Ethereal

10 years ago — Kingdom Nupawyth

The day had finally come to an end, and the kingdom slowly settled into silence as its people retreated to their rooms for the night.

For Prince Wentworth, sleep was still hours away.

He sat on his bed, legs crossed, a worn book open in his lap. Training had consumed most of his day—hours spent trying to understand and strengthen a power that never seemed to respond the way he wanted it to. Frustration had become familiar.

Still, he refused to wait for the next lesson.

If his brothers could control their abilities so easily, then he would find a way to catch up. He had managed to sneak a book on meditation and the connection between body and power, hoping it would give him an advantage.

At thirteen, he knew he still had a long road ahead. But patience had never suited him.

He wanted control. He wanted strength. He wanted to stop feeling like he was falling behind.

No one else had his gift—or at least, not in any way anyone could explain. That made learning harder. There was no one to ask, no one who truly understood it. So he had to figure it out alone.

He inhaled slowly, letting his shoulders settle.

“Clear your mind… focus,” he whispered.

He opened his hand, staring at his palm as he pushed everything else away.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—

Like droplets striking water, faint violet sparks flickered into existence. They crawled across his fingers in unstable bursts before collapsing into nothingness.

Gone.

Wentworth exhaled sharply.

It wasn’t much. It never was.

A few weeks ago, he had managed a single lightning strike—an accident during training that had left him both shocked and exhilarated. Since then, he had been chasing that moment again.

One day, he would control it.

One day, it would obey him.

A distant shout shattered the quiet.

Wentworth froze.

His head turned toward the door.

It was nearly midnight. The castle should have been asleep.

Another shout followed—closer this time—then a strange metallic rattle, like something heavy dragging across stone.

Silence.

He slowly swung his legs off the bed and stood. His tablet on the bedside table flickered as he reached for it.

No connection.

No alerts.

Just darkness across the system.

Before he could process that, the door burst open.

Wentworth startled back.

“Royce?”

His brother stepped inside and immediately shut the door behind him.

But something was wrong.

Royce was supposed to be strong. Calm. Controlled.

Right now, he was none of those things.

Blood covered him.

It ran down his face from a deep cut across his lip and forehead. His left shoulder was soaked where he clutched it tightly, another wound hidden beneath his hand.

Royce was nineteen. A trained guard. One of the strongest Forces in the castle.

And he looked like he had barely survived.

Wentworth’s voice caught.

“What happened—?”

Royce crossed the room in an instant and pressed a hand over his mouth.

“We don’t have time,” he said sharply. “Listen to me. You need to stay quiet. We’re getting you out.”

Royce moved fast, throwing open drawers and stuffing clothes into a bag.

Then—

The castle lights died.

Total darkness swallowed the room.

Royce cursed under his breath.

Wentworth’s chest tightened.

Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Royce turned toward him, only his silhouette visible now.

“Wentworth,” he said firmly. “Look at me.”

Wentworth did.

“You follow me. No questions. When I tell you to run—you run. Understand?”

A pause.

Then Wentworth nodded.

Royce grabbed his hand.

The hallway outside was unnaturally still.

Cold.

Empty.

Wrong.

They moved quickly, shadows stretching around them as emergency systems failed one by one. Then Wentworth saw it—

A guard’s body lying across the floor.

Face turned away.

Blood pooling into the stone.

Wentworth stumbled.

Royce tightened his grip and pulled him forward.

Then voices echoed ahead.

“He’s up there!”

Royce stopped.

“Run.”

He released Wentworth’s hand.

And threw his arms forward.

A shockwave of invisible force erupted down the hallway.

Shouts followed instantly—impact, bodies thrown back, chaos breaking out in the dark.

Royce didn’t wait.

“Now!” he snapped, grabbing Wentworth again and pulling him forward.

They ran.

More bodies lined the corridors. Familiar faces among them. Blood on marble floors that had never seen war before.

The castle felt like it was collapsing around them.

Wentworth’s mind couldn’t keep up.

Where were his other brothers?

Why wasn’t anyone stopping this?

They burst into the stable bay.

Emergency lights flickered weakly overhead. Horses shifted nervously in their stalls.

Royce was already moving.

“We have to go,” Wentworth gasped. “Where are Colin, Kent, and Lawson?”

Royce didn’t answer.

“Royce!” Wentworth’s voice cracked. “Please!”

Royce stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t turn around.

Then—

“They’re gone.”

Wentworth blinked.

“…What?”

Royce finally faced him.

“Colin and Kent are dead. I found them before I got to you.”

The words didn’t land at first.

Just silence.

Then a fracture.

Wentworth shook his head. “No. Lawson—he’s fine, right? He—”

Royce’s jaw tightened.

“It’s Lawson.”

The air shifted.

“He turned,” Royce said. “He took control of the castle. The guards… they’re not themselves anymore. They’ve been ordered to kill anyone in the royal line.”

Wentworth’s stomach dropped.

“That’s not possible,” he whispered.

Royce stepped closer.

And that was when it happened.

A sound cut through the air.

Sharp.

Fast.

A blade.

“Wentworth—MOVE!”

From the darkness of the corridor behind them, a guard stepped forward—eyes blank, expression hollow.

Before Wentworth could react, the guard flicked his wrist.

A metal blade shot forward.

Royce shoved him aside—

Too late.

It sliced across Wentworth’s face.

Pain exploded through him.

He hit the ground, screaming.

Royce reacted instantly—sending a blast of force that ripped the attacker backward through the stable doors.

The horses panicked, rearing and kicking in chaos.

Royce dropped beside Wentworth.

“Stay with me,” he ordered, pulling his hands away from his face.

Blood was everywhere.

A deep gash ran from his forehead across his right eye and down his nose.

Royce cursed under his breath.

“Open your eye. How many fingers?”

Wentworth struggled, vision blurred.

“…Three.”

Royce exhaled.

“Good. Stay awake.”

A cloth was wrapped tightly around his head, covering the wound.

Voices were getting closer again.

Royce lifted him.

“We’re running out of time.”

He carried him toward a horse, placing him carefully into the saddle.

Wentworth grabbed the reins.

“Royce… what about you?”

Royce didn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly:

“I made a promise to Dad.”

Wentworth’s eyes filled. “Don’t—please come with me—”

Royce stepped back.

“When I tell you to run, you run. Don’t stop. No matter what.”

Then he slapped the horse.

It surged forward.

“NO—ROYCE!”

Behind them, Royce broke the stable locks, releasing every horse into the night.

And then he turned.

Back toward the castle.

Alone.

An invisible shield erupted around him, holding back the advancing guards pouring into the stable.

Royce looked once more at his brother disappearing into the dark.

And whispered:

“Please… watch over him.”

Then he dropped the shield.

The guards surged forward.

And Wentworth rode into the night as the kingdom of Nupawyth fell behind him in fire and silence.