The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the manicured gardens of Blackmoor Keep one of the six duchy's of the ares empire. Its rays struggled to breach the thick foliage of ancient trees, as if loath to touch the ground where the sixth and illegitimate child of the duke Blackmoor, Jaxon Halton often wandered alone. Here, within the fortress walls, where laughter echoed from the granite halls and children played under the watchful eyes of their noble families, he felt like a ghost—an amorphous specter, caught between two worlds, yet belonging to neither.

Jaxon’s heart weighed heavy as he stepped through the gate that led to the gardens, where blooms of all colors swayed under the gentle breeze. Today should have been a day of excitement, a day for forging his identity, for every child aged ten and older was preparing for the Mana Evaluation—the pivotal test that decided a noble’s potential and place in the realm of Ares. The day of judgment loomed behind the shadows like an ominous storm cloud.

Behind him, the great stone walls of Blackmoor Keep towered, a stark reminder of his lineage. It was as much a sanctuary as it was a prison—an edifice that combined the praise of generations with whispers of disdain. The Duke, his father, enshrined in the blood of noble warriors, had cast away any warmth that could have existed between them. Instead, he wore the mantle of his station as a crown of thorns, each spike a reminder of the expectations Jaxon could never meet.

“Jaxon! Stop dawdling!” A sharp voice pierced the quiet—Lydia, one of the servants employed by the Duke, only a few years older but shaped by the duty expected of her. She stood there, hands on her hips, with eyes that flickered with a mix of annoyance and concern. “You won’t want to be late for the evaluation. The Duke won’t tolerate your excuses today.”

“Yes, Lydia,” Jaxon replied, shrugging his shoulders as he reluctantly turned away from the blooms, their colors vibrant against the muted gray of his world. Lydia's presence, though stern, offered him a sliver of comfort. She had been a constant in his life, a small solace amidst the harsh reality he faced daily.

Though he understood the importance of the evaluation, anxiety tangled in his chest. His mother’s blood, a name once revered, now lay tarnished within the halls of power. The Halton legacy of magic and wisdom brought whispers and shadows, intertwining with the sharper edges of the Duke's dominion. 

As they made their way through the expansive quarters of the Keep, Jaxon couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. The rich fabric of his world was woven with threads of cruelty. Alaric Blackmoor, his father, counted the days since Jaxon’s birth not in love but in the burden of expectation. And, as the youngest son of the late Lady Althea Halton, he felt stifled by the weight of failure before he had even begun.

“You’re thinking too much again,” Lydia remarked, cutting through his thoughts. “Trust me, I’ve seen plenty of evaluations. You won’t know your potential until you try. And besides,” she added, her demeanor shifting, “you must realize that every noble child has their share of challenges. You’re not alone.”

“Just look at my brothers,” he muttered under his breath. “They’re obedient and fierce. I am merely the shadow in their light.” 

“Do not speak of yourself in that way,” Lydia insisted, concern furrowing her brow. “Today is not about them; it’s about you. Just remember… magic doesn’t always manifest in obvious ways.”

He doubted that. The flickers of potential that made the blood of Ares run hot—the grand displays of elemental prowess and flourishing spells—were far removed from the meekness Jaxon felt within. He was a Halton, but his lineage, filled with whispered scandal and secrecy, always clouded his sense of identity.

“What if I fail?” The thought rocketed through his mind like a sparrow released from its cage—small and uncertain, desperate to find its way toward the vastness of open air.

“If you fail, you’ll simply try again,” she offered with conviction. “It’s the evaluation of potential, not a verdict on your worth as a person.”

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Jaxon nodded but felt the knot in his stomach tighten. As they finally reached the ceremonial hall—an impressive chamber adorned with banners of every noble family—he hesitated at the threshold. The room was filled with children and their families, each one dressed in elegant finery, their laughter mingling with the air thick with tension. 

He stood apart, merging into the shadows, letting the others consume the limelight. Every voice rang out with cheer or taunts, and as the trials commenced, he could feel the weight of their gazes, igniting a flush of heat creeping from the nape of his neck down to his fingertips.

In this chamber pulsed the heart of judgment, where futures would be decided by the flickering force of magic—the very thing that made noble blood flow with power and prestige. The heavy oak doors creaked closed behind him as his name was called. “Jaxon Halton, step forward.”

Jaxon felt his heart pound violently against his ribcage. The Council, seated at the head of the room, regarded him with eyes that seemed to peel away the layers of his insecurities. Duke Alaric, proud and stern, sat among the councilors, his expression unreadable behind the folds of an imposing cloak that spoke more of authority than affection.

Jaxon approached the center, feeling exposed beneath their scrutiny. As he passed through the sea of glaring eyes—some curious, some cold—his thoughts whirled chaotically. He caught sight of his brothers, Edric and Galen, standing to the side, their faces suffused with confidence, a stark contrast to Jaxon’s uncertainty. They exuded the power of their lineage, while he felt like a withered branch on a sturdy tree.

“Hold out your hand, Jaxon,” came the voice of Lady Miranda, a councilor, her tone dripping with practiced patience. She eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and disappointment. “We will assess your magical affinity.”

Jaxon extended his trembling hand, fingers trembling as they awaited whatever would emerge—the gravity of destiny lying at the tips of his fingers. A glimmer of hope flickered alongside apprehension. 

“Focus on the energy within you,” Lady Miranda instructed, placing the iridescent crystal orb in his palm. “Let it flow through you. Feel your magic beckoning.”

He breathed deeply, drawing in the energy surrounding him, but instead of a surge of power, all he felt was emptiness—the echo of a void growing behind every attempt to connect with the crystal’s pulse. The orb glowed faintly in his palm, but it quickly dimmed, flickering like the last tendrils of a dying ember.

“Breathe,” Lady Miranda urged, but the edge of doubt gnawed at him. He forced a wave of calm through his body, yet no matter how hard he tried, nothing happened.

Minutes felt like eons as the council watched in silence, the atmosphere thickening with disappointment. The gravity of his brothers' laughter echoed through his mind, reshaping the fragile constructs of his spirit. He focused harder; he willed himself to invoke something—anything!

But as the seconds stretched, the orb pulsed one last feeble glow before finally extinguishing into an unremarkable dullness. 

Lady Miranda's expression shifted, transitioning from curiosity to abrupt disappointment. “That is… unfortunate.” She looked to the council, then back to him, both pity and judgment warring in her gaze. “Jaxon Halton, you have displayed an exceedingly low affinity for magic. It appears you have no latent potential.”

Choking on the weight of her words, Jaxon staggered back. His breath caught in his throat, an insurmountable wall of shame crashing against him. The council shifted in their seats, concern flickering through the crowd, but alacrity prevailed—the judgment dispensed firmly and with little regard for his fractured spirit.

His brothers exchanged looks of concern, but not for him. Their eyes sparkled with relief, masking the cruel truth—one less rival to contend with, one less burden upon their shoulders. Jaxon pressed his lips together, forcing back the rising tide of humiliation. 

“Please return to your place,” Lady Miranda continued, dismissing him with little more than a ripple of acknowledgment. The room swelled with quiet confusion, murmurings erupting in hushed tones as he stepped away, the weight of the evaluation pressing down like an anvil upon his heart.

Jaxon’s chest felt hollow as he retreated into the shadows. Each step away from the central dais was laden with the heavy sensation of defeat—a sensation he had grown intimately familiar with throughout his lonely childhood. As he reached the back of the hall, he stole a glance at Alaric, his father’s expression a mixture of disappointment and irritation, as if Jaxon’s failure was yet another mark on the Blackmoor family legacy.

“You are not cut from the same cloth,” he whispered under his breath—words once meant to instill determination, now reduced to a specter of judgment haunting the fringes of his consciousness.

Stumbling into the gardens, the vibrant blooms felt like a mockery of his inner turmoil. Where color thrived, he felt only shades of gray, dampened by sorrow. The voices of laughter faded behind him, and he pressed his palms to the cool stone wall, breathing deeply. 

In that intimate moment of solitude, Jaxon Halton feared he had become ensnared in a web of curses—born into nobility but trapped under the weight of a family name that had already drawn enough scorn. He was different, more delicate than the dragon the Blackmoors wished to project.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, Jaxon sank to the ground, his back against the cold stone, uncertainty wrapping him in despair. Here, in this family where love had been replaced by ambition, he was nothing but a shadow, trying to find the light in a world roiling under the burden of legacy.

But perhaps, Jaxon thought, even shadows have their own stories—stories shaped by whispers of dreams and tragedies alike, tales that could break the silence of despair. Tomorrow would come, but tonight, he would grieve the loss of what could have been.

Tomorrow, he would find a different path—a path not dictated by blood or legacy but by the essence of himself. 

In a world steeped in the echoes of magic and rivalry, he would carve a future meant for a Halton, not a Blackmoor. Even shadows could rise, he told himself, and even shadows could shine.