The year I turned fifteen, the mists of Volneth parted for three black carriages bearing the imperial seal. It was a rare sight, almost supernatural, as if the world above had suddenly remembered the existence of mud and reeds. The people of the marsh watched in silence, from a distance, as onyx wheels carved through rain-drenched roads.
Three young nobles had been sent for a few weeks of "military training" in the South. In truth, their arrival was more diplomatic maneuver than genuine education. Each carried a name heavy with expectation, but none of them were alike.
Kaelen was the eldest, eighteen years old, tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw, slicked-back black hair, and eyes as cold as metal. He descended from the imperial bloodline, distantly — a forgotten branch of the main line, kept in the shadows so as not to disrupt the order of succession. Still, he wore that blood like a banner, convinced his name alone elevated him above all others. He spoke loudly, walked with authority, and tolerated no opposition. His presence alone silenced the servants.
Maerel was my age — fifteen. Her face was sharp and angular, high cheekbones and wide, piercing golden eyes that never stopped moving, as if constantly analyzing. Her dark chestnut hair was cut sharply at the jaw, straight and smooth, framing her face like a blade. She was the daughter of a minor noble, governor of a modest province in the eastern reaches. No grand achievements, no ancient glory. Yet Maerel clung to her bloodline more tightly than to life itself. Small, lean, ever upright, she spoke with calculated slowness, every word pronounced as if etched in stone. And her gaze often weighed more than her words.
Lireth, the youngest, was thirteen. She was not noble. She was the daughter of the Farmer Hero, one of the nine empire heros,one of the most powerfull man on our continent. Lireth, slim and tall, stood straight as an arrow, her quiet grace drawing attention without ever inviting it. Her black hair was braided into thick cords that framed a calm, almost ethereal face. She spoke little, watched long, and when she did speak, it felt as though she addressed something far greater than you.
Officially, their visit was to observe imperial garrisons. Unofficially, they were being kept away — to smother rumors, or silence dangerous ambition.
They settled into the upper quarters of the garrison, bringing with them their habits, their demands… and their disdain. Very quickly, Saran ordered me to serve them. Officially, I was his assistant. In truth, I had become a servant. I fetched their water, cleaned their boots, served their meals. Kaelen wasted no time mocking my position. He called me "the mud prince," tossed me scraps of stale bread, and liked to say:
"Even frogs deserve a prince, don't they?"
One day, while I was cleaning their belongings in the rain-soaked courtyard, Kaelen approached, flanked by two young soldiers. He looked down at me, then reached for my neck. Before I could step back, he tore away the pendant I wore — a worn copper disc engraved with an old lunar symbol. He spun it in his fingers, mockingly impressed.
"What's this? Fisherman's magic? Think this'll keep the vipers away, little toad?"
He laughed, then tossed the pendant into the mud, where the rain swallowed it instantly. The others burst into laughter. I couldn't think. I couldn't hear. Something inside me broke.
I lunged at him.
My fists struck his face with a force I didn't know I had. The first blow surprised him. The second drew blood from his nose. The third dropped him to his knees. He cried out. The others moved in, pulled me off, slammed me to the ground. My cheek hit stone, my lip split open. I didn't care. I had felt his bones beneath my knuckles. I had seen fear in his eyes — even if only for a second.
Saran arrived. He said nothing. Simply ordered that I be locked away.
Three days in a room without light, without hot food. Three days of cold, silence, and solitude. But I had no regrets. I had struck a golden son, an heir. And deep down, I knew he would never forget it.
When I was released, everything had returned to its place. Almost.
The stares had changed. Not from the nobles — they were more hateful than ever — but from the servants. They greeted me cautiously. No one spoke lightly to me anymore. Even Erval, the old steward, handed me a piece of warm bread without a word — like an offering.
The punishment wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was the routine.
Each morning, I had to wake the nobles in silence. Prepare their black tea, tailored to their mothers' preferences. Brush their cloaks. Fold the embroidered linen sheets they refused to touch themselves. Wipe every speck of dust from their gloves. It was a soul-crushing routine, and yet I found a strange comfort in it — a perfect machine that required no thought.
Erval taught me the gestures. He didn't speak much, but one day, as I struggled to mend a torn sleeve, he said:
"You don't do this for them. You do it to remember that one day, you won't."
His words echoed in me like a quiet prophecy. He had served three generations, seen five nobles fall into disgrace, two take their own lives. He taught me to listen without answering, to bend without breaking. I think he saw something in me he didn't dare name.
Weeks passed in silent observation, muted gestures, swallowed phrases. But in the quiet, I learned. I watched Kaelen lose his temper over imperfections. Maerel was different. She never mocked me. She tested me.
One evening, as I tidied the common room, Maerel watched me from a white-furred chair. She drank northern wine, legs crossed, a book in hand. As I passed to pick up a discarded plate, she spoke softly, without looking up:
"Why do you look at us as if you were one of us?"
I didn't reply. She finally raised her eyes, and her gaze pierced me. There was no malice — only cold curiosity.
"You don't wear our colors. You don't speak our words. And yet… you don't lower your eyes."
I held her gaze, unblinking. A faint smile crept to her lips.
"You're not like us. But you're not like them either. That's why they hate you."
She turned the page of her book and dismissed me with silence. I stood still for a moment, unable to respond.
Her words stayed with me. Like a shard beneath the skin.
Whenever I wasn't needed in the kitchens or stables, I escaped. Not far. Just enough to breathe. And always, I returned to the tower's decaying library — a forgotten place, riddled with mold, where scrolls crumbled at the touch. Yet there, I felt most at home.
At the back of a shelf, wedged between military treatises and naval codes, I found a black leather-bound book without a title. Its pages were thick, covered in ancient script I spent days deciphering.
It wasn't history. It was a grimoire — a collection of forgotten tales, lost rituals, incantations hidden between the lines. It spoke of dead stars, languages no longer spoken, pacts forged in places no map named.
One passage caught my eye. It described an ancestral rite: trace a circle of ash around a flame, place a drop of blood at the center, and speak the name of a forgotten being — a forbidden name, written in broken alphabet.
I prepared the ritual on a moonless night, in a moss-covered ruin behind the tower. I wasn't sure I understood what I was doing, but something pushed me to try. A voice inside me. A hunger.
When I spoke the name, the flame changed. It turned blue. Then black. The air pressed in around me. And I heard something. A whisper. Distant, yet clear. Not human. Not animal. A vibration in my skull — a word I didn't understand but felt deep in my bones.
I fell to my knees. My vision blurred, and the world seemed to retreat. Then silence returned.
I closed the book with trembling hands. That night, I did not sleep.
It wasn't magic. Not yet. But it was a crack in the world. A forgotten voice. A call.
I continued to read, each night. To learn. To understand. There was no master to teach me — only shadows. And sometimes, I felt Saran watching me from afar, as if he knew. But he never said a word.
A few days after the ritual, I returned to the ruins. Not to repeat the experience — to observe. I felt an invisible breath lingering there, a subtle pressure in the air, as if something had awakened — and was waiting. I stood there for an hour, listening.
That's when I found a carving, nearly erased, on a loose stone slab. A circle split by a vertical line, surrounded by symbols like those in the grimoire. I copied them onto a scrap of cloth and hid it beneath my bed.
That was also the first time Lireth spoke to me. She had followed me silently. I heard her too late. She stood at the entrance of the ruins, head tilted, eyes distant.
"You hear it too, don't you?" she whispered.
I didn't know what to say. She asked no more, and vanished as she had come.
But now, I knew I wasn't the only one who heard the call in the shadows. Something, beneath it all, bound our silences.
And I understood that in this marsh lay more buried truths than in all the Empire's golden palaces.