The morning sun filtered through the cracked window of Lucien's room, painting thin golden lines across the worn wooden floor. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, his breath fogging the pane as he watched the main courtyard far below. Even from this distance—across the overgrown gardens and crumbling stone walls that separated his small mansion from the heart of the Argentel estate—he could see them.
His siblings.
They moved like beings from another world, their bodies wreathed in brilliant white light that made the morning sun seem pale by comparison. Aldric, the eldest at sixteen, conjured a massive barrier of crystalline radiance that deflected the training master's lightning-quick strikes. Each impact sent ripples of pure white cascading across its surface, beautiful and terrifying. Seraphine, only two years older than Lucien, danced between wooden training posts, white flames trailing from her fingertips like sacred ribbons. Where her fire touched, the charred wood didn't burn—it purified, turning ash-white and smooth as polished bone.
The younger legitimate children practiced more basic techniques: shields that flickered like candle flames, bursts of light that made shadows flee. Even the weakest among them blazed with the Argentel gift—the white color that had made their family legendary across the Kingdom of Lumendor for three generations.
White. The color of purity, of holy knights and divine protection. The color that marked the Argentel bloodline as chosen.
Lucien's reflection in the window showed a thin boy with sharp features and dark hair that caught violet highlights when the sun hit it just right. His eyes—a pale grey that sometimes looked lavender in certain light—stared back at him with an expression he'd learned to hide from everyone except himself.
Hunger. Not for food, though his meals were simpler than those served in the main house. No, this was a different kind of emptiness, a hollow ache in his chest that grew sharper every time he watched his siblings train, every time he heard the servants whisper about the "great houses" and their legendary heirs.
He pressed his palm flat against the glass. For just a moment, he imagined himself down there. Imagined Lord Cassian—his father, though the word felt foreign on his tongue—watching him with the same intense pride he showed Aldric. Imagined Seraphine smiling at him instead of looking through him like he was made of smoke.
"Lucien? Are you awake, sweetheart?"
His mother's voice was soft as summer rain. He turned from the window to find Elara standing in the doorway, a wooden tray balanced on her hip. Steam rose from a bowl of porridge, and she'd managed to find honey somewhere—a rare treat.
"Happy birthday," she said, setting the tray on the small table that served as both his desk and dining surface. "Ten years old today. You're practically grown."
Elara was beautiful in a way that made Lucien's chest tight with a complicated mixture of love and anger. Beautiful enough that Lord Cassian had desired her, but not noble enough to be anything more than a maid. Her hair was the deep purple of twilight, pulled back in a simple braid. Her eyes matched his own—that uncertain color between grey and violet that marked them both as different.
She wore the plain brown dress of house servants, but she carried herself with a quiet grace that seemed at odds with her station. Sometimes, late at night when she thought he was sleeping, Lucien would watch her move through the room and imagine her in noble silks. Imagine a world where the color of her hair was celebrated instead of hidden.
"I saw them training," Lucien said, sitting at the table but not reaching for the spoon. "Aldric's barrier is even bigger than last month."
Elara's hands stilled as she poured water into his cup. "Eat your breakfast while it's warm."
"Why can't I train with them?"
The question hung between them like a physical thing. It wasn't the first time he'd asked, but each repetition felt heavier than the last. Lucien watched his mother's face, saw the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes flickered with something that might have been pain or anger or both.
"You know why," she said finally, settling into the chair across from him. Her hands found his across the table, her callused fingers gentle as they squeezed. "You're different from them, Lucien. Your blood—"
"My blood is half Argentel," he interrupted, then immediately regretted the sharpness in his voice. "Father's blood. That should count for something."
"In a fair world, it would count for everything." Elara's smile was sad and ancient, as if she'd had this conversation a thousand times in her own mind. "But we don't live in a fair world, my love. We live in this world, where a child's worth is measured by the circumstances of their birth, and bastards are—"
"Don't call me that."
"—are meant to be grateful for whatever scraps they're given." She squeezed his hands tighter. "But you're not a scrap, Lucien. You're my son. You're brilliant and strong and stubborn as a mule, and one day—"
"One day what?" The words came out harsher than he intended, frustration bleeding through his careful control. "One day they'll magically decide I matter? One day Father will look at me like I'm actually his child instead of a mistake he pretends not to see?"
Elara flinched, and immediately Lucien hated himself. She didn't deserve his anger. She'd never done anything but love him, protect him, try to make his cage feel less like a prison.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, staring down at his porridge. "I just... it's my birthday, and I thought maybe..."
"I know, sweetheart. I know." She stood, moving behind him, and began to gently unbraid his sleep-tangled hair. Her fingers worked with practiced ease, soothing in their familiarity. "Let me tell you a story. A true one, this time, not a fairy tale."
Lucien closed his eyes as she began to rebraid his hair. This was their ritual—Elara's stories and gentle hands, creating a small bubble of warmth against the cold reality of their existence.
"Long ago, before the great houses solidified their power, before white and gold and red became the 'noble' colors, violet was the color of kings." Her voice took on a storyteller's cadence, and despite his bitterness, Lucien found himself leaning into it. "Violet represented sovereignty—the power to command, to transform, to bridge the gap between what is and what could be. Emperors wore violet robes. Their knights could reshape battlefields with their will alone."
"What happened to them?" Lucien asked, though he'd heard this story before. Something about the familiar words soothed the raw ache in his chest.
"They were feared. Power that can change reality itself is dangerous to those who want the world to stay exactly as it is." Elara's fingers paused in his hair. "So the other houses banded together and declared violet a 'fallen color.' They hunted the violet houses to extinction, burned their records, and rewrote history to say they'd never been anything special at all."
"But you remember."
"I remember." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My grandmother's grandmother carried violet. We learned to hide it, dilute it, survive by being invisible. Until I was foolish enough to let myself be seen by a man who could never truly see me."
The bitterness in her words was rare enough to make Lucien's eyes snap open. He twisted in his chair to look at her, catching the brief flash of something fierce in her expression before she schooled it back to gentle warmth.
"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly. "Having me?"
"Never." The word was immediate and absolute. She cupped his face in both hands, her eyes fierce. "You are the best thing I've ever done, Lucien Argentel. You carry violet in your veins—the blood of sovereignty, of transformation. That makes you more royal than any of them, legitimate birth or not."
"Then why don't I have powers?" The question escaped before he could stop it, the secret fear he'd carried for years finally breaking free. "I'm ten now. The others all showed their gifts by eight. What if I'm... what if I'm colorless?"
The word tasted like ash. Colorless—the term for those born without any power at all. The truly powerless, relegated to lives of menial service or farming. Even bastards with weak powers were better than being colorless.
Elara's expression softened. "You're not colorless, sweetheart. I've seen the signs. When you're upset, when your emotions run high, there's something there. A shimmer in the air around you. Violet is subtle, harder to manifest than the showier colors. It takes time, patience, and—" she tapped his forehead gently, "—a clear understanding of who you are and what you want. That's harder to find than most people realize."
She finished his braid, tying it with a simple leather cord. "Now eat your breakfast. Tonight, you have to attend the family dinner, and you'll need your strength."
Lucien's stomach dropped. "The dinner. I'd forgotten."
"Liar." She smiled slightly. "You've been dreading it for days."
She wasn't wrong. Twice a year, on the spring and autumn equinoxes, the entire Argentel family gathered for formal dinners. Entire meaning every legitimate child, every member of the branch families, every spouse and heir and distant cousin with even a drop of Argentel blood.
And Lucien. The singular bastard. The shame kept barely in sight, seated at the far end of the table where guests wouldn't have to acknowledge him, present only because some ancient tradition demanded that all of Lord Cassian's blood attend.
"Maybe I could be sick," Lucien suggested without hope.
"And give them the satisfaction of knowing they've scared you into hiding?" Elara's voice gained an edge of steel. "You are an Argentel, Lucien. Half, bastard, violet, or otherwise—you carry that blood. You'll go. You'll hold your head high. And you'll show them exactly what the son of Elara is made of."
The hours crept by with agonizing slowness. Lucien tried to distract himself with the small collection of books Elara had smuggled from the main house library—histories mostly, with a few adventure tales. He read about the founding of Lumendor, about the three great knight houses: Argentel of the White Light, Solarius of Golden Radiance, and Nocturn of the Black Void. He read about battles and honor and legendary warriors whose colors had shaped the kingdom.
Nowhere in the books was violet mentioned except in passing references to "fallen houses" and "extinct bloodlines."
Erased from history, Lucien thought bitterly. Just like they want to erase me.
As the sun began its descent, Elara returned with formal clothes—or what passed for formal in his limited wardrobe. A simple black tunic with silver threading, trousers that were only slightly too short, and a cloak that had once been deep blue but had faded to a dusty grey. No house crest adorned his chest. Bastards weren't granted that honor.
"You look handsome," Elara said, adjusting his collar with trembling fingers. Her own anxiety bled through her composure, and Lucien realized with a start that she hated these dinners as much as he did. She would serve, moving between the tables with pitchers of wine and platters of food, all while being treated as invisible by the very people who shared blood with her son.
"I could spill soup on Aldric," Lucien offered, trying for levity. "Make it memorable."
"Don't you dare." But she smiled, brief and genuine. "Just survive it. That's all I ask. Survive, come home, and we'll have honey cakes by the fire."
"Honey cakes? Where did you—"
"I have my ways." She kissed his forehead, lingering as if she could transfer her strength through the gesture. "Be brave, my little king."
The walk to the main house felt like marching to execution. The path between Lucien's small mansion and the great hall wound through gardens that had once been maintained but now grew wild. This was the forgotten corner of the estate—the place where things that didn't quite fit were tucked away and left to decay slowly out of sight.
The contrast when he reached the main grounds was jarring. Here, everything gleamed: manicured hedges, marble fountains, gravel paths raked into perfect patterns. Light blazed from every window of the great hall, and Lucien could hear the murmur of conversation and laughter even from outside.
He paused at the servants' entrance—his designated entry point—and took a deep breath. His hands were shaking, he realized with disgust. He pressed them flat against his thighs, willing the trembling to stop.
That's when he saw it.
A faint shimmer around his fingers. Like heat waves rising from summer stone, but purple-tinged. There and gone in a heartbeat, so quick he might have imagined it.
But he hadn't imagined it. He'd seen this before, in moments of strong emotion—fear, anger, excitement. Always brief, always fleeting, but undeniably there.
Something, he thought. I'm not colorless. There's something in me.
The realization didn't make him feel stronger. If anything, it made the evening ahead feel more cruel. To have power, even a hint of it, but no way to develop it, no training, no acknowledgment. A seed that would never be watered.
He pushed through the servants' door and made his way through the bustling kitchen, dodging cooks and servants preparing the feast. No one spoke to him. Some knew who he was and looked away quickly. Others simply didn't see him at all—just another thin figure in dark clothes, easily overlooked.
The great hall was magnificent in a way that always stole Lucien's breath despite his resentment. High vaulted ceilings, banners bearing the Argentel crest—a white sword wreathed in holy fire—hanging from every column. Chandeliers blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off polished armor displays and silver table settings.
The long table dominated the center of the room, and it was already half-full. Lucien recognized his siblings immediately: Aldric sat near the head of the table, his bearing confident and relaxed, already wearing the lightweight armor of a knight-in-training. Seraphine sat beside him, her white-blonde hair woven with silver threads, her dress the pale blue of winter ice.
The branch families occupied the middle sections—cousins and distant relations, their white powers weaker than the main line but still respectable. They laughed and talked, secure in their belonging.
And at the far end, almost in the shadows where the candlelight didn't quite reach, sat an empty chair.
Lucien's chair.
He made his way toward it, keeping close to the walls, making himself small. A few heads turned as he passed. He heard the whispers, felt the weight of their judgment like physical pressure.
"That's him? The bastard?"
"I'd heard, but I didn't believe... Lord Cassian actually allows him at formal dinners?"
"What color did he inherit? Can't be white, surely..."
"I heard he's colorless. Imagine that—even the bastard blood wasn't strong enough."
Lucien's face burned, but he kept walking. Head high, like his mother said. Show them what you're made of.
He reached his chair and sat, the wood cold beneath him. From here, he had a perfect view of the entire table. He could see everything while being seen by no one—or rather, while being actively unseen, which was somehow worse.
The conversations flowed around him like water around a stone. Topics ranged from recent tournaments to border skirmishes with neighboring kingdoms to the upcoming selection of new knights for the royal guard. Lucien listened, absorbing every detail. Knowledge was one of the few weapons available to him.
Then Lord Cassian entered, and the room fell silent.
Lucien's father was a man who commanded attention without effort. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair shot through with distinguished grey, he wore the formal armor of House Argentel—white plate etched with holy symbols that seemed to glow with inner light. His presence filled the room, and every person at the table straightened instinctively.
"Family," Lord Cassian said, his voice deep and warm. "Welcome. Tonight we celebrate the spring equinox and the continued strength of House Argentel. Our bloodline has protected this kingdom for generations, and tonight I see that legacy reflected in each of your faces."
His eyes swept the table, pausing to acknowledge each child, each cousin, each member of the family.
Aldric received a nod of pride. "My heir, who yesterday broke Sir Gareth's barrier technique—a feat I couldn't manage until I was eighteen."
Seraphine received a warm smile. "My daughter, whose healing flames have been requested by the royal physicians themselves."
Down the line he went, naming accomplishments, offering praise, acknowledging existence.
His gaze reached Lucien's end of the table.
And slid past.
Not quickly—that would have been too obvious. Just... past. As if the chair were empty. As if the thin boy in faded formal wear didn't exist at all.
Something broke inside Lucien's chest. Not dramatically—there was no audible crack, no tears. Just a quiet internal collapse, like a wall he'd been desperately maintaining finally crumbling to dust.
I am invisible, he realized. Truly, completely invisible. Not hidden—erased.
The dinner continued. Servants brought course after course—roasted meats, glazed vegetables, fresh bread, delicate pastries. Lucien saw his mother moving between tables, her face carefully blank, and wondered if she saw what had just happened. If she knew that Lord Cassian had looked right through their son as if he were made of glass.
Lucien picked at his food, tasting nothing. Around him, the family laughed and celebrated. Aldric regaled the table with a story about his latest training victory. Seraphine discussed her acceptance into the royal academy. The branch families competed for attention, each trying to prove their worth to the main line.
And Lucien sat in the shadows, present but unacknowledged, existing in the space between belonging and exile.
His hands trembled in his lap. The familiar frustration rose in his chest, mixed now with something sharper—anger, yes, but also something cold and determined. He looked down at his hands and saw it clearly this time: violet wisps curling around his fingers like smoke, visible for several heartbeats before fading.
His power. Weak, untrained, barely there—but undeniably present.
Violet, he thought. The color of sovereignty. Of transformation. Of being dangerous enough to erase from history.
Maybe that was exactly what he needed.
The dinner dragged on for hours. Lucien endured it in silence, watching, listening, learning. He studied his father's commanding presence, Aldric's confident swagger, Seraphine's graceful diplomacy. He memorized the family politics, the subtle hierarchies, the unspoken rules that governed this world.
And he made a promise to himself, there in the shadows at the end of the table.
I will make you see me. All of you. I will become so strong, so undeniable, that looking away becomes impossible. I will take the color you tried to erase from history and forge it into something that demands recognition.
I will become the head of this house. Not because you acknowledge me—but because I make it impossible not to.
The violet wisps around his fingers pulsed once, as if in response to his determination, then faded back into nothing.
But Lucien had seen them. Had felt the potential stirring in his blood.
And that was enough.
For now.