Twenty-three years.It took twenty-three long, silent years for the eldest child of the Halgrave kingdom to find even a glimmer of hope in his awakening. To all who witnessed the moment, it was nothing short of life-altering. Not because it was rare for a noble to awaken so late, though it was, but because of what was awakened, and who it awakened within.
The Hourne siblings were the first to sense it. They saw the faint, trembling pulse of violet light flicker in the eyes of the once-heir, Marcus Halgrave, and froze. They knew that colour. They knew that resonance in their bones. And in that instant, they understood what the northern queen had seen all along, why she had never lost faith in her son, why even the sharpest generals spoke his name with quiet reverence.
The glow lasted less than a heartbeat, and yet, both siblings found their hands twitching toward their weapons. It was a reflex, something primal. These were warriors who had conquered their second awakenings, who had stared down their limits and begun scaling the third wall of mortality itself. There was no reason, no logic, for them to fear a fledgling like Marcus. And yet they did.
When their eyes met, both saw the same reflection, fear. Fear without knowing why.And somewhere, deep in the palace, the one man who did know why was already on the move.
King Harold Halgrave had watched the event from afar. He had seen the faint shimmer of violet, and his heart turned to stone. There was no joy, no triumph, no pride. Only dread.
The moment his son collapsed, he turned away, wordless. His steps were swift, carrying the weight of thirty years of rule. The marble corridors whispered under his boots as portraits of his lineage watched in silence. Then, he stopped before one frame, his eldest son's. For a few seconds, he simply stared. The memories came unbidden: lectures and laughter, small victories, tears from skinned knees. But through it all, there was something missing, something every other child of his had shown at least once. Defiance.
And suddenly, Harold understood how unnatural that was. No rebellion, no anger. Just obedience.The realisation made his blood burn. When he resumed walking, it was no longer the walk of a monarch, it was a march. A march of war, echoing the same steps that once carried him through the carnage of succession. He reached his wife's office, threw the doors open, and at last, the light revealed his face, the face of a man not yet old, but already weary of time. The sunset gilded his golden hair with crimson, his battle-scarred hands glimmering faintly as his aura flooded the room.
The guards retreated under its weight. The queen dismissed them with a silent gesture.Now, only husband and wife remained.
"Did you do this?" The king's voice was low but sharp enough to cut the air. "Did you restrict our son's path?"
The queen blinked, not in fear, but surprise. It had been years since she had heard that tone. Still, she held her ground. "Don't you understand why I did it?"
"No," the king growled, stepping closer. "So enlighten me. While I still have the sanity to listen."
Gwendoline inhaled deeply, forcing calm. "His core. The path he's begun to follow, no living noble bears it. Not anymore. But I know who did, once."
The king's expression darkened. "You mean—"
"Yes. Your father."
Silence. Then fury."So you were so terrified that our son might turn into him that you chained his growth for twenty-three years?"
"Yes!" she snapped, her voice cracking like ice. "I needed proof! You know how dangerous instinct is—"
"Of course I know!" Harold roared, slamming a hand against the table. The room shuddered. "I know how it destroys weak men. I know the era of blood it birthed. I know how it feels to kill your own father because he would never stop hunting!" His chest heaved, old pain bleeding into every word. "But that does not give you the right to assume the same of our son!"
There it was, the truth at last. The purple light, the trembling fear, the unease that seized even seasoned warriors. Marcus Halgrave had awakened the Path of Instinct, the most dangerous path of all. A legacy of predators and prophets, of kings who rose to glory and drowned the world in their own hunger.
"Why not?" the queen whispered hoarsely. "Do you think I don't remember? I remember your nightmares, Harold. The nights you woke screaming, drenched in fear. I know how your body stiffens when you see a tiger. I know the trauma you hide behind your pride. How could I raise a son to become the same monster that scarred you?" Her voice trembled; not from anger, but from terror, not of her husband, but of losing him to that old shadow again.
The king closed his eyes, his tone softening. "Instinct is not evil, Gwendoline. It is a blade, it only cuts where it's guided. My father drowned in his darkness, yes, but our son… our son could have been guided toward the light. And now, because of fear, we may have doomed him."
Her lips parted, confusion replacing defiance. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said quietly, "that my time is running out. The battle that gave me this throne — it never truly ended. The wounds never healed. I've been dying for years, and you've known it in your heart. But now? With war on the horizon, and Marcus still untrained in what he was born to be… I fear I've named Gemma heir too soon."
The queen's breath caught. "No… Harold, what— what do you mean you're dying?"
He smiled, faintly, tiredly. "I've been fighting myself too long. Every night, every breath since that day. The beast in me is quieter now, but so am I."
For the first time, the queen moved from her chair. She crossed the distance between them and gathered him into her arms. His golden hair, once radiant, shimmered under the dying light of evening, now streaked with silver.
And when the queen's arms finally wrapped around the king, the palace fell silent again, not the silence of peace, but of understanding. For the first time in decades, Harold allowed himself to be seen not as a king, nor a father, but as a man who had carried too much for too long. The weight of his crown, his regrets, his bloodline, all of it had bent his spine long before age did. Gwendoline held him as if trying to undo years of distance with a single gesture.
Outside, the evening went on indifferent. Servants still walked the corridors, torches still burned, and life, as it always does, pretended not to notice what had changed. But something had changed, something small, invisible, but certain.
The Halgrave family had crossed a threshold. Not of war, nor of destiny, but of consequence. Every choice from here on would carry the echo of this night, the fear, the revelation, the love that survived it. And though none of them knew it yet, this was how eras truly began, not with a coronation or a war cry, but with a quiet confession behind closed doors.