The next morning, the King's decree spread through the palace and beyond like wildfire. Word of it reached every noble, servant, and guard before the sun fully rose. The message was simple and direct: No one was to speak of Prince Kael being pathless. Any who disobeyed would face consequences worse than death.
The atmosphere in the palace changed immediately. Conversations that had once flowed freely were now hushed, careful. Servants avoided eye contact with one another, afraid that even a whisper might be overheard. The nobles, who had been so bold with their gossip just the day before, now tread lightly, their faces guarded.
By midday, the grand hall was almost silent, the usual murmur of voices replaced by the soft shuffle of footsteps and the occasional clang of silverware. The nobles gathered for court seemed more interested in their goblets of wine than in discussing the matters at hand. No one dared bring up the prince, and even the King's gaze seemed sharper than usual, daring anyone to test him.
Kael, meanwhile, wandered the palace grounds in a daze. He'd heard about the decree, of course, but it didn't make him feel better. If anything, it made things worse. It wasn't like people had suddenly stopped thinking about him being pathless—they were just too scared to say it out loud. Their silence felt heavier than their words ever had.
When he passed a group of guards on his way to the garden, they stiffened, their hands gripping their spears tightly. They didn't say a word, but Kael could feel their judgment, their unease. He hated it.
Back in the nobles' wing, the tension was equally thick. Lady Ceren, one of the more outspoken members of the court, whispered to her husband as they walked through the halls. "The King's trying to silence the truth," she said under her breath. "But we all know what it means for the kingdom."
Her husband shushed her quickly, glancing around nervously. "Do you have a death wish? Keep your voice down."
Even the servants in the kitchens spoke carefully, their voices low as they prepared the midday meal. "Did you hear?" one of them asked while slicing bread. "Someone got dragged out of the west wing this morning. All because they said—"
"Shh!" another servant hissed, looking over their shoulder. "You want to join them? Just do your job and keep quiet."
Despite the King's decree, the unease lingered. Fear might have silenced the gossip, but it hadn't erased the doubt or suspicion.
Kael's day dragged on, the weight of everything pressing down on him. By the time the sun began to set, he found himself back in the garden, staring at the fountain he'd created the night before. It was the only place that felt remotely normal, where he could breathe.
But even here, the whispers of the court seemed to follow him. Not in words, but in the way people looked at him. Like he was a problem waiting to happen.
Kael sat down on the chair he'd made, running his hands over the smooth wood. He didn't know what to do or how to fix any of this. The silence in the palace wasn't peace—it was a storm waiting to break. And he was at the center of it.
Elsewhere, in a quiet clearing far from the palace, a boy no older than eight swung a sword with precision far beyond his years. His movements were sharp and deliberate, his small frame moving faster than the eye could follow. As he twisted and turned, arcs of lightning crackled along his body, dancing across his skin like it was a part of him.
The boy's bare feet barely touched the ground as he leaped, his sword slicing through the air with a faint hum. The lightning followed every swing, illuminating the clearing in brief, bright flashes. His breath came steady, even as sweat dripped down his brow.
Nearby, an older man watched silently. His arms were crossed, and his face was unreadable, but his eyes never left the boy. He wore a simple cloak, the hood pulled low to shadow his features, but the pride in his gaze was clear.
"Faster, Lior," the man finally said, his voice calm but firm. "Your speed is your strength. Don't waste it."
The boy—Lior—nodded, his focus unwavering. He tightened his grip on the sword and moved faster, the lightning around him growing more intense. Each strike of the blade left faint scorch marks on the air, as if the very energy in his body was too much for the world to contain.
For a moment, Lior paused, standing still with his sword raised. The lightning quieted, settling under his skin. Then, in a sudden burst, he dashed forward, slashing through an old tree stump as if it were paper. The stump exploded into splinters, the sound echoing through the clearing.
The man clapped slowly, stepping forward. "Good. But don't get comfortable. The world won't hold back for you just because you're a child."
Lior wiped his brow, his small chest rising and falling with each breath. "I'm not a child," he said, his voice defiant but not disrespectful.
The man smirked. "You're eight, Lior. Trust me, you're a child."
Lior lowered his sword, letting it rest at his side. "Doesn't matter. You said I have to be ready. So I'm getting ready."
The man's smirk faded, replaced by something softer. "You'll be ready," he said quietly. "But remember, strength is more than speed or power. You'll need control. Balance."
Lior nodded, though his focus was already back on his sword. He raised it again, ready for another round. The lightning began to spark across his body once more, brighter than before.
The man stepped back, giving him space. As he did, he glanced toward the horizon, where the faint silhouette of the palace could just be seen in the distance. His expression hardened, but he said nothing.
Lior, unaware of the man's thoughts, swung his sword again, the crackle of lightning filling the air. For now, this clearing was his whole world, and he was determined to master it.