Emery's POV
The silence of the palace after Thorne's departure was a brittle thing, easily shattered by the clang of a dropped pot or the harsh bark of a command. But for Emery, the silence within her own mind was the most deafening. The Prince's gaze had been a chisel, hammering at the carefully constructed walls around her emotions, making them tremble. She had felt seen, truly seen, and the raw power within her had surged in response, a terrifying, untamed thing. The lingering phantom scent of scorched air, a secret brand no one else seemed to notice, was a constant reminder of how close she'd come to exposing herself.
Her search for the old stable hand had yielded nothing but the chilling echo of his warning. It was as if he'd been a ghost, a whisper of truth in a world determined to silence it. The weight of his words – "Control your fear, your anger, your sorrow. Let no one see the flame within" –pressed down on her, an invisible burden. The amnesia, a dark, insidious magic woven into the fabric of her past, was a relentless adversary.
She would pore over the tattered books in the forgotten corner of the servants' library, devouring ancient Solaran tales, searching for clues. Words like "Aether-Touched" and "Heart-Born" would pulse with a strange, compelling familiarity, but the memories themselves remained locked away, just beyond her grasp. The dark magic was strong, a psychic barrier that flared with a dull ache behind her eyes whenever she pressed too hard, pushing her back into the safe, empty void of her forgotten childhood.
Life in the servants' quarters was a living nightmare, a constant, exhausting ballet of suppression. Every day was a test. Mistress Elara, the head of the orphans, seemed to have amplified her punishments, her gaze sharper, more suspicious since the "pillow incident." Emery was given the dirtiest, most dehumanizing tasks – scrubbing the kennels, sifting ash from the palace furnaces, polishing the King's ceremonial armor until her arms screamed. Each task was a physical manifestation of her subjugation, and each physical discomfort was a trigger. The cold, the hunger, the constant insults – they were relentless assaults on her self-control.
She had to maintain a façade of complete emptiness. No fear, no defiance, no resentment. Just a hollow shell. But the raw power within her was a volatile companion, a hungry beast stirring beneath the fragile skin of her composure. She felt it, a low hum, a subtle tremor, sometimes a burning heat in her palms, whenever her emotions even threatened to rise. It pulsed, a defiant heartbeat against her own, threatening to break free. The more she suppressed, the more insistent it became, like a river dammed, building immense pressure behind the wall.
One frigid afternoon, Emery found herself once again in the main gallery, polishing the same section of marble where Prince Thorne had seen her. The grand hall, usually quiet in the midday lull, was now buzzing with preparation. Courtiers bustled, hanging banners, arranging floral displays for an upcoming royal banquet. The air crackled with a forced gaiety that felt utterly false to Emery. She scrubbed, her back aching, her hands raw, her heart a numb void.
Veronica's POV
Veronica observed the flurry of preparations for the royal banquet with a bored, critical eye. Her mother, Queen Kolin, had been particularly cutting after her "childish squabble" with the orphan. The Queen's veiled warnings about "discretion" and "undue attention" had chafed, leaving Veronica with a festering resentment. She hated being told what to do, and she absolutely loathed anything that made her feel less than perfectly in control.
And then there was Thorne. His return had brought a new, unsettling energy to the palace, a tension that settled beneath the superficial joy of the victory. He had been unusually quiet after his meeting with their parents, his usual stoicism replaced by a subtle, almost palpable weariness. But it was his brief, odd interaction with the orphan, Emery, that truly gnawed at Veronica. She'd seen the look in his eyes, the almost… fascination. It was ridiculous. An unwashed servant, barely human in Veronica's estimation, capturing her formidable brother's attention? It was an insult.
She spotted Emery, hunched over the marble floor, her small frame almost swallowed by the vastness of the gallery. A petty, burning jealousy, fueled by her mother's subtle rebukes and Thorne's inexplicable curiosity, flared within Veronica. She'd tolerated the orphan's presence for years, a convenient target for her cruelest whims. But now, it was different. This orphan was becoming an inconvenience, a focal point of unsettling energy.
Veronica's mouth curled into a slow, malicious smile. She would make an example of her. A public one.
"You there!" Veronica's voice, sharper than the finest blade, cut through the quiet hum of activity. "Emery!"
Emery flinched, freezing mid-scrub.
Veronica approached, her silk gown whispering against the marble. Her ladies-in-waiting, sensing the coming storm, edged away discreetly.
"You are slow as a sloth, orphan. Do you think you have all day to polish this floor? The banquet is tonight! Are you trying to shame the Royal Family with your incompetence?"
Emery slowly straightened, her face a blank mask. "No, Your Highness."
"Liar!" Veronica's voice rose, attracting the attention of several courtiers and guards who paused their tasks, watching. "You are deliberately trying to vex me. Your hands are raw, your feet are filthy. You are a disgrace to this palace!"
She gestured towards a magnificent vase, filled with exotic, luminescent flowers – a new import for the banquet.
"Perhaps," Veronica purred, her eyes gleaming with malice, "a demonstration of true dedication would motivate you. Polish this vase. And be swift. If a single petal wilts, if a single drop of water spills, you will spend the night in the dungeons, without food or water."
The vase was impossibly heavy, its surface slick with condensation. It stood on a delicate pedestal, precariously balanced. It was an impossible task. A clear setup. Emery's hands trembled with suppressed rage, with the sheer injustice of it. She could feel the familiar thrum of power, a low growl in the pit of her stomach.
No. Not here. Not now.
King Karin's POV
King Karin sat in his solar, a chamber adjacent to the throne room, reviewing reports from his Palace Seers. The Seers, shrouded figures whose only loyalty was to him, were his living conduits to the subtle energies of Solara. Their reports were usually meticulous, confirming the absence of any "anomalous energies" – proof of his successful purge of the white magic. But lately, the reports had been… less definitive. Faint ripples. Subtle dissonances. Nothing concrete, but enough to prick at his deep-seated paranoia.
"A fleeting resonance near the lower kitchens, Your Majesty," one report stated. "A momentary disruption of the ambient static" another said.
"A momentary surge, quickly quelled, near the servants' gallery. Unidentifiable source".
Karin scowled. He had tolerated Thorne's moralizing, his inability to wield utter ruthlessness in Valoria. He had endured Kolin's tiresome political machinations. But this – this subtle defiance from within his own palace, this hint of a lingering stain he believed he had scoured clean – it was unacceptable.
He had crushed the Sky-Weavers and the Earth-Whisperers. He had overseen the execution of every known magic-wielder, every child of the white magic lineage. He had ensured no one remembered their names, their history. And yet, this persistent unease.
He tapped a finger on the polished wood of his table. His "shadows", the ethereal constructs he employed for discreet surveillance, had yielded nothing concrete either. They were good at detection, but subtle suppression could evade them.
"Increase the Seer's patrols," he barked to Lord Varen, who stood silently nearby. "Double their watch. I want any anomaly, however slight, reported immediately. And I want... a containment plan for anything they find".
He looked out the window at the snow, perpetually clinging to Solara. He had frozen his kingdom in time, in his perfect, immutable order. He would not allow a single flicker of forbidden light to disrupt it.
A sudden, sharp scream echoed from the main gallery, piercing the palace's usual muffled silence. It was followed by a chorus of gasps, then a rising tide of shouts and commotion.
King Karin's eyes narrowed. "What was that?"
Lord Varen, his face grim, was already striding towards the door. "Sounds from the main gallery, Your Majesty. A disturbance."
A primal, cold certainty settled in King Karin's gut. "Bring me the Seers. All of them. And send for the Royal Guard. Every man. Immediately".
Emery's POV
The vase. It was heavy, slick, and impossibly balanced. Veronica's cruel eyes bored into her, demanding she fail. The courtiers watched, their faces a mixture of morbid curiosity and detached amusement. The raw power within Emery coiled, throbbed, and roared.
No. I can't. Not here. Don't feel. Suppress.
She reached for the vase, her hands shaking. As her damp, cold fingers gripped the slick ceramic, a shard of rage, pure and blinding, ripped through her carefully constructed defenses. It wasn't just Veronica's cruelty anymore; it was the endless injustice, the years of abuse, the stolen memories, the constant fear of discovery. It was the King's oppression, the pervasive cold, the suffocating silence of Solara. It was everything.
A tremor shook the pedestal. The vase tilted.
"Clumsy fool!" Veronica shrieked, her voice edged with glee.
The vase slipped. Time seemed to slow. Emery reached, her fingers brushing the ceramic, and the raw magic, unable to be contained, burst forth.
It wasn't an explosion of fire this time, not a concussive blast. It was a silent, vibrating wave of pure force. A ripple of energy, black and violet, shimmered from Emery's hands, washing over the vase and the delicate pedestal. The ceramic didn't shatter; it imploded, collapsing inward upon itself with a sickening, wet crunch, the exotic flowers liquefying into a dark, shimmering sludge. The pedestal, a solid piece of carved marble, cracked into a thousand jagged pieces, not falling, but bursting outwards as if from an internal pressure.
A concussive force, silent and unseen, slammed into everyone in the gallery. Courtiers were thrown backward, slamming into walls, their cries of surprise turning to shrieks of terror. Guards staggered, their armor clanking, their faces pale. The beautiful banners ripped from their moorings, spiraling to the floor. The air crackled, thick with static, smelling faintly of ozone and something burnt, like distant embers.
Emery stood amidst the chaos, her arms still outstretched, her eyes wide with horror. Her body felt strangely light, tingling with a raw, terrifying power she didn't understand. The source. It was her. She had done this. The silence in her head was replaced by a roaring crescendo of noise.
Veronica, sprawled on the polished floor amidst shattered marble and viscous flower sludge, stared at Emery, her pale face contorted not with anger, but with pure, unadulterated terror. Her eyes, wide and unfocused, seemed to pierce through Emery, seeing the terrifying truth.
"Magic," Veronica whispered, her voice barely a sound, yet loud enough to echo in the sudden, stunned silence that followed the destruction. "White magic!"
Her words hung in the air, a death knell. The guards, slowly recovering, drew their swords, their faces grim. The Seers, who had been patrolling nearby, their hoods thrown back, were now moving swiftly, their unnervingly still eyes fixed on Emery, their faces contorted in expressions of grim triumph and cold apprehension. They had found their anomaly.
Thorne's POV
Thorne was in his personal study, reviewing maps of Valoria, the bitter taste of his father's "victory" still clinging to his tongue. He had managed to avoid his parents after their strained reunion, finding solace in the tactical diagrams and the quiet hum of the strategists' chamber. He was considering a new approach to managing the newly conquered territories, something less brutal than his father's designs.
Then, a sudden, jarring boom reverberated through the palace. Not a sound of stone falling, nor a concussive blast of powder, but something deeper, more resonant, vibrating through the very foundations of the castle. It was silent, yet felt like a shockwave, rippling through the air, sending a strange tremor through the floorboards.
His gaze snapped to the window, though there was nothing to see but falling snow. He pushed away from his desk. This wasn't the sound of an accident. It was something else. Something... unnatural.
Almost immediately, a cacophony erupted from the lower levels: screams, shouts, the clanking of armor, and the rising clamor of panic. It was coming from the direction of the main gallery.
Thorne grabbed the heavy, jeweled sword that rested against his desk, the blade whispering as it left its scabbard. He barked orders to his guards, who were already rushing towards his chambers, their faces etched with alarm.
"To the gallery! Quickly!"
He moved with the practiced speed of a warrior, his mind already assessing threats, calculating movements. But as he ran, a name flashed through his mind, unbidden. Emery. The fragile girl with the storm-grey eyes and the tightly controlled fear. The strange, unsettling feeling she had left him with.
He burst into the main gallery, his sword held ready. The scene before him was one of utter devastation. Marble shattered into impossible fragments, exotic flowers reduced to a viscous sludge, banners torn as if by invisible claws. Courtiers whimpered, huddled against walls, some clearly injured, others simply paralyzed by fear. Guards were moving, swords drawn, their faces a mixture of shock and grim determination.
And in the center of it all, amidst the wreckage, stood Emery. Her small figure was rigid, her arms still held out as if she had just pushed an unseen force. Her eyes, wide and unseeing, held a raw, untamed power that pulsed like a wild, dangerous storm. Her gaze met Thorne's across the ravaged hall. In that moment, he saw not just a servant, but the epicenter of the chaos, the source of the silent, resonant fury.
Around her, like a dark, tightening noose, moved the hooded figures of the Palace Seers, their faces grim with confirmation. They were no longer searching for anomalies; they had found their prey. Their eyes, once unnervingly still, now gleamed with a cold, predatory light.
"Seize her!" a voice, sharp and authoritative, cut through the stunned silence. It was Lord Varen, emerging from the chaos, his face pale but his resolve unwavering. "She is a wielder of the white magic! Execute her on the King's order!"
Emery flinched, her name echoing through the gallery, stripping away the last vestiges of her anonymity. She was exposed. Hunted.
Thorne saw the fear flood her eyes, the terror of discovery, but beneath it, a defiant spark. He saw the cold, unyielding faces of the Seers, their hands already moving, ready to contain or destroy. He saw the guards advancing, their swords pointed at her. He saw Veronica, still sprawled on the floor, pointing a trembling finger, her face a mask of horrified triumph.
And suddenly, the pieces clicked into place. The King's paranoia. The whispers of purged magic. The unsettling silence. This was what his father hunted. This was the "unnaturalness." And this girl, this fragile, powerful girl, was at its heart.
His hand tightened on his sword, the cold steel a sudden comfort. Every instinct, every principle he held, screamed at him to intervene. He was a prince, a warrior, and he was standing in the presence of an injustice that threatened to consume a vulnerable, powerful soul. But this was white magic. This was what his father had sworn to eradicate. To intervene meant to defy the King, directly and unequivocally.
The first of the Seers reached Emery, their hands outstretched, ready to bind her with whatever dark magic they possessed.