn, the same message would have summoned him as much as a quarter of an hour earlier. Fyron folded his hands and waited patiently for his wayward brother to arrive. 

Nearly half an hour later, judging by the elegant grandfather clock in the corner, Dafyd finally arrived. He didn’t bother to knock, or announce himself, just breezed in the door and plopped into the other wingback chair with all the grace of a drunken elephant. His collar was crooked, smudged with rouge and didn’t quite conceal a series of small mage burns shaped suspiciously like fingerprints.

“I’m here, father dearest, so let’s get on with it. I have plans this evening.”

Fyron’s jaw went slack in shock. Dafyd was practically gift wrapping this for him. Father would never allow…

“Yes, as you say, let’s get this over with.”

The distaste in Lord Eduard’s voice was as thick as crystal honey but that did not stop the words that next fell from his mouth, “Dafyd you are officially named my heir, the papers have been filed and the announcement to the public will be next week at your mother’s party. Fyron, your extensive knowledge will become useful, as you will assist Dafyd in growing into his role as leader of this family.”

Fyron froze, his disbelief rivaled only with a white hot rage that threatened to blind him. He stood stiffly, bowed to his father and strode from the room. His knowledge would “become useful” as if it hadn’t already served the family well. His knowledge had helped him choose most of the investments the family had made over the past six years. His knowledge had ferreted out a thief in their staff. His knowledge had helped him forge connections that had saved the family from disgrace at Dafyd’s hands many times. 

He reached his room and, uncaring of decorum, slammed the door, ripping the tie from his hair and shedding his coat and vest, leaving them where they fell. He sat in the window seat, brooding as the clouds grew ever darker. He smiled wanly, the weather knew to humor him even if his father did not. Fat drops of rain splattered against the window and, mirroring the rain, a single tear slithered down Fyron’s cheek, splashing onto his clenched hands. He lost himself in the emotions swirling within, the blue of despair, mixed with anmd nearly overwhelmed by the stark white of rage. The sharp crack of thunder shook Fyron to his core. 

“No.” 

He panicked as he saw for the first time the severity of the storm outside. He ran his fingers gingerly over the tiny navy lightning bolt behind his ear and shuddered as he felt the extent of the smooth, scarred skin. He stumbled toward the mirror, desperate to refute what he already knew deep down. 

The mark had darkened and begun to spread, the navy reaching the outer curve of his ear now, visible to all unless he wore his hair down. Even then, the more observant would spot the discoloration. He dropped to his knees in defeat. For the mark to spread so fast, his power must be remarkably strong and strong mages did not last long in noble families- political history wasn’t the only thing he had studied relentlessly all these years. 

With a burst of energy born of panic, Fyron grabbed a sturdy rucksack from beneath his bed and began to pack. He packed carefully but quickly, choosing the plainest clothes in his closet and ensuring their quality before rolling them and shoving them in the bag. 

When he paused to catch his breath and find his calm again, he noticed a timid knocking on his door. He tucked the nearly full bag out of sight and opened the door unconcerned with his disheveled appearance. Before him stood the diminutive maid from before, her skirt now clean and most of the fly aways slicked back into her bun.

“What?”

She shuffled her feet nervously, not daring to meet his eyes, “I heard about what the lord said, sir. Your brother… “

“Ah. Come to express pity, then?”

He turned away from the door, leaving it open to her, as he crossed the room to curl back up in the window seat. She managed two hesitant steps into his room before stopping, her hands burrowing into her skirt and betraying her nerves. 

“It’s not right!”

He startled at her raised voice and he looked at her with fresh eyes. A possible ally? He sighed, no, his quest was over. The papers were filed, nothing could change his father’s mind now except Dafyd’s death and no matter how rude and irresponsible his brother was, Fyron would not wish death for him. 

“It doesn’t matter if it is right or not. It is my father's decision. Your lord’s decision. And regardless of our position, be it son or maid, he rules this house and everyone in it, so we must abide by that decision.”

He sighed again, directing his gaze to the storm still raging outside. He brushed his hair behind his ear as he always had, only realizing his mistake when he heard a shap intake of breath behind him.

“You’re…”

In mere moments, Fyron was across the room, on his knees, the maid’s hands clutched in his own,”Please. Don’t tell anyone. I’ve had enough taken from me already." He saw her wavering and forged ahead, " I don’t use it. After realizing what it was, I've never used it. So please. Corsha, was it? ”

The maid nodded, seemingly more shaken that he knew her name than by the fact that he was a mage, and Fyron almost felt bad for the little lie he had told her. Almost.

“Of course! I… I wouldn’t dream of outing a non-practitioner. My cousin, she… she was a mage. She never consciously used it but they sold her to a shadow house anyway. She was fourteen, just a normal girl.” The maid sniffed, apparently fighting back tears at the memory, “This changes nothing between us. You are still the lord's son.” 

Fyron squirmed, the lie beginning to cause him guilt but he shoved it down ruthlessly, burying it as he thanked the maid, “Thank you, Corsha. I… have a lot to think about and I’m certain my brother is causing a ruckus big enough to require all hands on deck.”

A quiet snort preceded, a small smile, “He certainly is. I’ll leave you to your thoughts, sir.”

The door clicked quietly shut and Fyron heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled his bag from its hiding place. That could have been so much worse. Perhaps luck was still with him, despite evidence to the contrary. Thunder cracked again, closer than before and Fyron started. He wasn’t fueling the storm anymore. At least, he didn’t think he was. He shook his head. It didn’t matter. It was only a matter of time before he was outed, either by Corsha or some other overly observant soul. Before the news reached his father and either slavers or mage killers were bursting through his door, escape was key.

Servants’ stairs ensured that his family didn’t notice his escape. He ducked out into the weather mere feet from the stables. As much as he wanted to bring his beloved Mero with him, he knew a horse missing from the stable would sadly draw more notice than a runaway second son. 

He looked back at the house, his childhood home, one last time, frighteningly aware of each and every lightning flash and crash of thunder. The storm felt more like home now than the warm, dry building which housed his so-called family. A flash of fury raced through him, echoed by a bolt of lightning striking the roof of the grand mansion.

The fury fled, pursued by panic, white chased away by fiery orange, already tinged in red, and he ran. Unsure where he was going, what he would do with his life, or even whether he’d be safe, he ran.