Thirteenth Prince's Odyssey

The afternoon sun bathed the castle in a warm glow, its rays streaming through the tall windows of the stone corridor outside Liam's chambers. Butler Edwin stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind his back, while Trisha and Mara—two of the prince's appointed servants—waited anxiously beside him.

The tension was palpable. The bell tower had already chimed five times past morning, and its sixth chime, marking the hour after midday, was imminent. Yet Prince Liam had shown no signs of waking up.

"Still nothing?" Trisha whispered, shifting her weight nervously.

Edwin shook his head, his gaze fixed on the heavy wooden door. "Patience. Master Liam has had a demanding few days."

"Be ready to prepare breakfast when I say he's awake," Edwin replied firmly, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his own unease.

Inside the room, Liam was lost in a trance.

In his dream, the royal nursery was echoed by gentle hum of a lullaby. Queen Isabella was sitting by a pond, cradling her son, Liam, in her arms. His tiny hands reached for her hair, tugging with uncoordinated curiosity, earning a soft laugh from his mother.

"Careful, my little prince," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You'll make a mess of your poor mother's hair before court begins."

Liam cooed in response, his bright, curious eyes studying her face intently. Isabella set aside the silver spoon from which she had been feeding him, letting her son giggle as he clumsily clapped his hands. The sight of him, so small and full of life, warmed her heart, though a shadow of worry lingered at the edge of her thoughts.

Her moment of peace was interrupted by the heavy sound of doors creaking open. The imposing figure of King Elijah entered the chamber, he looked a liitle younger. Behind him followed Archmage Caelus in his silver robes.

Isabella sighed softly, her smile faltering as she instinctively drew Liam closer. "Not again," she said, her voice carrying the weariness of countless examinations.

"We must be sure," Elijah replied, his tone firm but not unkind. His eyes softened as they fell on his son, a rare glint of vulnerability breaking through his usual demeanor. "You know this isn't easy for me either."

Caelus offered a polite bow before stepping closer to the cradle. "Your Majesty," he began, his tone calm. 

He hesitated for a moment, then allowed the child to grasp his finger. A flicker of warmth crossed his face before he turned to the king and queen.

"The prince's Mana Flame is conspicuous, as I've noted before. Its presence is undeniable, yet faint — unusually faint for one of his lineage. It should be brighter, stronger. And yet…" Caelus trailed off, his tone growing thoughtful.

"And yet?" Elijah prompted.

"And yet I have never encountered a child like him," Caelus admitted. "He is remarkably composed. Most children with even a spark of mana display chaotic emotions—fits of rage, bursts of tears. It is as though their bodies struggle to contain the flow of mana, their spirits too young to temper it." He glanced down at Liam, whose gaze was unwavering. "But not Liam. He has not thrown a tantrum, not once, save for the headaches you mentioned."

Isabella frowned, her worry deepening. "The headaches are not normal for a child so young."

"No, they are not," Caelus admitted. "But they are the only moments when his Mana Flame feels… alive. He gestured to Liam, whose small hand still clung to his finger. "It is as though the flame within him sleeps, waiting for something."

Elijah's expression hardened. "Waiting for what?"

"I do not know," Caelus replied, his voice heavy with uncertainty. "It is as if the flame holds itself back, as though it is incomplete—or fragmented. Such a thing is unheard of."

Isabella gently set Liam back into his cradle, brushing her hand across his soft hair. "Then what do we do? What does this mean for him?"

"It means we watch," Caelus said gravely. "We watch, we wait, and we guide him as best we can. Whatever the nature of his flame, it will reveal itself in time."

The room fell into silence, broken only by Liam's soft cooing. Isabella sat beside the cradle, her hand resting protectively on its edge, while Elijah stared at his son, his fist clenched.

Caelus straightened and looked to the king and queen, his voice calm but firm. "Liam's path will not be an easy one, but he is your son. Whatever challenges arise, he will have your strength to guide him."

Elijah nodded, though his face betrayed little of his thoughts. "He will be ready for whatever comes."

Isabella leaned down, kissing Liam's forehead once more, her voice barely a whisper. "My little prince, may your flame always burn bright."

As the Archmage departed, his robes trailing behind him, and the king returned to the weight of his duties, the queen remained by her son's side, her hand resting gently on the edge of the cradle. This fragile moment of Liam's youth, though fleeting, was etched into his memory with startling clarity.

Years later, he would find himself recalling the warmth of his mother's touch, the soft hum of her lullaby, and even the faint shimmer of the Archmage's robes as he left the chamber. It was as if the scene had been burned into his mind, preserved in vivid detail.

It puzzled him endlessly. Was it normal for someone to remember their earliest days with such precision? Most people could not recall their infancy, their minds clouded by the fog of youth. Yet for Liam, the memory remained unbroken, as sharp as though it had happened yesterday.

As the vivid recollection faded from his mind, Liam opened his eyes. It was afternoon once again, sunlight pouring into the room, casting soft golden hues across the cold stone walls. He lay still for a moment, his body heavy with exhaustion, before finally sitting up and stretching his aching limbs.

The usual routine awaited him. Rising, he moved to the wash basin to freshen up. With a flick of his fingers, the curtains parted, and Liam opened the window, letting in a crisp breeze that carried the scent of damp earth and pine. He turned toward the planked door leading out of his chamber, and with a low creak, pushed it open.

Mara and Trisha awaited him. They bowed slightly at the sight of him. "Good afternoon, Master Liam," Mara greeted politely, her tone calm but warm.

"Afternoon," Liam replied, stepping aside to let them enter.

Trisha was the first to speak, her voice steady. "We brought your breakfast, Master Liam. Sir Edwin thought it best after you skipped your meal yesterday."

Mara added, "The guest attendants mentioned you had to snack off their trays. That isn't acceptable, even if you were busy."

Liam raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at his lips. "I didn't have much choice yesterday. It was either that or collapse entirely."

Trisha set the tray down carefully. "Still, it's our job to ensure that doesn't happen. If you need anything, you should call for us, Master Liam."

Mara poured him a cup of tea, "You push yourself too hard," she said softly, though her tone carried a hint of reproach. "No one will fault you for taking care of yourself."

Liam sat down and picked up a slice of bread, feeling the weight of their concern. "Noted," he replied with a faint smile.

Trisha stood near the doorway, her arms crossed behind her. "Is there anything else you need while we're here?"

Liam shook his head. "No, this is plenty. Thank you, both of you."

Mara and Trisha exchanged a brief glance before bowing again. "As you wish, Master Liam," they said in unison before retreating toward the door.

As the two servants left him to his thoughts, Liam glanced out the open window. The memory of the vision still lingered, the image of Soryn's Crown and the memories of his childhood. Something was stirring, something he couldn't yet understand, but the flame within his chest told him it wouldn't be long before he found out.

It was the evening before the rite. The Rite of Recognition was a joyous occasion, but Liam felt no peace. Instead, panic gripped him, an inexplicable unease clawing at his thoughts.

He paced the room, his breathing uneven. It wasn't just nervousness about the rite—it was something deeper, something alien yet familiar. A strange intuition gnawed at him, whispering from a corner of his mind, not born from his own thoughts but from a memory. The memory didn't feel like his, yet it whispered clearly: If you interact with mana, there will be trouble.

Liam clenched his fists, trying to shake the feeling, but the whispers persisted. He had no idea how to resolve the ominous warning or even if he should believe it. His eyes darted to the ornate drawer beside his bed. Pulling it open, he retrieved the protective royal necklace within.

The necklace, an heirloom of the royal family, was crafted with ornate patterns of silver and gold, embedded with a small, bluish glowing crystal at its center. It was said to form an impenetrable shield around its wearer, protecting them from harm.

Liam held the necklace in trembling hands, his heart pounding. But the unease didn't fade—it only grew stronger.

The whispers became more insistent, filling his mind with dread. Fear overwhelmed him until, in a sudden burst of frustration, he struck the necklace against the edge of his desk. A faint spark of mana flickered, reacting to his touch.

The protective mechanism of the necklace activated—but instead of forming a shield, Liam felt something else entirely.

He was absorbing its mana.

The realization hit him a moment too late. His body shuddered as the mana surged through him, and a blinding headache struck like a hammer. He stumbled back, gripping the edge of the desk to steady himself.

Then it came — a vision.

In his mind, he saw a strand of dark magic, coiling like a serpent. The vision felt impossibly real, as though it were his own memory. The magic was a restrictive dark spell, designed to absorb any mana it came into contact with and prevent its user from interacting with mana directly.

As the vision faded, Liam's pounding headache began to subside, leaving a dull ache in its place. A strange clarity followed, and he could feel the mana he had absorbed from the necklace earlier coursing through him, albeit in a faint trickle. Almost instinctively, he spoke an ancient tongue, like he spoke this language quite frequently. Dark tendrils of energy began to form, coalescing into the same restrictive spell he had seen in his vision.

The room darkened momentarily, shadows pooling at his feet before dissipating into the air. Liam stumbled back, his breathing ragged, but the spell had been cast. He stared at his trembling hands, both awed and terrified by what he had just done.

He invocated the restrictive dark spell - Mana Stasis.

His mind flashed back to the rite. The day he had been evaluated was now as clear as crystal, and with it came the realization of why they had judged him so lightly. The restrictive dark spell had absorbed all the energy they channeled into him. But in his carelessness, he had underestimated the power being poured into his body. The combined mana of two archmages and his father—a champion swordsman—was too much for the spell to contain.

The dark spell, though potent, was overloaded. Its structure faltered, and the leaking mana began to interact with him again. It coursed through his body, unrestrained and chaotic, causing the excruciating headaches that had plagued him ever since. The archmages had assumed his mana flame was faint and weak, but the truth was far more complex. Liam hadn't failed to connect with mana—it had been consumed entirely, pulled into the void created by the dark spell within him.

Now, as he pieced together these memories and revelations, another thought struck him. The faint, nagging intuition he had always felt—the sense of something missing—suddenly made sense. From the very day he was born, every trace of mana that touched him had been consumed by something within him. Leaving him only with a tiny mana flame to keep the mana heart alive. It had been happening long before the rite, long before he even understood the concept of mana.

What's more, the knowledge from his vision wasn't ordinary. These were truths that transcended the limits of his kingdom—arcane formulas, histories of places he'd never seen, and theories of magic that no one had spoken of in the royal courts. It was as though the absorbed mana carried fragments of knowledge from its origins.

This realization brought a sense of unease, but also a flicker of purpose. His entire life, he had been unknowingly feeding on the world's mana, but why? What was this force within him that devoured energy and returned knowledge in its place?

Liam took a deep breath, steadying himself as his thoughts raced. For the first time, he felt like he was standing at the edge of a vast ocean of possibilities, with no shore in sight. One thing was certain: whatever was happening to him, it was far beyond anything his kingdom or his family could prepare him for.

The faint echo of the vision he'd seen—of the restrictive spell, of its coiling dark tendrils—lingered in his mind. His headaches had subsided for now, but Liam knew they would return. And with them, more revelations. He wasn't just unraveling the mysteries of his own abilities—he was being pulled into something far greater, something that might reshape his very existence.