Thirteenth Prince's Odyssey

The grand oak doors of the hall swung open with a measured, deliberate grace, as though the castle itself sought to honor the man who now entered. King Elijah Orlean stepped forward, his presence casting a palpable weight over the gathered nobility. His appearance was nothing short of striking—a living legend who, despite his fifty-one years, bore the youthful vigor of a man in his late twenties. The glow of mana coursed through his veins, a silent testament to the unmatched mastery that had elevated him to the pinnacle of the hardest profession in existence: Champion Swordsman.

He had come directly from the frontlines, his return marked by urgency and a singular purpose. The Rite of Recognition could have been postponed—wars were raging, and borders needed defending. Yet Elijah had never delayed this sacred ceremony for any of his twelve other sons, and his youngest would be no exception. It was a principle he upheld, an vow that no matter the circumstances, the 13th birthday of a prince was to be honored without fail.

He was accompanied by the three queens of the kingdom, each a striking figure in their own right. To his right walked Queen Isabella, the eldest, her silver gown flowing like liquid moonlight. Her expression was serene, a picture of calculated poise. To his left, Queen Seraphina, fiery and commanding, her crimson attire mirroring her sharp and unyielding personality. Finally, at his rear walked Queen Elara, the youngest of the three, draped in emerald, her gentle demeanor offset by an air of quiet intelligence. Together, they formed a procession of grace and power, a unified symbol of the kingdom's strength.

Elijah's own attire spoke of his dual identity as both monarch and warrior. A fitted tunic of midnight blue, trimmed in gold and etched with runes of protection, clung to his lean, muscular frame. Over it, he wore a long cloak of black fur, the edges singed faintly with an iridescent shimmer—a mark of his time spent on mana-scarred battlefields. His ceremonial sword hung at his hip, its pommel aglow with a faint white light that pulsed like a heartbeat, a subtle reminder of the bond forged between a champion and their blade.

The king's youthful face, framed by shoulder-length black hair with a silver streak at his temple, betrayed none of the weariness of war. His piercing silver eyes swept across the hall with a calm yet commanding intensity, locking onto every face in turn, before finally landing on Liam. It was an expression both unreadable and heavy with unspoken expectations, the kind of gaze that had reduced even the fiercest knights to silence.

As he approached the dais, the faint aroma of ozone accompanied him, a remnant of the mana that clung to his very being. His steps were deliberate, each one echoing through the hall as though the stones beneath him acknowledged his mastery. The air seemed charged in his wake, a sensation akin to the calm before a storm.

The queens walked behind him in dignified silence, their gowns trailing like rippling waves of silver, crimson, and emerald. Together, the royal procession ascended the dais, their presence radiating an undeniable aura of authority. When Elijah finally came to a halt, he turned his gaze fully onto Liam, the hall falling into an almost oppressive silence. And now, with the court assembled, it was time for the Rite of Recognition to begin.

As the room held its collective breath, King Elijah's voice broke the silence, resonant and commanding, yet carrying a rare warmth.

"Prince Liam," he began, stepping closer to the youngest of his sons, "today marks an important milestone in your life. First, allow me to wish you a happy 13th birthday." His stern expression softened ever so slightly, the corner of his lips tugging into a faint smile.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Liam replied, bowing deeply in respect. When he straightened, his gaze met his father's silver eyes with quiet determination. "It's an honor to stand here today."

Elijah chuckled softly, the sound surprising a few courtiers. "You carry yourself with confidence, I see. Good. Confidence will serve you well, though I hope it is rooted in truth and preparation." He glanced briefly at Liam's attire, then back at his face. "Have you been preparing for this day?"

"To the best of my ability, Your Majesty," Liam replied evenly, a small flicker of defiance hidden in his otherwise calm tone.

Elijah gave a slow nod, his sharp eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts. "We shall see soon enough. Let us begin."

The king gestured to the Archmage Cleric, Caelus of the Azure Spire. A tall, gaunt man whose robes glistened with intricate runic symbols.

The Azure Spire, over which he presided, was Ironhelm's bastion of magical healing and bodily study, its knowledge predating the early days of the kingdom.

Stepping forward, Archmage Caelus inclined his head to the king before turning his attention to Liam. "Prince Liam, I will now examine the essence of your bloodline and mana flow. Hold still."

Caelus extended his hands slightly, palms facing upward, as faint threads of magic began to weave into the air. At first, the energy shimmered delicately, barely visible, but soon it coalesced into an intricate lattice of soft blue light. The glowing web surrounded Liam, pulsing gently in rhythm with the boy's own mana, as though alive.

The spell, Mana Ripple, was designed to measure how an individual's mana interacted—or repelled—against an external source. It was a meticulous and precise spell, rarely used for critical evaluations. Its results were notoriously challenging to interpret, but Caelus's years of expertise allowed to glean meaningful insights.

The hall grew deathly silent as the magic intensified, the lattice expanding and contracting in tandem with Liam's subtle breaths. Every ripple in the aura seemed to mirror Liam's own mana signature, as if measuring his potential on a molecular level. Caelus's face remained impassive, his focus unwavering, though his sharp gaze flickered now and then with something resembling curiosity—or concern.

The light examined every inch of Liam's form, the lattice flowing over him in measured waves. The rhythm grew stronger, deliberate, as though the spell was searching for something hidden.

After several moments, the glow began to dim, its brightness receding until only faint traces of the lattice lingered in the air. Finally, the threads of magic dissolved entirely, vanishing like smoke carried away by the wind.

Caelus lowered his hands slowly, his expression unreadable. The silence that followed felt oppressive, the tension in the room palpable as everyone awaited his verdict.

"No anomalies detected," he announced, the words ringing out like a bell. "Prince Liam possesses a standard bloodline and normal mana flow. No unique variations to speak of."

A murmur swept through the audience, restrained but unmistakable. The absence of a unique bloodline was no great surprise, but it was enough to lower already modest expectations. Liam's face remained impassive. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the result without a word.

Liam bowed his head respectfully. "Thank you, Master Caelus."

Next came the oracle, Thalion, Master of the Illusionary Tower. An elderly man draped in pale gray robes. His gaze was piercing, as if he could see through flesh and bone into the very soul. "Prince Liam," he intoned, "I will peer into your potential and your character. The future is always uncertain, but the probabilities can guide us."

His fell into a low murmur as he extended his hands—Divination. A faint greyish glow surrounded Liam. After a moment, the oracle straightened and spoke, his tone neutral.

"Prince Liam, your path is one of steadfastness and discipline. Your potential aligns most strongly with the spear—a profession that requires focus, adaptability, and perseverance. The chance of excelling as a spearman is notable, though not exceptional. As for leadership… your odds of ascending the throne are slim, though not impossible. Time will test your resolve."

"Thank you, Master Thalion," Liam nodded, with an unhinged expression.

With the formalities complete, both archmages turned their attention to King Elijah, bowing in unison.

"Your Majesty," they intoned, their voices harmonizing in a ritualistic cadence.

"Masters," Elijah replied, his tone warm but authoritative. "Your service to Ironhelm and House of Orleam has been unwavering. I thank you for your assistance."

"Your Majesty is wise," they bowed.

Finally, it was King Elijah's turn. As he approached his son, the air in the hall grew heavier. His hands were held back, and his expression remained inscrutable. "Hold your ground," he said, his voice sharp and commanding.

The room grew silent as, a wave of invisible energy swept outward from Elijah. It was Aura Suppression, a controlled projection of his mana and presence. The weight of it was immense, pressing against Liam like an unrelenting tide.

Liam staggered slightly, his knees threatening to buckle under the strain. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth and planted his feet firmly, refusing to yield. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the courtiers watched with bated breath.

After what felt like an eternity, Elijah withdrew his aura. Liam stood trembling but upright, his breathing ragged. The king observed him for a long moment before nodding. "You have strength, but it is raw and unrefined. At best, you may one day rise to the rank of Champion. It will take relentless effort, but the potential is there."

The combined results were grim: no unique bloodline traits, moderate potential as a spearman, and the possibility of becoming a Champion at most. The implication was clear—Liam's chances of claiming the throne were next to impossible.

The Grand Hall held its breath as the weight of the assessment settling over the gathered nobles. Liam, however, remained stoic, his expression betraying none of the disappointment that churned within others. Soon the crowd began to stir, breaking the silence with murmurs and rustling garments. As was customary in the court, their reactions were a mixture of genuine sympathy, masked opportunism, and calculated diplomacy.

Some nobles approached Liam directly, offering polite congratulations and carefully measured words of consolation. "You did well, Your Highness," said one count, his smile thin and practiced. "The path to greatness is not always evident in its beginnings."

Another baron chimed in, his tone overly warm. "Your resolve is commendable, Prince Liam. Such composure at your age is rare and admirable."

Liam nodded and responded with equally polished courtesies, his demeanor unshaken, though he could feel the veiled pity in their words. Their intentions were clear—they sought to maintain favor with the royal family, but they had already dismissed him as a serious contender for the throne.

As the political dance continued, Liam's family began to approach. Adrian placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don't let their words weigh on you, Liam," he said, his tone steady and supportive. "We all start somewhere, and you've shown more resolve than many here ever will."

Liam managed a small smile. "Thank you, brother. It means more than you know."

Malcom leaned in with a wry grin. "Well, they might not think much of us, but I'd still wager a few coins on you surprising them all one day."

Liam chuckled softly. "I hope your coin purse isn't too full. You already lost a lot today.."

Malcolm clapped Liam on the back before stepping aside.

Cassandra cupped Liam's cheek briefly, a rare gesture of affection from someone so poised. "You handled that with grace, little brother," she said softly. "No matter what they say or think, never forget that you're one of us. And that means you're capable of more than anyone here realizes."

Liam nodded, his throat tight. "Thank you, sister."

Finally, his mother, Queen Isabella, approached, her usual regal composure shaken. She placed a trembling hand on his shoulder, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "My son," she whispered, her voice heavy with guilt. "I… "

Liam shook his head, taking her hand gently in his own. "Mother, don't — none of this is your fault. I am who I am, and I'll find my own way, no matter what other thinks."

A single tear slipped down Isabella's cheek as she smiled through her sorrow. "You've always been strong, Liam. Stronger than they'll ever know. Promise me you won't let this hold you back."

"I promise," Liam said firmly, his resolve strengthening in the face of her emotion.

The tranquil moment shared between mother and son stood in contrast to the gathered crowd. For a fleeting instant, it seemed as if the world around them had vanished. But soon, the ceremony moved on, and Liam stepped back into the orbit of his family and the watchful eyes of the kingdom.

Meanwhile, a different group of nobles gathered near King Elijah, their gestures deliberate and their motives transparent. They stood with their daughters, each dressed in fine silks and adorned with jewels, hoping to secure alliances. "Your Majesty," one duke began, his tone ingratiating, "might I present my eldest daughter, Lady Daphne? She has long admired the House of Orlean and hopes to serve it one day."

Elijah received these overtures with the patience of a king well-accustomed to such tactics, his expression impassive. His focus, however, remained on Liam, his sharp eyes observing every nuance of the young prince's behavior.

The ceremony had only confirmed what many already believed. Yet, as Liam met his father's piercing gaze, a quiet fire burned in his chest.