Nadiel’s point of view

Breakfast with the royal family — a concept that once might have intrigued me — had long since dulled into routine. This morning, however, there was a strange tension in the air. The kind that coils around the edges of silence and sinks its teeth into the unspoken.

The table was a long, rectangular slab of mana-forged stone — cold to the touch but warm beneath the illusion runes woven into its surface. At the short end sat King Auren, as always — back straight, hands clasped, eyes heavy with the weight of rule. Beside him, on the longer side, sat my mother, Queen Ardelyn, glowing in her beauty and grace. Across from her, close to the king and clearly basking in proximity, was my eldest sister.

Theria.

Theria had her father’s posture, his rigidity, and unfortunately, his self-righteousness — though none of his restraint. Eighteen years of existence, and still she believed reverence equaled superiority.

Next to her sat Runo — my favorite little partner in crime. Her silver hair was twisted back in a lazy braid, and the way her eyes glittered meant she was already thinking of something outrageous. I never cared for pranks in my former life — I had little patience for such trivialities — but her imagination was vivid, chaotic, and creative enough that I found it amusing to make them real. It was a challenge. One I could not ignore.

Beside her, silent and straight-backed, was Riva — Runo’s twin and perfect opposite. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, her eyes downcast, unreadable. She rarely spoke to anyone but our mother, and only in whispers. She always avoided my gaze, as if eye contact might summon some infernal truth. Perhaps it would. Theria is one year older than the twins, which makes them seventeen; while I’m twelve this year.

And I — I was seated beside Ardelyn, to her left, directly across from Runo. The breakfast table stretched like a war council, scattered with golden plates and glistening fruit, roasted venison, and iced nectar. It was an ornate battlefield, and I already sensed the tension building toward a skirmish.

I looked at each of them and thought — so this is the family I’ve inherited.

A kind mother with strength hidden beneath softness. A father convinced that command equals connection. A sister obsessed with legacy. A twin whose curiosity borders on chaos. And another who avoids the world as if afraid it might stain her.

Humans. Endlessly fragile, endlessly complicated.
Well… I guess I’m not the one to talk, since I’m one of them now.

It was the eldest who shattered the silence first.

“Your recent campaign in the east, Father — the way you drove back the rebel mage coalition in a single week — it was awe-inspiring.”
Her tone was full of practiced admiration, reverent and loud enough to ensure the entire table could hear.

Auren gave a subtle nod, accepting the praise with practiced humility.

“And your tactics,” she continued, “splitting their warlocks from their clerics using storm barriers and then flanking with the elite lancers? Only you could’ve thought of that.”

My mother, who had remained quiet until now, lifted her head slightly and offered a gentle smile.

“It was well done,” she said. “But I did wonder — were the civilians in the mage-controlled villages evacuated before the barriers went up? Lightning doesn’t always discriminate.”

The question wasn’t accusatory. It was a soft thing. But it landed like a stone in the water.

The eldest sister’s expression twisted.

“I’m sure Father had it handled,” she said, voice tight.

“He always does,” Ardelyn replied, still serene. “But it’s something that often slips through in war. Even experienced generals can overlook the innocent when strategy takes precedence.”

There was a beat.

“You speak like you were there,” the sister snapped. “As if you know better than he does.”

Ardelyn’s smile faltered, just slightly.
“I only meant—”

“Of course you did,” the sister interrupted. “You always have something to add, even when no one asks. That’s what you’re good at — sitting in silks and second-guessing people who’ve bled for this kingdom.”

The table stilled. Even the utensils seemed to hush.

Ardelyn’s eyes dropped to her plate.

I set my fork down.

“My apologies,” I said, not looking at my sister. “But there’s a factual error in your understanding.”

The tone was calm. Detached. The kind of chill that cuts deeper than fire.

“You see, in the eastern city of Sorroth, the mage coalition had established cloaking wards to blend in with civilians. Deploying mana barriers without sweeping first with mana-sense units would’ve endangered everyone in the area, regardless of allegiance. My mother asked a fair question. One a commander should have asked himself before acting.”

Her jaw twitched.

“And as for her ‘sitting in silks,’ you’d do well to remember that you sit in them too — draped in velvet not because of your merit, but because of your lineage.”

“You—” she started, furious.

But she had nothing.

“You… you…!”

“Enough.”

Auren’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

Silence fell.

It was too late.

I stood. My chair scraped gently against the marble.

Ardelyn reached for me.
“Naddy—”

I ignored her and walked out.

Behind me, I heard another chair push back.
My sister — the eldest — followed.
Of course she did.

Auren’s point of veiw

The dining hall emptied, slowly. The twins excused themselves not long after, one silent, the other thoughtful.

Only I and Ardey remained.

I sighed and leaned back, one hand resting near my empty goblet.
“We can’t even have a normal breakfast anymore.”

I tried to open a conversation about how hard parenting is, but Ardelyn said nothing.

I glanced at her and finally asked, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Her silence answered me better than words could. She looked at me — truly looked — and there was such quiet disappointment in her eyes that I felt the weight of it settle into my bones.

“Why didn’t you stop her?” she whispered. “Before Nadiel had to.”

“I was—”

She interrupted me.

“But you didn’t.”

I exhaled again, slower this time, knowing how badly Ardelyn wants to improve her relationship with Theria.
I said, “Ardey… I can’t make her like you.”

“And I,” she replied, standing, “can’t make Nadiel like you.”

She walked out.

I remained alone at the table.

Third Person’s Point of View

The morning passed, and the heat of the day softened beneath the haze of enchantments cast over the royal training field. Banners hung on the edge of the walls, fluttering in the conjured wind. Knights and instructors dotted the sidelines while a wide stone ring dominated the center of the field — a dueling ground reinforced with layered runes and impact barriers.

From the high balcony overlooking the arena, King Auren stood, arms crossed as his gaze swept the grounds. His eyes paused briefly on the two figures stepping into the dueling ring.

Theria. And Runo.

Below, Runo was tightening her gloves, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Her lightning affinity crackled faintly in the air — thin strands of current sparking between her fingers, her energy wild and difficult to contain. Theria, by contrast, was still and calculating. No flourishes, no outward flex of mana. Her presence was composed, grounded.

King Auren narrowed his eyes.

Three pillars — swordsman, mage, and combatant. Every magical profession began from one of them. That was the foundation of this world, the first truth every soldier and court-born noble learned. Yet evolution always came from deviation. The ones who stood apart learned to blend, to adapt. Some clung to tradition. Others, like his children, chose deviated paths.

Runo, wild and fierce, had taken to battle magic — a branch of spell work designed for mobility, aggression, and reflex. A mage trained to strike fast and move faster, bridging the fatal gap between incantation and defense.

Theria, ever the thunderclap in discipline’s armor, had walked the road of a magic combatant — raw strength enhanced by elemental fusion, merging martial precision with the destructive power of lightning.

And Riva, quiet and distant, had chosen a profession as reserved as herself. A barrier mage. Tactical. Defensive. Rare.

Corrin reported to the king on his children’s chosen magical professions.

“Runo — a battle mage. A mage who reinforces her spellcraft with footwork and evasion, aware that her profession struggles at close range — a weakness she’s still working to overcome. Theria — a magic combatant. A fighter whose combat arts are enhanced by elemental affinity — in her case, lightning. She has also developed her projectile techniques but uses them sparingly to mislead opponents.”

He paused, then added,
“Riva, the twin — she chose a different path. A barrier mage. Defensive. Precise. A rare and unflashy gift.”

The king inclined his head.

King Auren exhaled slowly.
“I didn’t assign Nadiel a teacher. Not because he lacked aptitude — but because I wanted to see where he’d go without guidance.”

Corrin said nothing.

“The Shadows report him,” Auren continued, voice even. “They always do. One night, sword drills. Another, combat footwork. Then a morning alone with runes and spell arrays — forming structures even some instructors wouldn’t recognize. He’s literally tasting every path.”

A pause.

“But the Shadows report that he doesn’t seem to have chosen. At least not yet.”

Corrin’s face remained unreadable as he spoke.
“Or perhaps he already has — and we just don’t know.”

King Auren said nothing. But his gaze didn’t waver from the ring.

Down below, a bell rang — signaling the start of the match.

Theria moved first.

She dashed forward, closing distance with blinding speed, her mana flaring around her limbs.

Runo responded quickly — a glyph circle sparked under her palm.

“Lightning Dragon Art: Lightning Dragon Spears!”

Crackling mana formed spears tipped with snarling dragon heads, launching across the ring toward Theria’s charging form.

But Theria didn’t slow.

“Thunderstrike Art: Thunder Shift.”

She vanished in a burst of static.

The spears crashed into nothing.

In the next breath, Theria reappeared behind Runo, already mid-strike. A mana-coated fist slammed into Runo’s stomach before the younger twin could react.

The impact folded her body. She crumpled to the floor, coughing violently, eyes wide.

A knight instructor leapt into the ring.
“Match over!”

Theria stood straight, brushing invisible dust from her tunic.

Her gaze drifted to the balcony.

She raised a hand.

And crooked a single finger toward Nadiel’s direction — a wordless invitation.

A challenge.