I woke without effort. Without rush. Without need.
My eyes opened not because of sound or light or urgency, but because it was time. My time. As always.
The ceiling greeted me like an old admirer. Pure white stone cut in flawless concentric rings, each carved with roses in bloom. I'd traced those petals as a child, memorized the number of curves in each one. I don't know who built this place, only that they understood beauty when they saw it.
I stretched slowly, deliberately, as if the day were waiting for my permission to begin.
The sheets fell away from my chest like they feared offending me. Good. I tolerated no clinging.
Across the room, my reflection waited in the polished bronze mirror.
Hair like spun obsidian. Skin too clean to be real. Eyes sharp, pale, theatrical. I looked like royalty had been distilled into flesh—not born, but chosen.
"Still perfect," I murmured.
My chambers were quiet, as they should be. No birds. No wind. No servants breathing too loudly outside the door. Just the soft, respectful hush of a world trained to love me from birth.
The chimes hadn't rung yet.
Good. I despised being second to anything.
I stood.
Even my footsteps respected the silence, falling with precision, not noise. I crossed the room and poured myself water. It was cold, drawn before dawn, stored in curved glass designed for aesthetic symmetry. I didn't taste it so much as let it exist on my tongue.
Everything in this room existed for me. Every fold, every line, every space—a curated tribute to divinity incarnate.
Me.
The door opened without knocking, as it should.
My sister entered.
She didn't look at me.
Head lowered. Movements smooth. She carried a tray with two cups of morning tea—one pale, one dark. She didn't speak until the door had closed behind her.
"Brother," she said. "I've prepared both, in case you—"
"The dark," I interrupted. "The pale stains my tongue."
She stepped forward, arms steady, offering the correct cup without looking up. Her posture was perfect. Good. She learns.
I took the cup without thanks. Thanks would imply surprise.
She remained still.
"You may speak," I said, after a sip.
"The lower courtyard is being cleaned. The garden staff reported last night's rain bent several of the ornamental lilies. They've corrected it."
"And?"
"The attendants await your route for the day."
I frowned slightly—not at her, but at the lilies. How dare rain touch something in my domain without asking.
"I'll walk north today. The main promenade. The light's better."
"Yes, Brother."
She turned to go.
I let her reach the door before I spoke again.
"Your hair is crooked."
She froze.
For a full second, I could see the panic in the way her hand twitched toward her braid, then stopped, unsure if correcting it now would offend me further.
I smiled. "I'll allow it."
"Thank you, Brother," she whispered.
The door closed.
I was alone again. I finished my tea, savoring the warmth. Outside the window, the city waited for me to grace it with my presence.
I gave it two more minutes.
Just to let anticipation build.
I descended the marble steps like a blessing.
Two attendants flanked me, barefoot and silent, robes crisp and color-coordinated to match the morning's sky. They didn't look at me. They knew better. I disliked eye contact in the morning. Too presumptuous. Too equal.
Outside, the city yawned awake beneath a sky without a sun.
That was normal. Has always been. The light simply arrived, soft and ambient, as if the heavens had dimmed themselves to avoid shining too brightly on me.
My promenade stretched out before me—a long, sweeping arc of pale stone flanked by rosewood trees and polite architecture. Every building within view was symmetrical, modest, tasteful. Every path curved just slightly, never directly confronting the center where my family estate stood.
Of course it did.
You don't stare at divinity. You frame it.
People lined the streets today. Not out of necessity. Reverence.
Children bowed. Women curtsied. Men inclined their heads just enough to show submission without shame. I allowed it. It was important to let them feel involved in my routine.
The guards who lined the walkways carried ceremonial halberds—pointless weapons in a peaceful city—but I admired the aesthetics. Polished silver, crimson tassels, helmets that glinted like virtue. The kind of defense meant to impress, not function. That's what perfection was: unnecessary beauty.
A child stepped forward.
Young. Maybe ten. Freckles. Wide eyes. She held a folded flower in her hands, clearly handmade from pressed linen and stained with crushed berries.
"For you, Your Radiance."
Her voice trembled. Good.
I accepted the flower and nodded once. The kind of nod that ends wars or begins dynasties.
Her mother burst into tears. Loud, snotty ones. Unpleasant. I ignored her.
Behind me, my sister walked three paces behind. Always three. Not two, not four. She knew her place.
I could feel her eyes on my back.
She always looked at me like that. Like I was something more than real. Something holy and tragic, like a star that only shined because it was burning itself alive.
It was flattering.
And beneath that—annoying.
At the center of the promenade stood the Observation Platform. A wide, raised circle of stone surrounded by pillars carved with rose sigils and clan scripture. This was where the people made offerings, where announcements were given, and where I reminded them—by standing, by existing—that perfection had a name.
I stepped onto the platform and turned, slowly, to face the gathering crowd.
Hundreds now. Maybe more. All watching me.
Not because I had anything to say.
But because I didn't need to.
Bring him forward.
The crowd parted.
A boy was dragged out from the side, held by two junior guards. His knees were scraped, his clothes torn, one eye swollen.
He'd tried to climb the outer wall. Not to leave, of course. Nobody leaves. But to see. To peek at the top. To question.
An act of arrogance. Curiosity without permission.
He was C-class. Weak, forgettable, born to a minor branch family. No lineage. No power. Barely worth a name.
But I was feeling generous today.
I walked toward him.
The guards dropped him like discarded vegetables and stepped back, bowing.
The boy looked up, just barely. His lip trembled. I saw fear, resentment, awe, all wrestling in his eyes like stray dogs.
I knelt beside him.
"You wanted to see what was beyond?" I asked gently.
He nodded. A terrible, tragic decision.
"Why?"
"I… I wanted to know why we can't. Why we're not allowed."
"And did you find your answer?"
He hesitated. "No."
"Then I'll give it to you."
I stood.
And slapped him.
Not hard. Not violently. But perfectly. An insult delivered with precision, not malice. The kind of strike that would haunt his dreams, not bruise his skin.
"Because you haven't earned the question," I said.
Then I turned away.
"Let him go."
The guards looked confused.
"He's learned more today than most ever do," I said, raising the berry-stained flower. "Let that be his lesson."
The crowd bowed as I descended the platform.
Not for my wisdom.
For my mercy.
Later, I would forget his name. But he would remember mine forever.
That's the proper order of things.
The garden path curled like it was drawn just for me.
Polished white stones traced a spiral through beds of violet bloomshade and creeping silvervine. Birds that didn't sing perched where I liked them. Trees grew only to shoulder height so as not to obstruct the view. Every part of this place was beautiful. And, more importantly, curated.
My sister followed behind, just close enough to be useful, just far enough to be beneath notice.
She'd brushed my cloak earlier. Not because it needed it. But because that's what devotion looked like.
The rosewater fountain ahead spilled in perfect loops, layered like a dancer's veil. I stopped in front of it and stared at my reflection.
Flawless.
No blemish. No wrinkle. Even the line of my jaw curved at the exact angle I'd imagined last week during meditation. I tilted my head slightly and tried a different expression — stern contemplation. Authority tempered by benevolence.
"Yes," I murmured. "That's the one."
Behind me, she spoke.
"You have a leaf stuck in your hair."
I didn't move.
"A very dignified leaf, I assume."
She stepped forward and carefully plucked it from my head. "The most noble leaf I've ever seen."
I nodded. She knew how to speak properly, at least.
"Brother," she said softly.
Her voice was always soft. Not fearful. Not weak. Just… soft. Like someone always whispering to a storm.
"Are you going to attend the Affinity Ceremony next week?"
"Of course," I said. "They need to see what excellence looks like. Otherwise, what's the point?"
"It's not for you."
"It's always for me."
She didn't argue. She never really did.
The Affinity Ceremony was a formality for others. For me, it had been a coronation the day I was born. The glass box had lit up so brightly that the elders spent hours recalibrating their precious readings, trying to understand how one child could shatter their understanding of the divine.
A-Class Water Affinity. Untouched in this generation.
I watched my reflection shift again. This time, I imagined the Lord of the Clan — not my father, the real one — seeing me for the first time. Not as a child, but as a miracle. The only one worthy of his return.
One day, he would come. And I would be ready.
"Do you ever wonder what's outside the city?" my sister asked, almost a whisper.
"No."
"Never?"
"Why would I care about nothing? The void is the void. Let lesser minds dream of escape. I was born here. That means this is the center of the world."
"But what if there is something?"
"There is me," I said. "Isn't that enough?"
She smiled. It wasn't mocking. It never was. That was the most unsettling part.
Sometimes, I caught her looking at me like she was proud.
As if I hadn't even begun to understand what I was.
I hated how that made me feel.
"You're quiet today," I said.
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
"I know," she said. "But I've always been more reckless than you."
I turned and looked at her properly then. Really looked. She resembled me. Almost too closely. If I was perfection, she was its faint echo. Same hair, same cheekbones, same posture — if posture could apologise for existing.
She should have been adored.
But she wasn't me.
"Come," I said. "The roses need to see us."
She followed without question. As she always did.
But something strange lingered in the silence that trailed behind us. A tremor in the stillness. A feeling that something just outside the walls had opened its eyes.
Or worse — started watching back.
The hall was cold by design.
Stone floors, tall windows, pale light filtering in like judgment. No torches. No paintings. No warmth. This was where the educated came to polish their minds, not comfort them.
I sat on a raised cushion at the center of the chamber while Tutor Greaves traced formulas into the air with his cane. He was ancient. Older than my father. Maybe older than the sect itself. His beard was stiff like carved bark, and his robes smelled faintly of iron and ink.
"Affinity," he rasped, "is not strength. It is potential. Like water in a cistern."
"Then mine must be an ocean," I said, not looking up from my nails.
He did not respond. He never did. Greaves had been teaching me since I was five. He knew better than to challenge something so self-evident.
Still, he kept talking.
"From Commoner to Monarch, every step in cultivation requires more than just talent. It requires control. Discipline. Reflection."
I glanced at the walls, empty as ever.
"And mirrors," I added. "It's much easier to reflect when you can see perfection staring back."
A pause.
"Tell me, Lord Dorian. What is the danger of cultivation without balance?"
"Stagnation," I said automatically. "Or madness. Or death. If one moves faster than their understanding, the body suffers. If slower, the soul collapses. Balance must be maintained."
"Good."
Of course it was good. I had known the answer before he finished the question.
He gestured toward a crystal orb in the corner of the room. Inside, a flicker of water swirled with idle power. My affinity made it dance without effort. It always had.
"You've begun your path. You feel the pull, yes?"
"I feel the universe whispering my name," I said. "It's very flattering."
Greaves sighed through his nose.
I stood and walked toward the orb. It pulsed as I neared — not from command. Recognition. As if even inert glass knew the hierarchy.
Water bent inside like a lover desperate to please.I pressed my palm against the surface.
For a breath, all was still.
Then the flicker.Crimson.Quick. Feral. Wrong.
I snapped my hand back.
Not from fear. I don't feel fear. It was instinct — the same way a prince steps aside when the floor cracks under a servant's corpse.
The red vanished instantly, swallowed by obedient blue.
A trick of light, surely. Or a hiccup in the orb's programming. Perhaps the artifact was straining to interpret me. Not its fault. I've always been... unconventional.
Greaves didn't react. Or didn't see. I glanced over my shoulder.
She was watching.Always watching.Not scared. Curious. That was worse.
I dismissed them all.
When I turned back to the orb, I didn't touch it.But it pulsed again. Once.Red.Not fear. Not defiance.
Expectation.
Like something inside had recognized its superior and was waiting for instruction.
"Dismissed," I said.
Greaves bowed and shuffled away.
The moment they left, I turned to the orb again.
This time, I didn't touch it.
But it flickered anyway.
A silent pulse, red and waiting.
Something inside me stirred. Not power. Not excitement.
Hunger.
Not mine.
Something else's.
The city was decorated in deference.
Ribbons of gold-threaded silk arched between rooftops, anchored by flowering lanterns that swayed despite the absence of wind. The air carried a strange sweetness, as if someone had told the sky to be pleasant for the occasion.
It was the Festival of Bloom — the day the city honored the Rose Clan's foundation. But no one truly celebrated the ancestors. They celebrated me.
I walked through the central avenue with my usual entourage: a dozen retainers, two ceremonial guards, and my sister at exactly three paces behind. She wore soft white robes. I wore violet lined with silver, cut perfectly to frame my shoulders and cinch my waist just enough to make envy a natural reaction.
People cheered.
Not because of duty. Because they wanted to.
Children scattered petals at my feet. One boy offered me a hand-drawn portrait of myself, ugly and disproportionate. I accepted it, smiled graciously, and gave him a silver token.
He fainted.
A noble gesture, really. I hoped someone preserved the moment in art. Perhaps a mural.
As we neared the Plaza of Petals, the crowds parted. A raised stage waited for me. The clan heads, minor family leaders, and the High Attendant all stood waiting with empty smiles. Behind them stood the Grand Glass — one of the thirty affinity pillars — shimmering in a column of morning light.
Not sunlight, of course. But the sky had learned its role.
"Your Radiance," the High Attendant greeted, bowing low.
"Don't grovel," I said kindly. "It makes your spine look weak."
The man straightened with a smile so tight it could've shattered.
I stepped onto the platform and turned to face the crowd. Thousands now. All silent. All watching.
I raised one hand and they erupted into cheers.
Perfection doesn't need a speech. Only presence.
But I spoke anyway.
"Another year," I said. "Another reminder of who you are."
They quieted instantly.
"You are the leaves. The stems. The roots. Necessary. Noble, in your own way. But I… am the bloom."
A pause. A breath. Not arrogance. Truth.
"And a bloom does not apologize for being brighter."
They didn't cheer this time.
They worshipped.
I stepped back. My sister offered me a folded cloth to dab my brow. I wasn't sweating, of course. But the gesture completed the aesthetic.
As I turned to descend the stairs, I noticed something in the distance.
A man. Hooded. Still. Watching me from the far edge of the crowd.
No one else saw him.
He didn't move. He didn't clap. He didn't bow.
I blinked, and he was gone.
Interesting.
But not important.
After all, the celebration was still about me.
Night fell slowly in the Rose Clan.
There was no sun, no moon — only a gradual fading of light, as if the world dimmed by mutual agreement. Lamps glowed to life on cue, casting soft gold across pristine streets. The city never slept, not truly. It simply hushed.
I sat atop the western spire, legs crossed, cloak billowing behind me in the engineered wind. Below, the celebration still echoed in laughter and stringed music. My name had been chanted sixteen times today. A personal record.
I wasn't listening.
Something was wrong.
It had started hours ago. A sensation in my chest. Not pain, not heat — a sort of internal shimmer, like light reflecting inside blood.
I'd ignored it, of course. Perfection doesn't flinch.
But it hadn't stopped.
"You feel it too," my sister said.
She sat beside me now, silent until she spoke. Always like that. She didn't ask permission to be here. She never had to.
"I feel nothing," I replied.
"Then why are you up here instead of at the feast?"
"I was tired of being adored."
She smiled gently. "A heavy burden."
I watched her for a moment. Same face. Softer edges.
She wasn't beautiful because she looked like me.
She looked beautiful because she looked like a less threatening version of me.
I returned my gaze to the horizon.
It was darker than usual.
The void past the walls had never looked inviting. Tonight, it looked hungry.
"Do you believe the world ends past the edge?" she asked.
"I know it does."
"But what if it doesn't?"
"I've seen people fall."
"You've seen them vanish. Not fall."
I didn't answer.
Not because I lacked one, but because I didn't like the one forming.
Below us, the lights flickered. Just once. Then again.
It was subtle. A child's toy short-circuiting. But the Rose Clan didn't short-circuit.
Not ever.
My sister tensed. I felt her body shift, just slightly, like prey catching a scent.
The air tasted… sharp. Like iron.
And beneath the streets, I felt something move.
Not physically.
Something in the foundation.
The world was humming. Not musically. Mechanically.
Like it was powering up.
Or bracing.
I stood.
"I'm going back," I said.
She followed instantly. No question.
By the time we reached the courtyard, the lights had stopped flickering.
The city looked normal. Perfect, even.
The music played. Lights glowed. People smiled.
But the sky — the obedient, polite sky — had changed.
A streak. Faint. Thin. Like a hairline fracture in the canvas of the divine.
No one else saw it.
Of course they didn't. They don't look up properly.
I do.
Because the world was built for me.
And now... it had made a mistake.
I stared at that flaw and felt something ancient crawl down my spine. Not cold. Not dread. Just... insult.
As if reality itself had dared to blink in my presence.
Beneath the streets, I felt something shift again. The world had stopped whispering.
It was listening.