Viken Duskveil stood at the edge of the throne room balcony, his shadow stretching long and jagged across the polished obsidian floor of Dawnspire’s capital. The city sprawled below, a maze of spires and glowing rune-lights, its violet-gold sky a constant testament to the realm he’d seized sixteen years ago. His dark robes shifted faintly in the breeze, the silver threads of his house sigil—a coiled serpent—glinting sharply. At forty-eight, his angular features bore the weight of rule, his black hair threaded with gray, and his amber eyes flickered with restless fire. The throne behind him, carved from shadowstone and veined with crimson crystal, sat empty. He rarely occupied it—too static, too final. Power was motion, vigilance, a blade kept sharp.

  His mind churned, a storm of calculation. The Aetherian prince. Sixteen years, and still no body. He gripped the balcony railing, knuckles whitening. The boy should’ve been ash with the rest of his line—Viken could still hear his parents’ screams, a brutal chorus swallowed by fire and shadow—but the crib was empty when they’d stormed the palace. A flaw in an otherwise flawless coup. His Shades and spies had torn through the realm, uprooted every whisper, and yet… nothing concrete. Until now.

  Footsteps echoed behind him, firm and purposeful. Viken didn’t turn. “Speak, Torin,” he said, his voice a low blade slicing through the city’s hum.

  Torin Duskveil stepped onto the balcony, his broad frame filling the space beneath a fitted tunic of deep gray. At nineteen, he mirrored Viken’s younger self—same amber eyes, same sharp jaw—but carried a cocky edge honed at the Academy of Veils. His shadow magic coiled faintly around his fingers, an idle flex. “Father,” he said, a trace of impatience in his tone. “I came straight from the Academy—portal dropped me off an hour ago. The council’s waiting. They’re twitchy about the latest report.”

  Viken’s lips twitched, irritation flaring. “Report,” he muttered, finally facing his son. “Let me guess—another vague hunch? Some mage brat with too much mana?”

  Torin leaned against the railing, smirking faintly. “Close. Word from a merchant near the Academy—says there’s a boy, sixteen or seventeen, throwing around magic stronger than most novices. No name, no clear look, just rumors of power that doesn’t fit the usual awakening tricks. Could be nothing. Probably is.”

  “Probably,” Viken echoed, his gaze drifting to the horizon where the Spire of Reflections pierced the sky like a dark needle. The Academy. Too near that Aetherian ruin for his liking. “But ‘probably’ has kept us chasing ghosts before. If he’s got power—real power—it’s worth a look. We can’t track him by eyes or hair—too many kids shift with awakening. It’s the magic that matters.”

  Torin shrugged, shadows curling tighter around his hand. “Plenty of strong mages at school—half the novices think they’re special. I’d have noticed if someone was tossing around mirror tricks, though. Nothing like that’s popped up.”

  Viken’s eyes narrowed, a spark of caution igniting. “You’d better be sure, Torin. Mirror magic’s subtle—visions, reflections, portals. It doesn’t always flash like your shadows. If he’s there, he’s hiding it, and you’re too close to miss it.”

  Torin straightened, smirk fading. “I’m not blind, Father. I’ve got eyes on everyone—students, professors, even the damn cooks. No one’s slipping past me.”

  “Good,” Viken said, pacing back into the throne room. “Because we don’t storm the Academy with Shades—not yet. It’s a hornets’ nest of mages, and we’ve kept our hands clean there for a reason. The Aetherian ‘plague’ story holds because no one’s looking too hard. We need quiet—send a few of our people, subtle ones. Enroll them as transfers, let them poke around for boys that age with mana that stands out. Mirror magic or not, we’ll find him.”

  Torin nodded, following. “I can nudge things along while I’m there. I’m heading back tomorrow—Erilyn’s expecting me to check in. Could dig around without raising flags.”

  Viken paused near the throne, fingers brushing its armrest. Sixteen years of control, bought with blood and silence. “You’re already known there, Torin. The heir sniffing around too much will draw eyes. Focus on Erilyn—keep her close. The council’s my problem.”

  Torin’s jaw tightened, but he let it go. “Fine. Erilyn’s under control. She’s loyal—been ours since we took her in.”

  “Loyalty’s fragile when magic’s waking,” Viken murmured, moving to a table strewn with maps and scrying crystals. He picked up a shard pulsing with shadow, rolling it between his fingers. “Her parents were a threat—old blood, strong mana. Could’ve rallied the Aetherian remnants if we’d let them live. Killing them was necessary; adopting her was smarter. Her power’s ours now—purple sparks, untapped strength. Pair that with your shadows, and our line’s untouchable.”

  Torin shifted, uneasy. “She still doesn’t know? About her real folks?”

  “No,” Viken said, setting the shard down with a sharp clack. “Bandits took them—that’s her truth. Poor orphan, saved by us. Keep it that way. Her magic’s blooming at the Academy—use it. Court her, bind her to you. She’s your future, Torin. Her heirs will bury the Aetherians for good.”

  Torin rubbed his neck, a half-grin returning. “She’s dodging the whole marriage thing—keeps it friendly but distant. I’m working on it.”

  “Then work harder,” Viken said, stepping closer, his presence a quiet storm. “You’re at the Academy with her—charm her, spar with her, whatever it takes. She’s got no family but us—make her need you.”

  Torin’s grin widened. “Alright, I’ll play the suitor. She’s not hard on the eyes, anyway.”

  Viken ignored the jest, his mind already leaping ahead. “Good. Keep her blind, keep her yours. I’ll deal with the council.” He gestured to a side door, and Torin fell in step as they entered the council chamber—a ring of shadowstone chairs around a scrying pool, its water rippling with faint violet light. Six figures sat in taut silence, their robes bearing lesser house sigils. Viken claimed his seat at the head, Torin standing at his shoulder.

  “Lord Duskveil,” Lady Myrith began, her hawkish eyes glinting. “This talk of a boy with strong magic—how long do we ignore it?”

  “We don’t,” Viken replied, voice smooth but edged. “We’ve chased whispers before—burned them out. This is no different. A boy, sixteen or seventeen, with mana beyond the norm? We’ll find him.”

  Lord Calen, broad and scarred, leaned forward. “The Academy’s too close to the Spire. If he’s there, showing power like that—”

  “The Spire’s a husk,” Viken cut in, fingers tapping the armrest to mask his tension. A husk that mocks me. “A relic of a dead line. If he’s got magic—mirror magic—he’s a spark we’ll snuff. We’ve ensured the Aetherians are dust.”

  “Have we?” Myrith pressed, sharp as a blade. “Sixteen years ago, you swore they were gone. We backed you—spilled blood, torched villages, silenced their loudest voices. Now this, and it feels like we’re chasing our tails.”

  Viken’s smile was ice. “We didn’t just silence the loud ones, Myrith. We erased them—nobles, mages, peasants who wouldn’t kneel. Lands taken, names wiped. We claimed the throne with shadow and flame, held it with fear and gold. Trade’s strong, borders are locked. One boy, even with magic, doesn’t unravel that.”

  Torin shifted, adding, “I’m at the Academy—nothing’s slipped past me. We’ve got Shades, spies, merchants on strings. If he’s real, he’s boxed in.”

  Calen grunted, unconvinced. “Boxed in or not, the quiet ones—the ones we missed—they’re still out there, waiting.”

  “They’ve got no leader,” Viken said, rising to pace the chamber’s edge. “We rewrote it—plague took the Aetherians, not us. People swallow it because it’s easier than truth. But yes, some linger—old guards, hidden mages. That’s why we hunt.”

  He paused, flicking a hand over the pool. Shadows coiled from his fingers, stirring the water into a murky vision—cloaked figures darting through a forest, swift and silent. “Shades are on it—provinces, borders, the Academy. We’re looking for boys that age with mana that doesn’t fit—mirror magic or otherwise. He’s cornered if he’s there.”

  Myrith’s eyes narrowed. “Mirror magic’s rare—firstborn Aetherian stuff. If he’s got it?”

  “Then he dies faster,” Viken said, voice flat. “It’s the last ember of their line. We crush it, and they’re gone.”

  Lord Gavren, lean and dour, spoke up. “And Erilyn? She’s at the Academy too, with Torin. If she’s near this boy—”

  “She’s ours,” Viken snapped. “Her magic’s strong, and we’ve molded her. Torin’s there—she’ll stay loyal.”

  Torin nodded. “She’s clueless about her parents—thinks we’re her heroes. I’m on her, Father. Marriage’ll lock it down.”

  The council murmured, some nodding, others exchanging looks. Myrith leaned back, skeptical. “A tight web, Viken. But webs rip.”

  “Then we stitch them,” he said, returning to his seat. “We clawed this realm from ashes—killed, bribed, burned our way here. I didn’t bury the Aetherians to let a flicker undo it. We stay sharp, we stay quiet, we crush what moves.”

  Calen rubbed his scar, relenting. “If he’s real, he’s got help—someone hid him.”

  “Someone did,” Viken agreed, mind flashing to that night—flames devouring the palace, an empty crib staring back. “And they’ll bleed with him. Torin, back to the Academy tomorrow—watch Erilyn, watch for strong magic. The rest of you, keep your houses tight. No slips.”

  The council dispersed, chairs scraping. Torin lingered, meeting his father’s gaze. “You think he’s there, don’t you?” he asked, quieter now.

  Viken stared at the pool, its surface still. “I think he’s a shadow till we prove he’s flesh. But if he’s flesh…” His amber eyes glinted. “We’ve felled kings. One boy’s nothing.”

  Torin smirked, clapping his shoulder. “I’ll keep the Academy in line. You chase the shadows.”

  Viken nodded, but as Torin left, his eyes drifted to the Spire’s silhouette. Sixteen years—murder cloaked as plague, loyalty forged with coin, fear threading every street. They’d struck fast—shadows in the palace, fire hiding the slaughter. They’d held it with lies, culling dissent, turning eyes to trade and power. Erilyn’s magic, Torin’s heirs—it could make them unbreakable. Unless that boy lived. Unless that magic woke.

  Let him try, Viken thought, resolve hardening. I’ll drown him in darkness. The city thrummed below, oblivious, and Viken turned to his maps, plotting the next step in a game he’d never lose.