The warm evening breeze came in and gently played with the curtain as the cradle rocked softly back and forth in the far corner in the room. Its carved Kynareth runes glowing soft teal as the moonlight played off the high quality wood. Lady Annabella of House Crynthar leaned over her newborn son, her voice a silken thread weaving a lullaby through the air just barely above a whisper.
“Hush now, child. Beneath the silver gleam. Weave the threads of light in a waking dream. Golden strands will rise from the silent night. The Herald’s loom shall mend the world with light.
Her song carried magic, subtle and warm. Kaelen, barely a month old, gazed up with wide, unblinking eyes, his tiny fingers curling as if grasping the notes. Anabella’s auburn hair fell like a curtain, her smile radiant as she whispered, “You are Crynthar’s heir, my love. From the mightiest line of mages, your blood hums with power. I cannot wait to see you wield it—leading our name, strengthening our legacy.”
The kynarite chandelier above pulsed in rhythm with her words, casting prisms of light across the marble walls, as if Kynareth itself blessed her prophecy.
Five years later, that prophecy shattered. Thunder roared, shaking the spires of Crynthar’s estate. Lightning clawed through the night, its white glare flooding the grand hall where Kaelen stood, trembling, his small hands clutching his tunic. The air crackled, thick with the metallic tang of spent magic and the sour sting of rage. Lord Varen, his father, loomed over him, his face a mask of disgust, his voice a spell-laced bellow that rattled the crystal goblets on the table. “Blood does not run deeper than magic! You are no son of mine!”
Each word burned, sharp as a blade, and Kaelen flinched, his own voice—a high, desperate scream—lost in the storm. “I tried, Father! I tried!” Anabella knelt beside Kaelen, her hands on his shoulders, her once-gentle voice now a fierce, cracking plea. “Varen, he’s our son! Magic or not, he’s ours! How can you do this knowing all it took to even have him? If you do this, we may never have an heir and our entire household is at risk!” Lightning flashed again, painting her face in pure defiance but fraying. The chandelier flickered, its kynarite dimming as if mirroring the family’s collapse. Varen’s eyes, cold as slate, met hers. “He’s a mute. A disgrace. Every tutor, every prayer, every spell—wasted. House Crynthar cannot bear this shame. Better to be without an heir than to have this… thing… this… MUTE!”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
The storm’s roar swallowed Anabella’s sob, and Kaelen’s scream died in his throat as his father turned away, his cloak snapping like a whip. The next moment blurred. Strong hands—servants, not parents—dragged Kaelen through the rain-slicked courtyard. The gates of Crynthar slammed shut, their kynarite wards flaring with a finality that echoed in Kaelen’s chest. He stood alone on the cobblestone street, soaked and shivering.
At five years old, he was an orphan, cast out as empty as the magic that refused to stir in his bones. A mute in a world where words wove wonders, his voice was nothing but air. Survival came hard. Kaelen learned to slip through Kynareth’s bustling markets, his small frame weaving past stalls where mages sang spells to hawk glowing fruits or floating lanterns. Some vendors tossed him scraps, their pity fleeting as their eyes lingered on his noble features—high cheekbones, Crynthar’s gray eyes—now smudged with dirt. But hunger gnawed deeper than pride. By nine, Kaelen’s nimble fingers swiped a moldy heel of bread from a merchant’s cart, its stale crust a treasure. The merchant, a gaunt man with a sneer sharp as his magical blade, caught him.
“Thief!” he spat, and before Kaelen could scream, the blade flashed, its enchanted edge searing through flesh and bone. Pain exploded, white-hot, and Kaelen crumpled, clutching the stump where his left hand had been. The market’s colors—vibrant silks, kynarite glow—blurred into gray as blood pooled, the wound cauterized by the blade’s magic. The merchant’s laugh was cold. “Payment enough.” The local guards came swiftly, their spell-forged chains humming as they hauled Kaelen away. No trial, no mercy. A mute thief was less than human. They carted him to the reform prison, a sprawling labor camp carved into the heart of a volcano, its walls black with ash and pulsing with kynarite veins.
There, Kaelen’s world became stone and sweat, his one good hand breaking rock to feed Kynareth’s endless hunger for magic. “Kaelen!” The overseer’s shout snapped him back to the present, his eyes flying open. He was sixteen now, lean and scarred, his gray eyes dulled by years of labor. The quarry’s heat pressed against his skin, thick with the sulfurous reek of molten rock and the faint, sweet hum of kynarite. “Get back to work, or I’ll spell your hide raw!” The overseer’s voice crackled with magic, a whip of sound that stung Kaelen’s ears. He didn’t need telling twice. His one good arm hefted the chisel, striking the stone with a rhythm born of survival. The kynarite vein glowed, teasing him with a power he’d never wield. Or so he thought. But deep in his chest, where hope had long since withered, something stirred—a vibration, not sound, but alive. Kaelen’s stump ached, the scar pulsing in time with the crystal. He didn’t know it yet, but Kynareth was watching. And so was someone else
