Prin Keli had never cared much for celebrations.

Outside the great marble towers of Aether’s inner district, the streets were alive with quiet approval—not loud revelry, not riots, but the murmurs of a population too conditioned to do anything but accept. The new policies had passed. The Honorary Aethan Initiative was now law. The chips, the restrictions, the limitations on magic, the bans—all of it was now irreversible.

And yet, for all the weight of his words that day, he felt nothing at all.

He entered the upper chamber of the Keli estate, where his sister waited for him.

She sat poised, untouched by the concerns of the outside world.

Her gown, woven with silk and Aetherian embroidery, shimmered faintly beneath the soft glow of enchanted sconces. Her dark blonde hair was braided with jeweled pins, her posture impeccable, her gaze piercing yet unreadable.

Prin smiled faintly. “You look well.”

She barely spared him a glance. “You look tired.”

He chuckled, stepping further into the room, pouring himself a glass of darkened wine. The scent of voluran-infused spirits curled in the air between them.

His sister studied him carefully before speaking again. “Your speech was effective.”

Prin took a slow sip. “Of course it was.”

She exhaled, her nails tapping lightly against the glass table. “So, it’s done, then. The chips. The laws. The restrictions.”

Prin twirled the wine in his glass. “It was always going to happen.”

There was no regret in his voice, no hesitation.

His sister leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. “And what of the Millinggardans?”

Prin tilted his head. “What of them?”

She held his gaze. “You’ve effectively enslaved them.”

He let out a small, amused breath. “Yes. And?”

Her lips parted slightly, not in shock, but in something more akin to realization. “You don’t even pretend to see them as people, do you?”

Prin set his glass down, stepping toward her. “I see them as what they are.”

She waited, unmoving.

Prin sat across from her, folding his hands together.

“Millinggarde was a rotting husk of a nation, clinging to a delusion of progress. And what did they do with it? Squandered it. Refused to acknowledge the natural order.” His expression sharpened. “Their resistance meant nothing. They were living on borrowed time.”

His sister remained silent, watching him with an expression unreadable.

Prin leaned forward slightly. “Do you know what we were facing before the annexation?”

She exhaled, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “The mana shortages.”

Prin nodded. “Do you remember what that was like?”

She did.

The Voluran crises. The dwindling supplies of Aether’s most powerful magical resources. The panic in the courts. The whispered fears that, for all their might, Aether was on the verge of stalling.

Aether’s power came from its magic. Its magic came from phildrons—mana-rich crystals that powered everything. Their industry, their economy, their dominance.

And for decades, they had been running out.

Prin exhaled, fingers drumming against the table. “If we had done nothing, Aether’s reign would have begun to wither. We would have stagnated.”

His sister remained still.

He leaned back, smirking slightly. “But thanks to those lowlifes, we don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

Prin gestured lightly. “The lands of Millinggarde are rich in phildrons, buried deep beneath the earth. They wasted their greatest resource, but we? We use it.”

His sister finally spoke. “And you believe that justifies what you’ve done?”

Prin smiled, lifting his glass once more. “I believe it makes us unstoppable.”

The conversation was not over, but the answer had already been decided. Prin swirled the wine in his glass, watching the dark liquid catch the dim light. His sister’s gaze remained steady on him, but he could tell—she was waiting. Waiting for the details behind his arrogance. Waiting for him to justify his claim that enslaving an entire nation was beneficial.

So, he would explain.

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the armrest, fingers tapping lightly against the polished wood. "Do you know what separates Aether from the lesser nations?"

She exhaled, tilting her head slightly. "Besides arrogance?"

Prin smirked. "Besides that."

She didn’t answer, so he did.

"Power," he said simply. "And power, in Aether, is defined by mana. Not steel, not land, not wealth—mana. Without it, we are no different from the savages who scrape by with crude machines and unrefined weapons. Without it, we lose our dominance."

She didn’t argue. They had both seen the truth of this.

Magic in Aether wasn’t just a force—it was the foundation of their civilization. It powered their transport, their infrastructure, their very way of life. The grand spires of Aether’s cities didn’t stand because of mere engineering. They stood because Voluran magic wove through their structures, strengthening the iron and stone with enchantments that could last centuries.

But mana didn’t exist in abundance. It needed a source. It needed phildrons.

Prin traced the rim of his glass. "For centuries, we relied on Aether’s own phildron mines, extracting what we could from the veins running beneath our homeland. But resources are finite, and we were running low. Our supply of raw mana had been halved in the last decade alone."

His sister narrowed her eyes. "And the Council knew?"

Prin chuckled. "Of course. They were terrified."

He leaned back, allowing himself to relax slightly. "When phildron extraction slows, so does refinement. And when refinement slows, so does our ability to sustain our magic. Every Voluran staff, every enchanted construct, every mana-fueled mechanism—they all depend on a constant stream of refined phildron. If that stream dries up, Aether weakens."

His sister’s expression didn’t change, but he knew she was listening closely now.

Prin set his glass down, his voice turning colder. "Before the invasion, we had only twenty years before our phildron reserves would reach a crisis point. And when Aether weakens, the scavengers descend."

She nodded slowly. "The outer nations."

"Exactly," Prin murmured. "The cowards who have spent their existence beneath us would see our dwindling power as an opportunity. Even Adelpha, for all its neutrality, would not hesitate to seize control if they sensed weakness."

He reached for the decanter, pouring himself another glass, his movements smooth, practiced. "So, the Council made a decision. Before Aether could grow weak, we would grow stronger."

His sister exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "And Millinggarde just happened to be the perfect target."

Prin smiled. "Not just perfect—inevitable."

She raised an eyebrow. "Explain."

Prin took another slow sip, savoring the moment before he continued.

"The land beneath Millinggarde’s cities," he said, voice rich with satisfaction, "is home to the single largest untouched phildron reserve in the world."

She blinked.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You look surprised. Did you really think we invaded for political reasons? Or for territory? No. It was always about the phildrons."

Her fingers tightened slightly against the armrest. "Then why didn’t they extract them before? Why did Millinggarde ignore such a resource?"

Prin exhaled through his nose. "Because they’re fools. Millinggarde turned its back on magic centuries ago, declaring itself a nation of science and iron. They built their cities on top of mana-rich land and did nothing with it. They let those crystals fester beneath their feet, untouched."

He tilted his head slightly. "Or perhaps they feared them."

His sister frowned. "Feared?"

Prin smirked. "Phildrons are not just sources of mana. They warp magic itself. In raw form, before refinement, they can be… unstable. Corruptive, even."

He tapped his temple lightly. "Prolonged exposure has effects on the mind. The old texts spoke of miners driven mad, creatures that should not exist forming in places where the veins were thickest. It’s why they require careful extraction, regulation, refinement. Aether has perfected that process."

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His sister studied him carefully. "And you think the Millinggardans were afraid of what they didn’t understand."

"Of course," he said dismissively. "They always feared what they couldn’t control. That’s why they built their cities from iron and refused magic for so long. They thought it made them strong. It made them stagnant."

She was silent for a long moment. Then, finally, she spoke again.

"And what of the people?"

Prin raised an eyebrow. "What of them?"

"You’re harvesting their land, their resources, their magic. You’ve made them your labor force, their cities your mines. And yet, you still refuse to see them as anything but… tools."

Prin smiled faintly. "Now you understand."

His sister’s lips pressed into a thin line. "And when you’ve taken everything? When the phildrons have been exhausted, and their use to Aether is no longer required?"

Prin shrugged, finishing his wine. "Then they will have fulfilled their purpose."

His sister did not look away.

Prin stood, stretching slightly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I don’t expect you to approve," he said lightly. "But approval isn’t necessary. Only results matter."

She exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "You sound just like the Governor."

Prin’s smirk widened. "Then I must be doing something right."

The conversation could have continued. Perhaps it should have. But there was nothing left to be said.

Prin had already won.

And Aether would never hunger again.

Asina Keli sat in stillness long after Prin had left. The weight of their conversation lingered, pressing down on her like the thick, perfumed air of the chamber.

She reached for her untouched glass of wine, running her fingers along its smooth surface. The taste of wealth, the scent of privilege, the comfort of a life untouched by suffering. It had always been this way.

And yet, she remembered a time when she had questioned.

Before she had been hardened by Aether’s expectations. Before she had learned to silence doubt.

She thought back to her childhood—the halls of the Keli estate, vast and cold even then. Prin had always been at the forefront, the favorite, the prodigy molded for greatness. She, on the other hand, had been left to navigate the world in his shadow.

She remembered the first time she had been told, in no uncertain terms, that Aether was untouchable. That their rule was absolute. That to be Keli was to accept that power was not a right, but an expectation.

As a child, she had read stories of the old wars, of the nations that had dared to challenge Aether and crumbled beneath its might. And for a time, she had believed in the vision her family so proudly upheld.

But the older she got, the more cracks she saw.

She had seen the desperation in the eyes of the foreign-born servants who worked the estate—always quiet, always obedient, their mouths forming the right words but never carrying real voices. She had watched as her father dismissed them without thought, as her mother called them unfortunate creatures, as Prin barely acknowledged them at all.

She had once asked her mother, “Why do they look so afraid?”

Her mother had smiled, stroked her hair, and said, “Because they should be.”

It was the first time she had felt a chill in her own home.

Now, years later, nothing had changed. Prin sat at the table and spoke of human lives as resources, spoke of Millinggarde as if it had never belonged to its own people. And she had sat across from him, knowing she could say nothing to change it.

Because in Aether, there was no changing the way things were.

She let out a slow breath, pressing the tips of her fingers against her temple.

Perhaps she had learned, like all Keli children must, to stop asking questions.

Perhaps she had convinced herself that compliance was easier than conflict.

But something about tonight, about the way Prin had spoken of Millinggarde’s enslavement as a victory, made her feel something long-buried.

Not defiance. Not yet. But something close.

Prin and Asina Keli had never known the warmth of a mother’s embrace.

They had never heard a father’s patient voice teaching them the ways of the world, nor had they been shielded from the harshness of life in the way noble children were supposed to be.

Their childhood had been one of transition and endurance—passed from home to home, from one set of hands to another, each more uncaring than the last.

Because for all their privilege, for all their status, they were never truly wanted.

They were orphans.

And Aether had no use for orphans except as burdens to be handled, raised by those who could be paid to do so.

Prin was six when he learned that affection could be a weapon.

His first foster parents, a couple with Millinggardan blood, had smiled when the Aetherian officials left them in their care. They had run fingers through his golden hair and called him a fortunate child—a boy of pure Aetherian blood, born into greatness even without the protection of a noble house.

But behind closed doors, the smiles faded.

Behind closed doors, the truth of what it meant to be powerless was revealed.

The man, Harland, was a bitter ex-miner—one of the many Millinggardans who had been given "opportunities" to integrate into Aetherian society. He had earned Honorary Aethan status, but never real acceptance.

And so, he took what little power he had and wielded it against the only ones he could.

Prin learned that the world had no patience for weakness.

When he made mistakes, he was beaten. When he cried, he was mocked. When he refused to bend, he was starved until he learned compliance.

And Asina, younger and more fragile, learned that silence was safer.

She learned to listen for the shift in their foster father’s breathing before the beatings started. She learned how to go unnoticed, how to move through the house like a shadow so that the anger was always directed at Prin instead of her.

She learned that kindness was not given freely, but traded.

She learned to expect nothing.

They were in that house for three years.

Three years of cold meals, of whispered conversations under thin blankets, of stolen moments of comfort that they pretended didn’t exist because vulnerability could be used against them.

Then, one night, Harland lost his temper too badly.

Prin was nine. Asina was seven.

The man had been drinking, and something in him snapped. Prin never remembered exactly what triggered it, only the feeling of his head hitting the stone floor after the first blow.

Then Asina screamed.

Not in fear, but in rage.

She had never screamed before.

She had never fought before.

But something in her broke open that night.

By morning, the officials had taken them away. The report would say that Harland had been deemed unfit for continued fostering. That his Honorary Aethan status had been revoked and that he was sentenced to labor service for his crimes.

Prin and Asina never saw him again.

But the damage had been done.

They would never trust a Millinggardan again.

They would never see them as anything but what they were—lowborn, unworthy, incapable of power.

Their next foster home was no better.

Nor the one after that.

Always the same. Always Millinggardans trying to claw their way into Aetherian favor, taking in noble orphans to earn status, to be recognized. But behind closed doors, their resentment festered.

Prin grew colder.

Asina grew quieter.

By the time Prin was thirteen, he had learned to play the game.

He had learned how to manipulate those around him, how to smile when necessary, how to wield charm like a blade. He had learned that true power did not come from strength, but control.

And Asina, in her own way, learned the same.

They were adopted into House Keli, an influential but distant noble family, when Prin was fourteen. By then, they were fully molded by what had been done to them.

Prin understood Aether's philosophy now.

He had lived it.

Weakness was meant to be crushed. The strong dictated the laws, and the lesser followed.

Millinggardans had proven themselves lesser.

They had proven themselves unworthy of power.

Prin never forgot.

And Asina, though less certain than her brother, never let herself believe in kindness again.

This was the world they knew.

And this was the world they would uphold. Even after they were taken in by House Keli, the scars of their childhood remained, etched into the very way they moved, spoke, and thought.

Prin had already learned never to beg, never to apologize, never to show weakness. He was a child who had been broken and reforged into something sharper—something that would never allow itself to be powerless again.

Asina, though quieter, had learned just as much. She had watched how cruelty operated, how power dictated survival, how the ones at the bottom were crushed without hesitation.

House Keli gave them status, education, opportunity, but never love.

Lord Veren Keli, their adoptive father, was a man of cold efficiency, offering them nothing but expectations and the means to meet them. Their new mother, Lady Sera, was an ornament of the court, more concerned with appearances than the children she had acquired.

They were trophies. Investments.

Prin understood this immediately.

He thrived under House Keli’s discipline, excelling in political strategy, in diplomacy, in the art of rhetoric. He learned to navigate the elite, to mask his disdain behind a smile, to weave words like silk while holding the power to crush those beneath him.

Asina, however, did not take to it as quickly.

She had always been the more introspective of the two, always the one to watch before she spoke. She played her role well enough, learned the etiquette, wore the silks, performed the pleasantries.

But something inside her resisted.

Because unlike Prin, she still remembered.

She still remembered the way Prin had shielded her when the punishments fell on him instead of her. She still remembered the burning humiliation in Harland’s voice when he spat at them, called them spoiled Aethan brats who knew nothing of suffering.

She remembered the bruises, the hunger, the cold nights.

And despite all of it, despite every reason to believe her brother’s words—that Millinggardans were lesser, undeserving, filth—

Something in her hesitated.

Because once, she had known suffering.

And she had survived.

Wasn’t that what power was? Survival?

Then why, after all these years, did she feel as if she had never truly escaped?

Prin never doubted Aether.

He had built himself into exactly what Aether demanded.

Asina?

She was still trying to understand what part of herself had been lost along the way.