Pain was an ocean, and Louis Northwing felt like a ship adrift on its turbulent waves. Each contraction tore through her body like lightning under a merciless sky, but amidst the agony there was a stubborn expectation—a thread of hope clinging to the promise of a new life. Louis didn't know it yet, but the sound of thunder that night was the harbinger of something much greater than a birth; it was the first drumbeat of a funeral march for everything she knew. Seven years prior, when James came into the world, House Northwing was flooded with a euphoria bordering on adoration. The firstborn, the heir, the future of the Far North Lands. Garling, her Count-husband, had barely disguised his favoritism—a delicate but persistent shadow that hung over little James and over Louis, like the mist that never dissipates from the icy mountains. "Once more, my Countess! Almost there!" the midwife exclaimed, her voice entwined with the booming thunder, as if the sky itself were giving birth alongside her. Outside, the guards doubled their rounds, an unusual silence weighing on the night, but inside the chambers, life stubbornly insisted on blooming. Louis took a deep breath, drawing mana from her core—not to attack or protect, but to heal. To ease the pressure, to ensure her child entered the world enveloped not only in pain, but also in light. Though never fully developed, her affinity for Water and Healing had always been a gift, a subtle caress in the face of the coldness of the lands that Garling ruled with an iron fist. Then, came the cry. Not a strong shout like James's, but a sharp, almost fragile wail, yet full of life. "It's a boy, Countess! A beautiful boy!" Exhausted, Louis lifted her head. There he was—a small bundle of warmth wrapped in cloths, his face wrinkled by the newness of the world, his eyes still refusing the light. She extended her trembling arms, and the midwife laid him against her chest. The crying ceased immediately, replaced by a sigh of relief. As if the world was, at last, in the right place. He was small, but perfect. His hair—brown like hers, though darker—resembled the noble wood of a mature oak, strong, warm, and rooted. James, like his father, boasted thick, dark, almost black strands—like an oak that, under the pressure of time and fire, had turned to charcoal, firm and unbreakable. Louis smiled, a gesture broken by exhaustion, but filled with love. This was Arthur. Her Arthur. When Garling entered the room, he carried in his eyes the weariness of responsibilities—or perhaps the weight of decisions he was beginning to hide. He kissed his wife's forehead and rested his eyes on the newborn. His lips stretched into a perfunctory smile, which didn't reach his eyes, before he uttered the expected words. "Arthur," he murmured, with a slight hesitation, like one naming a promise he doesn't yet comprehend. "May he be a good brother to James. May he support his brother to bring even more glory to House Northwing." "He will bring his own glory, Garling," Louis replied, her voice soft, but firm. "Trust me." A subtle gesture, almost invisible, but she felt Garling's shoulder stiffen under her hand. He could accept the facts, but the true expectation was always with the firstborn. Deep down, however, she already felt the invisible weight beginning to form. James was the diamond— cut to shine. Arthur, the second son, was born under the shadow of a reflection. She wondered what affinity he would have. She secretly wished he had the gift of Healing in his blood, like her. That he carried something that would tie him to her lap, to her warmth, and not to the judgment of the world. The years passed like the northern seasons: long, silent, and cutting. Arthur grew up within stone walls and gray skies. An observant boy, quieter than his brother, but with a persistent gleam in his eyes—a discreet fire that only burned when he immersed himself body and soul in something. At six, his father took him to the training yard, a cold, wind-swept area where the knights practiced. Garling watched James strike blows with a precision that already bordered on an adult's. "See, Arthur," the Count said, with a tone of veiled admiration in his voice, "that's how a Northwing moves." Arthur, with his small wooden blade, tried to imitate his brother, but his movements were clumsy, his posture unbalanced. Garling merely nodded, a brief gesture worth a thousand words of silent disapproval. At another time, Louis found him in the castle's secret garden, Arthur sitting under an ancient tree, watching James, who hovered a small sphere of water in the air, manipulating it with natural concentration. The gleam in James's eyes was undeniable. Arthur sighed, his face marked by a melancholy not typical of a child. "Mother," he whispered, "will I be like that one day?" Louis simply hugged him, feeling the weight of that question, unsure how to truly comfort him. The sword and bow came early, as was customary. James seemed born for them—each strike, each movement, executed with the grace of one who dances with the wind. Arthur, however, didn't fly. He dug his feet into the ground. He practiced awkwardly in silence. In school, he devoured history and laws with restless curiosity. Magical theory, however, seemed distant to him—like a song sung in another language. He saw the enthusiasm of James, the prodigy who, already at eight, had manifested not only the Sapling Phase in his core, but also two powerful affinities: his father's Fire and his mother's Water. By eleven, James masterfully controlled Ice manipulation, a derivation few achieved. He was a born Enhancer, and with a simple sweep of his hands, he could conjure a cutting ice blade, sharp as steel. The next year, he would join Velmore's most prestigious Academy of Magic. Arthur, however, lacked all that brilliance. He was just Arthur, with his eyes, yes, shining, but with a restless curiosity, while the masters spoke of mana theory, complex magic circles, intricate seals, ancient runes, the vast continent of Velmore, and magics so unbelievable they seemed too good to be true. Louis watched it all with a mix of pride and concern. Arthur wasn't like James—and because of that, perhaps, he was more hers than the world around them. At eight, the age when the core of life drips and clumps together to be felt and expelled, the tension in House Northwing was like the wind before a storm—invisible, but undeniable. There was anticipation regarding Arthur's mana core. Louis sensed it would be different—not weak, but outside what was expected. James's awakening, at eight, had been a thunderclap: an explosion of fire that lit the halls, the air trembling with the power of his dual affinity. For Arthur, the longing was for something less grand, but equally strong. And at the same time, the shadows around Garling deepened. Whispers of embezzlements, nocturnal meetings, the sudden scarcity of valuable minerals in the county's mines. Louis knew—she didn't need proof—that her husband was entangling himself in something dark. Trading the family legacy for quick, dirty power. And then came the week. In the same week that Arthur's core awakened, he barely felt the breeze of his own affinity. No explosion, no thunderclap that made the halls tremble. Only a faint glow, almost imperceptible, emanated from his small body. It was enough to intertwine his fate—irredeemably—with the fall of House Northwing. The foundations of the Far North Lands trembled under the weight of buried secrets. The icy winds of the North already howled the lament of an era ending. Above, the stars of the Countdom averted their gaze, portending the chaos to come.