-17 YEARS

The collar was smaller than Vylaas had imagined. He had thought it would be heavy, an iron ring like the ones used to tether beasts. Instead, it was delicate—thin bands of silvery metal intertwined, gleaming faintly in the pale light of the throne room. The craftsmanship almost made it beautiful, but Vylaas couldn’t shake the weightless dread that settled in his stomach as he knelt before his father.

The air in the court was sterile, the faint hum of drone propellers the only sound apart from the occasional shuffle of boots on polished stone. Vylaas kept his gaze low, fixed on the intricate pattern of the marble floor. He could feel the eyes of the court on him, nobles and military officials alike, their gazes heavy with curiosity, judgment, or worse—pity. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from trembling.

"Vylaas." His father's voice cut through the silence, sharp and final. "You understand the necessity of this."

Necessity. The word echoed in his mind, hollow and unyielding. Necessity for the project. For the kingdom. For the empire. Not for him. Never for him.

He nodded, the motion stiff. "Yes, Father."

The High Engineer stepped forward, the glorified slave collar in her gloved hands. She didn’t look at him, her focus entirely on the collar as she adjusted its settings. "This will suppress your mana core," she said, matter-of-fact. "You’ll retain minimal flow for basic bodily functions, but any attempt to access your affinities or the System will be restricted. Until we deem it safe, of course."

Safe. Vylaas bit the inside of his cheek, the taste of copper sharp on his tongue. Safe for who? For Kaelen, only standing here today with the aid of prosthetics? For his father, who couldn’t risk another heir failing the ritual?

The Engineer lifted the collar, its inner surface glinting with embedded runes. "This won’t hurt," she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t offering comfort. Just facts.

Vylaas closed his eyes as the cold metal touched his skin. The click of the lock was soft, almost inaudible, but it reverberated in his chest like a death knell. He felt the runes activate, a faint vibration against his throat, and then… a subtle shift deep inside him, like a door closing somewhere within his chest. A warmth he was only aware of subconsciously fled him. The faint sense of power and possibility that always hummed at the edges of his awareness flickered and vanished, leaving behind an aching emptiness he couldn’t name.

He touched the collar instinctively, fingers brushing against the cool metal. The High Engineer's hand caught his wrist before he could tug at it.

"Do not fight what has been done," the king said quietly but firmly. "You will thank us one day, when you are older and can understand."

Vylaas swallowed hard and nodded, though he didn’t understand at all. He only knew that something important—something his—had been taken from him.

"Stand," his father commanded.

Vylaas rose, his legs unsteady beneath him. The silence of the room pressed in, suffocating. He risked a glance up, meeting his father’s gaze for the first time. The King’s expression was unreadable, his features carved from stone. No pride, no disappointment. Just expectation.

Kaelen approached with halting steps, his injured leg held rigid by the metal brace beneath his robes. The whispers and rustling of fabric nearly masked his labored breathing as he lowered himself to kneel beside Vylaas, each movement slow and deliberate. His face betrayed no sign of the pain the motion must have caused.

"You did well," Kaelen whispered, his voice softer than Vylaas had heard in years.

The words stuck in Vylaas's throat. The collar felt impossibly tight, though he knew it hadn't changed. He kept his head down, watching the patterns in the marble blur as tears threatened to spill. His brother's hand, covered in angry scars from his most recent surgery, found his elbow and helped him rise.

Together they shuffled toward the exit, two broken princes supporting each other's weight. Vylaas's legs shook with each step, his body struggling to adjust to the loss of his mana. Kaelen's grip tightened, steadying him.

The emptiness inside him yawned wider with each passing moment. The familiar flow of power that had always been there, like a heartbeat he'd never noticed until it stopped, was gone. In its place sat a void that made him feel hollow, incomplete.

His father's words rang in his ears. Necessity. Safety. Understanding. Empty promises that tasted like ash. All for a weapon—a Chimera that had already claimed so much from their family. Vylaas glanced at his brother's cybernetic limbs, at the scars that peaked above his collar.

What sort of king sacrificed his children for power? What sort of father sealed away part of his son's very being? The questions burned in his mind, but he kept them locked behind clenched teeth. Speaking them would change nothing. The collar around his throat was proof enough of that.

They passed the last of the nobles, their whispers following like shadows. Vylaas caught fragments of their conversations—speculation about his weakness, about the necessity of such measures, about the shame he brought to the royal line. He pressed closer to Kaelen, grateful when his brother shifted to block their stares.

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It took a month before Vylaas was able to function normally again. Mana still flowed sluggishly from his core, but he lacked anything approaching control over the energy. He had never known how vital his instinctual usage of mana was to his everyday life until it had been taken from him.

But now, after finally emerging from one hell, he was thrust into another.

The training grounds stretched wide under a pale sky, the sun barely breaking through the thin clouds. Vylaas stood at the edge of the practice field, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic. Around him, other trainees—broad-shouldered and sure-footed—moved with ease as they exchanged blows with their partners or heaved weighted practice weapons through choreographed drills. Their grunts and shouts filled the air, punctuated by the sharp clang of metal against metal.

"Move," barked a voice behind him.

Vylaas startled and stepped aside as an older trainee brushed past, his leather armor scuffed from earlier bouts. He swallowed hard and turned back to face the instructor who waited impatiently near the weapon racks.

"Are you going to stand there all day?" The instructor’s tone was clipped, his eyes narrowing as they swept over Vylaas’s slight frame. "Pick something. Quickly."

Vylaas’s hand hovered over a row of wooden swords before finally settling on one that looked light enough for him to manage. He hefted it awkwardly, testing its weight. It felt wrong in his hands—too solid, too unwieldy.

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"Great choice," the instructor muttered, clearly unimpressed. "Let’s see what you can do."

A moment later, Vylaas found himself facing off against another trainee, a boy nearly twice his size with arms like tree trunks and a bored expression that suggested he didn’t see Vylaas as much of a challenge. The boy didn’t even bother raising his sword until the instructor gave the signal to begin.

"Go on," the instructor snapped when Vylaas hesitated. "Attack!"

Vylaas tightened his grip on the hilt and took an uncertain step forward. His opponent didn’t move, watching him with an almost amused patience that made heat creep up Vylaas’s neck. He swung anyway, aiming for what he thought might be an opening in the other boy’s stance.

The blow never landed. His opponent sidestepped easily and brought his own weapon down in a controlled arc that stopped just short of Vylaas’s shoulder.

"Too slow," came the critique from somewhere behind him.

They reset, and this time Vylaas tried feinting left before swinging right. It didn’t matter; his movements were too telegraphed, too hesitant. The larger boy blocked him effortlessly again and again until it became clear to everyone watching that this wasn’t a match so much as a demonstration of how not to fight.

By the end of the session, Vylaas was sweating and sore despite barely landing a single hit. The instructor dismissed him with little more than a shake of his head, already turning to correct another pair of trainees.

Kaelen caught up with him just outside the training yard where he had slumped against one of the stone walls. He was wearing a set of light sparring gear, though he wore it like it was a heavy cuirass. Vylaas was still unused to seeing his brother in such a state. He seemed so… Mortal.

"You’re not hopeless," Kaelen said as he approached, tone brisk but not unkind.

Vylaas let out a breathless laugh that sounded more like a scoff. "Really? Did you watch any of that?"

"I did," Kaelen admitted. "And you’ve got work to do."

Vylaas groaned softly and leaned back against the wall.

"But you’re trying," Kaelen continued, stepping closer so their voices wouldn’t carry to any lingering onlookers. "And trying matters more than you think right now."

"You make it look so easy," Vylaas said quietly.

Kaelen didn’t respond immediately but crouched beside him instead, resting forearms on his knees as he studied his younger brother’s downcast expression.

"I made it look easy," Kaelen said after a moment. "But it never has been. And now? Well… We can struggle together." He tapped Vylaas lightly on the shoulder with two fingers before standing again. "Next time? Start by holding your sword like you aren't afraid of it."

Vylaas glanced up at him but didn’t argue—or at least not out loud—and Kaelen gave him a brief nod before heading back toward his own drills without another word.

Vylaas looked at his wooden weapon. He wasn't afraid of the thing.

He just didn't want splinters.

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The training yard baked under a harsh midday sun. Kaelen shifted his weight, testing the pull in his left leg before gripping his practice spear. White sand clung to his boots, the same sand that would soon taste blood and sweat.

"Begin!"

His first thrust came half a beat too slow. The straw dummy swayed on its post, mocking him with its lazy pendulum swing.

"Plant your foot!" Instructor Doran barked from the sideline, arms crossed over his barrel chest. "You're leaning away from the strike."

Kaelen adjusted, jaw tight. His knee throbbed with each pivot—a deep ache where the ritual's backlash had burrowed into bone. The next three strikes found their marks, but his follow-throughs lacked the crisp snap that once made veteran warriors nod in approval.

A snort carried from the water trough. Jeren, a lanky recruit who'd wept during his first spar, leaned against the stone rim. "Looks like the prince needs a walking stick instead of a spear."

"Eyes forward!" Doran's growl scattered the snickers, but not the stares prickling Kaelen's neck. He knew their calculus—every stumble subtracted from his myth, every flinch divided his reputation.

The instructor tapped his thigh. "Pivot through the hips. You're compensating for the leg."

Kaelen wiped sweat from his eyes, salty sting blending with the metallic aftertaste of humiliation. He sighted the dummy again. Lunged.

His knee folded.

Wood clattered against stone as the spear slipped from his grasp. He caught himself on one palm, fingers sinking into hot sand. The yard fell silent save for the creak of the dummy's chains.

Doran's shadow fell across him. "Session's done."

"But—"

"Done." The instructor turned, snapping at the gawking trainees. "The rest of you—ten laps around the perimeter! Now!"

Kaelen pushed upright. Hands shook as he brushed grit from his palms. Across the yard, Vylaas hovered near the armory door, face pale beneath his sweat-damp hair. Kaelen turned away before his brother's pity could crystallize into words.

Limping his way to the far edge of the yard, he leaned against one of the wooden posts marking its boundary and let out a slow breath through gritted teeth. His hand drifted toward his knee reflexively before stopping short; even here, out of their direct line of sight, he couldn’t risk looking weak.

The post vibrated slightly as someone leaned against it beside him. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was; only one person approached him without hesitation these days.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Brynn said quietly.

Kaelen turned just enough to catch her expression out of the corner of his eye—steady but laced with concern she wasn’t trying to hide. Her auburn hair was tied back tight enough to reveal every freckle across her nose, but her stance was casual: one arm draped over her practice sword while she studied him like she might study an opponent during drills.

“I’m fine,” Kaelen said flatly.

“You’re not.” She gestured toward where they’d been sparring moments ago. “That last round wasn’t just off—it was dangerous.”

He pushed off from the post and adjusted his grip on the spear as if preparing for another round despite knowing full well training was done for now. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

Brynn didn’t move from her spot but tilted her head slightly—a silent challenge more effective than words ever could be coming from her.

Kaelen clenched his jaw and looked away—toward where other trainees were still paired off in mock combat or clustered in groups exchanging feedback on technique. Their laughter reached him faintly over the clangs and thuds filling most of the yard—a sound that grated more than it should have.

“You heard them,” he muttered after a moment too long spent staring anywhere but at Brynn.

She frowned faintly but didn’t pretend to not understand. “People talk, Kael.”

"They think I’m finished," Kaelen said, the bitterness in his voice outweighing the anger now. He turned back to face her, the usual mask of forced stoicism slipping for once. No deflection, no sidestepping—just plain words, stripped bare, as though he was too tired to bother hiding behind them anymore.

"I will NOT let this be where my story ends."