The palace taught me early that some people are allowed to exist.
And others are allowed to be useful.
Everyone else?
They endure.
I was not born to serve, but they taught me how to kneel.
I was not born to obey, but silence became my second skin.
In the morning, I folded robes Kael never wore.
At night, I swept dust from steps only his feet were allowed to touch.
The nobility of Aeloria didn't call me prince anymore.
They didn't call me anything.
To name something is to admit it exists.
And I was not allowed to exist.
Kael had begun to stand behind the king's throne at court.
Not beside it.
Behind it. Higher. Slightly to the left.
A calculated position — meant to be seen without speaking.
The court whispered that the queen was preparing him for the mantle of command.
Others said he already ruled, and they just hadn't been told yet.
He never corrected them.
He didn't need to.
The power structure of Aeloria was simple. In theory.
Everything was based on class.
But not wealth. Not nobility.
Power class.
The kingdom divided people into seven ranks, determined by magical affinity and divine resonance.
From lowest to highest:
Null – no magic at all. Touched by neither god nor gate.
Ash – cursed bloodlines. Unstable. Dangerous.
Bronze – low magic. Usable, but unimpressive.
Silver – refined. Trusted. Service-class mages and soldiers.
Gold – elite. Scholars, warcasters, highblood priests.
Obsidian – rare. Royal blood. Pure affinity.
Divine – unknown. Reserved for the gods and those who claim to be chosen.
No one below Bronze was allowed inside the palace unless they were servants.
No one above Obsidian was supposed to exist.
Kael had never been ranked officially.
The priesthood called him "beyond measure."
I heard a mage say he was the first Sovereign-class in centuries. A rank reserved only for the direct offspring of a god.
They used words like "blessed" and "sacred anomaly."
They used the word "perfect."
I had never been tested.
At first, they said I was too weak.
Then too impure.
Then too dangerous.
The last time I tried to channel magic, the glass in the north wing shattered. Every window. Every rune-lit lamp.
A priest ran barefoot across the stone to stop me, flanked by two guards and a hound with runes carved into its tongue.
They didn't punish me openly.
But they reinforced the brand on my back.
Re-burned the runes with salt and silver.
"Let him live," the queen had said, "but do not let him believe he is anything more than a shadow."
I learned to stop looking in mirrors.
Because even reflections looked away.
There was a ritual held every year on the eve of the second moon's full rise.
The Blessing of the Flameborn.
It honored those born with Obsidian blood — pure, royal, destined for power.
Kael would be blessed again this year.
His fourth time.
Each blessing etched another crest into his ceremonial cuffs. By now, they gleamed with seven divine markings.
The seventh was the Eye of Kaerion, god of fire and judgment.
Only three people in recorded history had ever worn it.
Kael was the fourth.
I watched the preparation from the shadows of the outer balcony.
I wasn't invited.
But I had been told to "keep the floors clean," and the hall beneath the grand procession was still technically under my charge.
I kept my head bowed. My hands still.
But I watched.
I always watched.
Kael walked through the hall in silence, flanked by two flamebound guards.
His robes were layered in gold-thread embroidery, the hem brushing the ground like light trailing behind him.
He stopped once.
Mid-step.
His eyes lifted to the balcony where I stood.
We locked eyes.
He didn't look away.
He didn't smile.
Later that night, a gift was left in my room.
A box.
Black wood. No seal.
Inside: a collar.
Not silk. Not embroidered.
Metal.
Cold, rune-etched, custom-fitted.
There was no note.
Just a second ring inside.
Smaller.
Tighter.
I didn't put it on.
I didn't touch it.
But I didn't throw it away either.
I wasn't sure what would happen if I did.
Not anymore.
I asked a kitchen maid, once, what happened to someone without a class.
She looked around, then whispered:
"They don't keep records."
I asked if anyone could become Bronze later.
She laughed.
"You're either born into fire, or you're buried in ash."
That night, I dreamt of Kael.
Not as he was now, but as he would be.
Older. Taller. Mask gone.
In his place: a crown of bone, and eyes that burned red.
He reached for me, and I couldn't run.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I was already kneeling.
When I woke, the collar was gone.
The ring was not.
The queen summoned me the next morning.
That was rare.
Usually, she ignored me like a stain on the marble.
This time, she called for me in front of the court.
I was dragged into the throne hall by two guards.
Kael stood beside her throne. Not behind it. Not today.
His eyes found mine instantly.
The queen didn't rise.
She didn't even face me.
"Do you know what you are?" she asked.
My lips stayed closed.
A guard struck me. Not hard.
Just enough.
The queen turned then. Slowly.
"You are ash-born. A mistake. But mistakes can be recycled."
She gestured to Kael.
"Your brother has requested you for personal service."
There was a silence.
Not confusion. Not shock.
But approval.
Because the court loved this.
Because Kael always got what he wanted.
I bowed.
Not because I agreed.
But because I didn't know what else to do.
I was assigned to Kael's personal wing.
I wasn't allowed in his room. Not unless summoned.
But I cleaned his bath. Lit his incense. Folded his clothing.
Some days, I stood outside his chamber for hours without hearing a word.
Some nights, I found gifts outside my door.
Books. Silks. Old coins no longer used.
None came with names.
None needed them.
One day, I found a paper pressed into my pillow.
It wasn't signed.
But the handwriting was familiar.
"A shadow that survives is more dangerous than the fire that cast it."
I didn't know if it was a threat.
Or a promise.
One afternoon, Kael asked me to sit.
Not in the corner. Not at his feet.
Across from him.
At the table where his tutors once taught him court law.
He held out a scroll.
"Do you know the Classes of Dominion?"
I shook my head.
He tapped the parchment.
"Then learn."
The Classes of Dominion, I read, were not just magical ranks.
They were societal.
Each class defined your purpose, your permission, your fate.
Nulls served in silence.
Bronze worked the mines, the kitchens, the fields.
Silver served as guards, recorders, messengers.
Gold became knights, clerics, and mage-smiths.
Obsidian ruled.
Divine ascended.
"Where do I fall?" I asked.
It was the first thing I'd said in front of him in weeks.
He looked at me.
Long. Quiet.
Then, softly:
"You don't."
The next day, a priest visited me in the middle of the night.
He didn't give his name.
He didn't explain why he was there.
He just drew a rune on my door in ash and left.
I haven't slept since.