Malic

You stand before the mirror, tracing the jagged scar that runs down your cheek. It isn't a trophy from a beast, but a reminder of the Warden-Cultists—those fanatics who still worship the traitor Alistair executed years ago. They tried to take the "Blossomed Queen’s" fourth son as a blood sacrifice; they only succeeded in marking you.

You are Malic, named for a Great King, yet you feel smallest in the shadow of your siblings. Only weeks ago, you stood on the palace steps watching your eldest brothers, Gareth and Duncan, ride off to their own fates. You remember the envy you felt; they carried the certainty of their paths while you remained behind, the scholar who had yet to prove his steel.

To your father, King Alistair, survival isn't enough—greatness must be proven in blood. He decreed that every son of his line must slay a high dragon to earn their place. You just returned from the Frostback Mountains, the blood of a drake still staining your traveling robes. You did it. You survived. But the victory tastes like ash. Your older brothers accomplished their hunts much faster than you did. To the court, you are the slow one—the boy who spent too much time in the library.

But the library gave you something the training grounds never could. You feel the faint, rhythmic hum in your veins—the spark of magic. It isn't a bonfire like Gareth’s, but it’s there, flickering in your fingertips when you’re alone. You’ve kept it hidden, terrified that if your father knew, you’d be sent to the Circle just like your brother.

The doors to the solar swing open. Your mother, Anora, enters first. She doesn't walk; she glides, her body practically latched to Alistair’s side, her hand anchored to his arm as they move in their inseparable dance. She sees your face and her expression softens.

"Malic," she breathes, reaching out to touch your scarred cheek. "You're home. I told your father the mountains were too treacherous."

Alistair stands beside her, his hand resting over hers on his arm. He looks at you with a heavy, kingly expectation. "The Frostback High Dragon is a stubborn beast, Malic. It took you longer than your brothers, but you used your head. I heard you trapped it in the canyon rather than charging the nest."

"A scholar’s victory is still a victory, Father," you reply stiffly, praying he can't sense the mana stirring in your blood.

Alistair nods, his grip on Anora tightening. "Good. Because I have a mission for you. I need a champion who can do more than just swing a sword. I want you to be a leader of men, like your brother Duncan. This mission will require everything you've learned: your blade, your negotiating skills, and your tracking skills. There is a shadow growing in the Western Approach, and I need eyes I can trust."

Anora leans her head against Alistair's shoulder, her eyes fixed on you. "It is a dangerous path, my son. We do not know what you will find there."

Alistair lets out a short, boisterous laugh and leans down toward your ear, though his voice is hardly a whisper. "And Malic? Be careful of the fairer sex. Gareth got himself tangled up with Charlotte on one of these missions. And as for me... well, I got..."

With a sudden, playful grin, Alistair delivers a sharp, affectionate spank to Anora’s backside. The Queen let out a startled gasp, her cheeks turning a deep, vivid crimson as she swatted at his hand, though she didn't pull away from his side.

"Alistair! Not in front of the boy," she hissed, though the way she leaned back into him told a different story.

"I am ready," you say, clutching your staff—disguised as a walking stick—tightly. You have the blade your father expects you to use, but you know that before this mission ends, you may have to use the secret power you’ve worked so hard to hide.

Allistair hands him a scroll and they leave as he reads the mission.