I was one of the first to stand beside him, when the world still hesitated and the throne was nothing more than an idea whispered into the dark. Before banners were raised, before our names carried weight, I knelt and pledged myself—without promise of glory or reward. Fealty was not demanded; I freely gave it.

  I was there when others later, many, many more than I ever expected, did the same. But at the beginning it was only a handful of us, and I was there before the rest found their courage. I had pledged myself to him before he was certain of himself, before he understood what he would become.

  I was there when it was found that he was already broken, even before the time we met. I did not see it then, no one did. The fractures were hidden beneath resolve, beneath his authority, beneath his smile and his laugh. Beneath wisdom, beneath cunning. Beneath his strength for he was mighty beyond all reason. But we did not know, deep down, he was worn thin by things he refused to speak of.

  In hindsight, the cracks were obvious.

  I was there when he broke, when loss had hollowed him out, and left a void, nearly shattering him, at a time when he screamed at fate itself.

  I was there again when he rose from that ruin, changed, resolute, no longer the man I first swore myself to—yet still him. He had ascended.

  Now I continue to remain by his side. I am Heiran. First of his Castellans. I was there at the beginning, and I will be there, because I chose to, and will continue to choose to, until the end of all things.

  -from the personal accounts of Heiran(平嵐), Shadowstorm Monarch, Master of the Frostnight Wolves, First Castellan, Member of the Dragon’s Crown.

  =======================================================================

  The Observatory Tower—the highest spire of the castle—stood quiet tonight. Teal light from the twin moons washed gently over the stone, casting soft, overlapping shadows along the battlements. Far below, the city had already surrendered to sleep. Only a scattering of distant lights remained, thin and wavering, like wisps clinging stubbornly to the dark before flickering out one by one. From this height, the world felt hushed, contained, as though it were holding its breath.

  It was a calm night. Cool air drifted across the open terrace in slow, unhurried currents, brushing against stone and carrying with it the faint scent of night-blooming flowers from somewhere unseen. Nothing stirred.

  Nothing felt amiss.

  Save for the person floating a few feet above one of the parapets.

  He lounged there languidly, leaning back against nothing at all, legs crossed with casual ease. His feet tapped in an absent rhythm, as if keeping time with music only he could hear—though, in truth, he very much could hear it.

  Despite his rather portly appearance, the unnatural position seemed to trouble him no more than sitting in a well-worn chair. Gravity, it appeared, had simply decided not to argue for tonight.

  He wore a blue hoodie pulled loosely around his shoulders, thick pajamas bunching slightly at the knees, and a pair of loafers that had clearly never been intended for castle towers or midnight air. The outfit was domestic, comfortable and decidedly out of place against ancient stone and moonlit battlements.

  Wireless headphones rested snugly over his ears. A small red light glowed faintly along one side, indicating they were charging. How, exactly, they were charging was anyone’s guess; no wires trailed from them, no outlets were nearby. Yet the music played on without interruption, steady and unconcerned—much like its listener.

  Then, without warning, his entire outline wavered.

  For a brief instant, his form buzzed and fractured, edges breaking apart like television static losing its signal. The air around him shimmered, reality itself seeming to hesitate. But, just as quickly as it began, it stopped. The night settled again, as though nothing had happened at all.

  He frowned, the tapping of his foot slowing. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly and spoke—not to the city, nor the tower, but to empty air.

  “Yes, yes, calm down. That happens from time to time.”

  He sighed, rubbing at his temple.

  “Yes. Yes, I do have it under control.”

  A pause followed, his expression tightening with mild irritation rather than concern.

  “Listen to me, okay? I had this condition before you even came into existence. So quit acting like my mother.”

  Another pause. Longer this time. His foot stopped tapping.

  “Yes, she doesn’t know I have this condition of mine,” he said at last, voice flattening, “but my argument still—”

  He stopped mid-sentence, glancing upward toward the twin moons as if reassessing his patience. The wind stirred again, brushing past him, and for just a moment the calm of the night felt strained—thin, like glass under pressure.

  He exhaled slowly and leaned back further into the invisible support, eyes closing as the music swelled faintly in his ears, the tower bearing silent witness to a conversation it could neither hear nor understand.

  From behind him came a soft, rhythmic thumping—slow at first, then gradually growing louder. Footsteps echoed across stone, measured and deliberate, accompanied by the muted thunk of wood striking the ground with each step.

  An old woman emerged from the doorway leading onto the terrace, her cane tapping steadily as she advanced. Her hair was grey and tightly bound, her posture straight, far from frail, as if she was untouched by time. She stopped a short distance behind him, taking in the sight of the floating figure without the slightest hint of surprise. Instead, she fixed him with a sharp, assessing gaze and spoke in a tone that brooked no nonsense.

  “I got what you sent,” she said. “So? A god brain?”

  The boy didn’t bother opening his eyes. Still floating, still reclined against the air itself, he answered evenly. “It was the only thing I could think of.”

  She studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Neither his casual tone nor his blatant defiance of gravity seemed to trouble her in the least.

  “And that business with the classes?” she asked.

  His shoulders rose in a lazy shrug. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I only noticed it when I checked. I had to improvise.”

  The old woman huffed softly, the corner of her mouth twitching before a smile crept across her lips. “Your explanation for having that many subclasses,” she said, tapping her cane once for emphasis. “You could’ve just shrugged and looked stupid. You were always fond of saying that was your talent, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, well,” he replied, finally opening his eyes, “I thought about it. But if I’d said I didn’t know what caused it—other than the summoning—it would’ve given the mage more reason to look into me than necessary.”

  He paused, then removed the headphones from his head, slinging them snugly around his neck. “I already drew enough attention before those subclasses showed up.”

  The old woman nodded, the faint amusement fading into something more thoughtful. “The plan was never to take the lead,” she said. “Just to nudge them in the right direction without leaving—fingerprints.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Her gaze hardened slightly. “You’re still in a position to do that.”

  “Maybe,” the boy replied, his voice quieter now, less flippant. “But it’s not the same.”

  He turned his head toward the city below, eyes following the distant flicker of lights. “From the back, I could’ve scouted the opposition early. Learned who mattered before pushing things where they needed to go.”

  The wind passed between them again, tugging lightly at his hoodie and whispering through the stonework. The tower remained still, but the ease of the night felt thinner now—stretched between old intentions and new complications neither of them had planned for.

  The old woman studied the boy again, her sharp gaze measuring him as though weighing the shape of his thoughts.

  “Did you notice the problem with the captains?” she asked.

  He leaned forward, twisting in midair until he faced her properly, settling into the posture of someone sitting cross-legged despite still floating inches above the parapet. He shrugged, light and unconcerned.

  “There are still two more,” he said. “It can’t be that bad.”

  The old woman raised an eyebrow.

  The boy nodded in concession. “True. I have been wrong before.”

  “They haven’t told us anything of worth yet,” he went on, the levity draining just enough to reveal calculation beneath. “Not even the basics. How strong the opponent is. How large a force we’re actually facing.”

  “Which leads me to two conclusions,” the old woman said, tapping her cane softly against the stone. “Either they don’t know, or they know and are choosing not to tell us—for reasons known only to them.”

  “My money is on the second,” the boy said. “They know the full scope. That’s why they’re staying quiet.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Explain.”

  “They weren’t lying when they said part of the reason, they didn’t force us was because they weren’t shameless,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they’re being generous.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the city below, as if outlining invisible pieces on a board. “From what I can infer, they’re looking for assets. Pieces. And they’ve given us ten days. Within that time, they’ll gather everyone, show them how fighting works, how this world works.”

  He tilted his head slightly. “Along with the power they’ll offer—and the spectacle. Magic up close. The wonder of it. Once you add the wow factor, the choices become easy to predict.”

  “They intend to charm us,” the old woman said.

  The boy nodded. “In a way. Let us believe we’re making a choice, when in truth that choice was already made the moment we were summoned.”

  He paused, then added, almost mildly, “Some of the others might reach the same conclusion if they thought about it long enough. But distraction has its perks.”

  The old woman fell silent, considering. The wind moved again, tugging at her robes, carrying the weight of unspoken possibilities. At last, she spoke.

  “And if all of us choose not to fight?”

  “Oh, they would do as they say,” he answered immediately. “The king at least meant it.”

  “Not kill us, then?” she pressed.

  “No,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyone with a lick of strategy and half a brain wouldn’t.”

  “One reason they’ll be teaching us how to fight is to turn us into assets,” he continued. “On the off chance that someone doesn’t become one, they’ll simply let them go. Leave them to wander.”

  “I cannot tell lies apart just as easily as you can,” the old woman said. “What makes you so certain they won’t kill us anyway? Or maybe even after.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “We’re an unknown variable, and they’re maintaining an amicable relationship with us. As we grow stronger, we become more valuable. Even if we refuse to participate.”

  He ticked points off on his fingers. “They have two options. Try to kill us—which is stupid if the goal is to eliminate variables they can’t control—overused in novels, by the way.”

  The old woman rolled her eyes in response.

  “—or let us go,” he continued unfazed. “If they succeed in killing us, fine. They can blame whatever they want. But if they fail, they create far more variables than they started with. Another blade pointed in their direction for one.”

  He leaned back again, floating as easily as before. “No. Any world with a society is built entirely out of variables. Strategically, the wisest move is to keep us at arm’s length. Free pieces, but useful ones.”

  His gaze drifted toward the horizon, thoughtful. “They won’t kill us outright—not if it risks creating bigger problems later. Instead, they’ll try to push us just enough, guide us where even our freedom still benefits them.”

  “Not only that,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “if the situation is truly that dire, killing us doesn’t increase military strength, improve intelligence, or secure territory. If they kill us, they permanently lose all future utility we, as individuals, could provide.”

  He paused, letting the words hang in the cool night air. The twin moons reflected faintly on the stone parapets, casting pale light on his calm expression.

  “I don’t know exactly how their political system works here,” he went on, “but from what I’ve heard, it’s relatively stable. Secure—for now. Kill any of us, though, and our deaths become tools. Tools for rebellion. Proof of failure. Evidence of the crown’s incompetence and insecurities.”

  “But if they release us,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “we retain the option to re-engage later. They preserve plausible deniability. Lose nothing they already have. Push risk into the future. Observe without committing. Keep the relationship asymmetric, yet non-hostile.”

  He drew a slow breath, letting the logic settle into the space around them.

  “It also avoids... martyrdom, scandal, moral outrage—if the people care about such things.”

  The old woman said nothing, watching him quietly. He continued, his tone shifting slightly, almost as if sharing a lesson rather than a plan.

  “Of the things I’ve learned,” he said, “force compresses uncertainty into a single outcome: one or zero, success or failure. Distance, on the other hand, diffuses uncertainty across time. Gives you space to handle immediate problems first, instead of undefined future ones.”

  He lifted a finger, emphasizing the thought.

  “The royals? They think long-term. Especially with that thing about sanitation. Long-term thinking is their strength. In short: they’re not dumb. And royalty—more than anyone—hoards options. Power thrives on controlling narratives, not amplifying them.”

  He leaned back into the invisible support, letting the night air drift around him. His voice softened, almost casually.

  “That’s what I do,” he said. “Given the circumstances, I mean.”

  The tower fell silent, the calm night carrying the weight of choices already in motion, decisions neither of them could fully undo. The old woman remained still for a moment longer, then finally nodded, her expression unreadable but thoughtful.

  “Besides,” the boy said with a laugh, leaning back slightly as he floated, “if they so much as lay a hair on any of them, there’s you and me they’d have to deal with.”

  The laughter faded quickly, replaced by mock irritation. “Shut up,” he snapped, waving a hand at the air, “I’m monologuing.”

  The old woman raised another eyebrow, her expression sharp but amused. “What did she say?”

  The boy rubbed his temple, clearly frustrated at his own confusion. “It—she—the thing, the god-brain baby,” he said, searching for the right words, “just described me as having both the qualities of a king and a serial killer.”

  The old woman’s laughter broke the tension, warm and genuine despite the grim nature of the statement. Even in the cold night air, the sound carried, echoing softly off the stone parapets.

  “Aside from the captains,” the old woman asked, “did you notice any other inconsistencies?”

  “Of course,” the boy replied without hesitation. “A crap ton, really.”

  He shifted slightly in midair, expression sharpening as his thoughts aligned. “The timeline for our summoning alone doesn’t add up. It shouldn’t have taken that long. Then there’s how they keep switching between calling it a continent and calling it this world. No real mention of countries from elsewhere—most of their examples stay firmly rooted here, not across some distant landmass.”

  He paused, then added, “And they spoke of a church. One that supposedly foresaw us, divined us, or something along those lines. Yet we’ve seen nothing of them. No presence. No influence. Which tells me their ritual is fractured. Improvised. Or both.”

  The old woman nodded slowly. “I’m not entirely convinced about the continent issue,” she said, “but the political fracture—yes. That much I can agree on. It could explain why the summoning took so long.”

  “Possibly,” the boy agreed. “I’ll have to tease things out of the mage. Maybe even dig through their archives.”

  He glanced sideways, almost casually. “Oh. And I plan to ask if I can squat there.”

  The old woman’s eyebrow rose again. “And what will you offer in return?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said, feigning coyness. “This and that.”

  She snorted. “Be careful with the games you play. If you’re planning to use that absurd wealth of subclasses as leverage, be doubly careful.”

  She studied him one last time before turning toward the doorway. “Especially if they ask you to use your skill on the status,” she added. “Have you already done that already? What did you find?”

  “Basically, the same thing the plate showed me.” The boy replied languidly.

  The old woman walked away, her voice trailing as she added one last thing. “I dare say you don’t need reminding what happened the last time you used that skill.”

  Her cane tapped once against the stone as she disappeared inside.

  The boy remained where he was, floating beneath the open sky. He stared up at the stars, the twin moons casting pale teal light across his face. A small, somber smile formed—quiet, private.

  “Oh,” he murmured, “I suppose you wouldn’t know that, would you?”

  This time, his words were not meant for the night, but for the presence coiled deep within his mind and soul. He chuckled softly, reacting to something only the two of them could hear.

  “You’re in my head and in my soul,” he said, voice edged with both mockery and warmth. “Constantly monitoring my mental patterns, yet unable to prod too deeply into my memories.”

  He tilted his head, amused. “I suppose my blocks are working, then.”

  Another quiet laugh followed—an echo of a conversation unfolding beyond words.

  “Fine. Fine,” he said at last, mirth settling into something gentler. “Let me tell you a story.”

  He gazed upward, eyes reflecting starlight. The wind whispered across the parapet once more, and the tower once more listened, as it always had, to truths spoken only between two.

  “A story about a boy who, in his madness—identified the kosmos.”