Rune of Immortality

The moment the king stepped through the great hall's arched entrance, a hush swept across the room like a silent wind extinguishing every candle of conversation. The clinking of glasses, the low hum of polite chatter, even the notes of music wafting from the piano ceased. Servants froze mid-step, nobles stiffened in their places, and a blanket of reverent silence fell so completely that Jacob could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

He looked around, and for the first time in his life, he truly noticed the subtle reactions of those who held power over the kingdom, tics and gestures that had always been invisible to his younger, more naive self. They were so slight, so carefully restrained, yet now they felt glaringly obvious to him, and in each of them he saw something unexpected. Nervousness.

Jeremiah, for instance, his father, the so-called Sword of the Kingdom, tightened his grip around his goblet just slightly, the metal creaking under the pressure of his fingers. His spine straightened, shoulders drawing inward, his face becoming an unreadable mask of stoicism. But to Jacob, it looked more like fear, no, not fear exactly, but the rigid control of someone who was afraid to show any emotion at all, not even respect, not even pride. It was the expression of a man standing before someone far above him.

Rudius, for all his easy smiles and playful remarks, had lost that careless grin entirely. He looked perfectly calm to anyone glancing at him casually, but Jacob had been watching him long enough to catch it: his hand briefly rested against his chest, over the spot where his ribs had once been shattered and his heart nearly pierced. The expression that passed over his face wasn't just thoughtful, it was quietly conflicted, as though he was reliving a memory he wasn't entirely sure he had survived.

Desmond, usually floating a few inches above the ground as if weight itself were beneath him, had lowered himself. His feet were planted squarely on the marble floor now, and without a word or glance toward the others, he had drifted away from the central conversation, retreating to a corner of the room with a drink in hand, looking like he wanted nothing more than to remain unseen, untouched. Not even the glass in his fingers stirred, he wasn't floating, wasn't moving he was still.

Tricia Herew, for once, had abandoned her reclining posture. She sat up straight, shoulders stiff beneath her shimmering dress, the hem of which now brushed against the carpet like a discarded veil. Her face remained concealed behind the same ornate veil that had earned her a dozen whispered rumours, but her body betrayed what her expression could not. Her left foot tapped a slow, relentless rhythm against the floor, a subtle twitch that didn't scream impatience or irritation, but rather a deeper kind of anxiety. Her fingers had drifted, just for a heartbeat toward the hilt of the flail resting beneath her cloak, before she thought better of it and slowly drew her hand back.

Then there was Olivia. She'd risen from her seat altogether. At a glance, she seemed fine, composed, even polished but her motions betrayed her. She was smoothing her cuffs, adjusting the lapels of her tightly fitted blue suit again and again, fingers never still. And her eyes, usually sharp and cool, flicked toward her guards more than once, as if seeking reassurance. The colour had drained slightly from her cheeks, not enough to be seen in passing, but enough that Jacob—who had spent the last few minutes carefully observing them could tell something had rattled her. Maybe it was memory, or just instinct, but whatever it was, it had shaken her grip on composure.

And yet… not everyone looked so affected.

Audrey Holian, saint of Imbra, leaned against her curved velvet seat with the same soft smile she had worn before the king arrived. Her amber eyes didn't narrow, her breath didn't catch, and her posture didn't change. If anything, she seemed amused by the reactions around her. Her fingers lazily traced the rim of her glass as she turned her gaze toward the entrance, calm and detached. She looked more like a guest awaiting a performance than a political leader standing before the greatest mage in the world. But perhaps that made sense. She was a saint, after all, tethered not to mana or aura like the others, but to faith a force all her own. And for reasons no one seemed to fully understand, even the king tread carefully around her.

And now, finally, Jacob turned his full attention to the man who had commanded all this without saying a word, the King of Eterna.

King Theodore Eterna.

The name carried weight in every corner of the world. Theodore wasn't a large man, he stood at an average height, his physique strong but not monstrous, but the moment he entered the hall, he seemed to fill it. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to cast a spell or release his mana. Just being there was enough.

His robes were pure white with golden trim, marked by the royal crest on the back. His gold hair was neatly brushed, short and precise, but it was his eyes that drew Jacob's gaze. They were pale green, almost metallic, and yet there was a depth to them that felt endless, as if behind his gaze was a storm that had weathered centuries. He was calm, but not quiet. Still, but never passive. His presence demanded attention, not through force, but through sheer inevitability.

Everyone in Eterna knew the name Lazarus, the Grand Scholar, the most brilliant man in the world. And at times people would assume that Lazarus was the greatest mage in the kingdom. But that title came with a qualifier. Scholar. He was the wisest. The most curious. The man of ideas.

But Theodore… Theodore wasn't known for his knowledge. He was known for his victories.

He was the strongest mage alive. That wasn't a boast or a legend it was a documented truth. Not a single mage across the various kingdoms, or the dozen scattered empires beyond the seas, had ever stood above him in power. He had fought each of the leaders in this room, leaders of the five great families, and he had beaten every one of them.

All except Audrey, for reasons no one understood.

Jacob's eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the subtle scars, the knowing glances, the strange silences. He had read about these matches, the traditional duels every new monarch underwent against the five great family heads but it was one thing to study them in a book and another to see the aftermath written on faces.

Rudius, for example, had barely survived. His duel with the king had ended with a hole through his chest and days on the edge of death. His smile might be charming now, but it masked something deeper, respect, certainly, but also trauma.

Olivia's battle had been worse.

Her legendary regenerative abilities had kept her alive, but at a cost. The king had simply kept going, again and again, matching her healing with ever-increasing force, delivering blow after blow until her body, for all its power, couldn't forget what pain felt like. It was said that every nerve in her body remembered that fight, that it had taken her months to sleep without jolting awake.

Jacob had always wondered why the kingdom tolerated this violence between its leaders, why the tradition persisted even in an era of peace. But now, watching these powerful, legendary figures instinctively shrink in the king's presence, he understood. These battles were not rituals of honour they were reminders.

Reminders that the crown was not a formality. That the royal bloodline, the descendants of Akashic himself, was still unmatched. Unchallenged. Unbreakable.

No family head had ever beaten a king in the ring. Not once. And if their scars and subtle tics were anything to go by, none ever would.

And even more frightening than the power itself, was how quietly it moved. How effortlessly it commanded reverence.

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How completely it silenced a room.

It took only a few seconds of silence before every person in the grand hall, save for the leaders, bent forward in one synchronized movement, their voices rising in a single, rehearsed declaration that echoed across the polished marble floor and beneath the golden chandeliers.
"We greet His Royal Majesty. Long live the royal family."

The king gave a small nod, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips as he raised a hand in acknowledgment, one subtle gesture that signalled the end of ceremony and the return of breath to the room. Without a word, he stepped forward into the hall, walking at an unhurried pace that demanded neither applause nor grandeur. It was simply expected.

The queen followed behind him, her dress a soft cascade of silver and pale green that shimmered beneath the lights, her expression calm and distant. Then came the royal children, each adorned in tailored suits and flowing dresses of white, gold, and green. Their presence was unmistakable, not simply because of their pristine clothing or the elegance of their movements, but because of the golden hue of their hair, which glimmered in the hall's illumination like fire forged into strands.

And then, finally, Castor entered.

His gait was steady, confident without being arrogant, his back straight and his eyes scanning the crowd as though committing each face to memory. Unlike his siblings, he did not hurry to follow their path, he stopped at the centre of the hall, turned to face the room, and spoke in a voice loud enough to cut across the distance, but gentle enough to feel measured and warm.

"Thank you to all those who attended this birthday banquet of mine," he said, his tone surprisingly earnest. "Your attendance is noted and appreciated, and I hope we all enjoy a night of good cheer, perhaps even enough to inspire a little envy."

Then he smiled, gave a shallow bow, and began making his way toward a table nestled near the middle of the hall.

Jacob, who had been watching him quietly from near the edge of the carpet, couldn't help but raise an eyebrow and smile faintly to himself as he noticed the particular direction Castor was headed, toward the Hathlin family's table.

"I guess he and Elly are still as close as ever," he murmured under his breath with the lightest of chuckles. At that moment, a servant passed by with a tray of drinks, and Jacob casually reached out, plucking two elegant glasses filled with something amber-coloured and sparkling. He didn't know what it was, but it looked refined enough for a royal banquet, and frankly, he needed something to hold while he gathered his thoughts.

'How does Henry do this sort of thing so easily?' he wondered. Henry had always been good at reading people, slipping between topics, choosing his words like a seasoned performer. He could turn any encounter into an opportunity, hold attention with a simple smile, and act like everyone in the room had always wanted to talk to him. Jacob, by contrast, had barely spoken to most of his former friends over the past two years. It was hard to start now. The distance had grown, and he wasn't sure if trying to close it would feel genuine or just awkward.

Still, standing here with two glasses in hand and no conversation to hide behind felt even worse, so he decided, half out of bravery, half out of frustration to simply walk over and hope for the best. Maybe winging it would work.

He began weaving through the sea of bodies, dodging nobles in formalwear, servants balancing trays, and scattered glances thrown in every direction. His grip on the glasses tightened slightly, not from nervousness exactly, but from the quiet hope that they wouldn't slip from his fingers before he got there. And just as he approached the edge of the table where Elly was seated, someone stumbled into him.

It was a servant, at least, dressed as one and before Jacob could turn to voice even a polite objection, the figure had vanished into the crowd. At first, he thought little of it, until he felt something unfamiliar in his pocket. Frowning, he reached in and pulled out a slip of folded paper. The handwriting was neat and unmistakable. As soon as he read the first line, his expression darkened.

My dear Jacob,
I'd like to continue the chat we unfortunately could not finish in the palace. I'll be in a room to the side, looking forward to it.
—Samuel.

Of course.

Jacob's lips curled in annoyance as he crumpled the paper in his palm and let it fall to the ground. He didn't even glance at it as it drifted to the polished marble. The glasses in his hand had tipped slightly, their contents now pooling in an unfortunate mess around his shoes. He didn't care.

Turning on his heel, he made his way back to the space he'd been standing in before, each step measured and deliberate. There wasn't a single part of him that wanted to hear whatever Samuel had to say. Their last encounter had ended in rage. And if he was being honest, Jacob knew that no amount of time could make that rage disappear, not naturally. Whatever conversation Samuel wanted to have, it wasn't one Jacob had any intention of entertaining.

But Samuel, it seemed, wasn't giving up so easily.

A flicker of light pulsed beneath Jacob's feet, faint, brief, almost imperceptible to anyone not watching closely and in the blink of an eye, his figure vanished from the hall. It was clean and silent, the kind of spell that didn't seek attention but carried a signature that, to the powerful guests present, was immediately recognizable.

Among those watching, none made a sound. Not because they hadn't noticed, but because they had. And they understood precisely who was responsible.

The rune, laced with a specific blend of intricate mana weaving, bore all the hallmarks of Prince Samuel. Those familiar with his techniques and mana, and nearly every leader in the room was, needed only a second to identify it. And once they did, they looked away, returning to their conversations or postures, either pretending it hadn't happened or choosing, wisely, not to interfere.

Jeremiah, however, didn't look away. His gaze followed the faint shimmer Jacob had left behind, his expression flat but his jaw tight. Slowly, he turned toward the king his eyes sharp but unreadable.

The king met his gaze, lips curving into a faint, amused smile. And though his mouth didn't move, his voice reached Jeremiah all the same, slipping into his thoughts with effortless precision.

"Don't worry," the king said, the words steady and calm, as though offering reassurance to a nervous friend. "No harm will befall your child."

Jeremiah didn't reply. He simply turned his attention back to the hall, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

Meanwhile, Jacob found himself standing in a small, quiet room with stone walls and a low, arched ceiling. A single lantern hung from the wall to his right, casting a warm glow across the polished wooden table in the centre. It was sparse, plainly furnished, two chairs, a decanter of water, and a single figure seated calmly across from him.

Samuel.

He was dressed in a long white robe trimmed with a soft green thread, a style more fitting for a scholar or priest than a prince, and he looked completely at ease, legs crossed, hands resting lightly in his lap. The moment Jacob appeared, Samuel smiled, pleasant and without mockery and extended a hand, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

"I appreciate you accepting the invitation," he said.

Jacob didn't answer. The sight of Samuel, even seated in this quiet room with no audience to watch them, stirred something visceral in him. His grip tightened instinctively, his posture stiffened, and the heat of restrained anger bloomed in his chest like a storm gathering behind his ribs. He took a single step forward, his expression unreadable but his intentions plain.

Samuel raised an eyebrow, then laughed lightly, like he'd expected this reaction all along. "Ah, right," he said, raising one hand with an almost apologetic wave. "I forgot you've got those... persistent anger problems. Don't worry, this'll help."

With a small flick of his wrist, a glowing rune appeared in the air between them, spinning for a moment before shooting toward Jacob.

Jacob instinctively shifted to dodge, but the rune was too fast, and he wasn't prepared. It struck him in the chest with a muted flash, and within seconds, the effects settled over him like a heavy curtain being drawn shut. His breath caught not out of pain, but confusion. The tension in his limbs loosened, the heat behind his eyes dimmed, and the storm inside his chest stilled.

His rage was gone.

Not just his rage but his fear, his irritation, even the faint amusement he'd felt earlier in the banquet. Everything emotional had dulled, as though he were underwater, watching his own feelings float beyond reach. A strange clarity remained, he could think, process, speak but the emotional weight behind those thoughts had been stripped away.

He blinked once, then turned his head slowly toward Samuel.

"An emotion-erasing rune?" he asked, voice levelled and neutral.

For a brief moment, Samuel looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifted, his mouth slightly ajar but it lasted only a heartbeat. He nodded, and the familiar grin returned.

"Well," he said, voice relaxed and pleased, "it seems that without all the chaos in your head, we might finally be able to have a proper conversation."

Jacob exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite relief. He stepped forward, pulled out the chair across from Samuel, and sat down without another word. His movements were calm, measured. He leaned back slightly, his eyes fixed forward but unfocused, as though still adjusting to this sudden stillness inside himself.

"I suppose that's true," he said after a moment. "I don't hate you right now. I don't feel the need to shout or argue or throw a punch. If this conversation has some actual purpose, then I see no reason not to have it."

Samuel nodded, clearly satisfied. He poured a small cup of water from the decanter and pushed it toward Jacob without comment, then settled back in his own chair, folding his hands on the table.

"Alright, Jacob," he said, with a quiet sense of finality. "Let's talk."