CAI
Cai dipped the end of the quill into black ink, the nib emerging with a silent, glossy coat. Books were spread in front of him on the desk. Beginner's guide to ice magic. Wonderful tales of Glacial city. History of the Red Fever. Their spines were cracked, their pages furred with his notes.
The plan was simple. Study till noon. Attend the memorial service after. Continue the investigation in the evening.
Today was a non-working day, which meant the academy was closed. Yesterday, he'd skipped school to fill in for his father, inspecting the facilitation of the first batch of Eirvaleans. He was surprised when his father sent for him that morning.
“Hello, Prince Cai. Hope you slept well.”
“I most certainly did.” Cai said. Of course, he never slept at home. And if his father were to find out, he'd request that Cai be kept under constant surveillance. Guards would be breathing down on his neck, watching his every move. Instead of a monthly checkup, he'd have the royal physician attend to him daily.
“Responsibilities. Yes, responsibilities,” the king repeated, almost to himself. “As crown prince, you have certain responsibilities to the people of Glacial. And one of them is representing me when I am unavailable. I have other pressing matters to attend to. I need you to be my eyes and ears today.”
“I take it that you're really hopeful for this integration,” Cai said, choosing his words carefully.
“Hopeful? I have a chance to rewrite the mistakes of my ancestors. Despite the pushback I've gotten from the temple, I chose to move on with the plan. I don't care about the gods. I don't care about the past. I only care about extending mercy.”
“Are you doing it for the right reasons?” he asked without thinking. “I saw the reports—”
“I know. My study isn't locked for a reason.”
“You wanted me to find it?” It all started to click into place. The papers had been left for him.
“Yes. And what do you think?”
What did he think? The words he'd been holding back, things he wanted to say to his father after all this while, the anger suppressing, faintly boiled over. “What I think is…is…I think…YOU'RE WRONG!” He shouted, the words tasted like freedom.
“Despite all my teachings, and you forget, a king must never show his emotions in public. I find this shameful display repulsive. What are you going to do? Cry?”
Cai clenched his fists. No. He wasn't going to cry. Crying was stupid. He wasn't like Nirvana. Every time she was met with confrontation, she cried. It was her way of avoiding conflict.
“You think I want this? I do what's best for my people and my people alone.”
“What about what's best for the Eirvaleans?”
“This is also the best for them. I like to think of myself as a saviour. A god. A man who's making people atone for their past sins.”
Cai couldn't believe it. Was this the reason for integration? As if sending them on exile wasn't enough—now he wanted to bring them back, only to torture them all in the name of making them take responsibility for the pain their ancestors caused Glacians eighty years ago. Breathe, Cai. There's no way the priestess could have agreed to this. Not after the temple's sacred teachings and warnings about not mixing with outsiders.
“What about Talyja? Is this what the priestess wants?”
“We have Thorley on our side. He's the second-highest authority in the temple. How do you think we were able to convince our people?”
“Manipulate.”
“Huh?”
“The word is manipulate,” Cai clarified, his voice steadier now. “You didn't do any convincing. You told them this is what Talyja wants. And the moment you mention the gods, the people believe. That's why you needed religious backing.”
“I have nothing to explain to you. Maybe when you become king you'll understand that the position comes with making hard decisions.” King Frosdal said, his patience wearing thin. “Will you do it or not? I can assign my right hand instead. All I'm doing is to prepare you for the throne. It seems like you don't appreciate it.”
“What if I try to stop you?”
A cruel smirk touched the King's lips. “You can't control ice. How much more…” Ice flickered from his hands.
He felt the blood drain from his face, his eyes locked on his father's, unblinking. That was low. Very low.
“You're lucky Glacian kings are not measured by the degree to which ice magic is controlled but by their intelligence.”
The prince stared at his dad. The man who'd raised him for sixteen years was turning into something Cai couldn't understand. What he felt at that moment was hate. Where was the gracious and patient man who'd told him that a crown was a burden of service, not a license for cruelty? Cai tried to reach for that memory, but the loathing rose like a black tide, filling his throat and stinging his eyes. He wanted to shove the feeling back, to stay the loyal son, but the resentment swarmed him, thousand biting realizations of every lie he’d ever been fed.
“I'll do it. Don't ask Peregrine. I'll do it.”
Nothing he said mattered.
Nothing he could do here would change anything.
The plan was already moving.
He turned and stormed out.
A sharp headache clawed through his skull as the memory faded. He blinked, struggling to focus on the task at hand.
He crossed the first sentence on the parchment. Study till noon. For the first trial, grading would hinge on two pillars, theoretical knowledge and practical mastery. One hundred questions in the morning on five subjects: maths, theology, history, health studies, complex ethnic scenarios. The afternoon would be for demonstration: the shaping, holding, and purposeful release of cold.
He was done with all the books. He'd read page by page, line by line. All the concepts were drilled into his head. The foundations of ice magic (creation, control, endurance), the parables of Glacial, the quarantine protocols of the Red Fever—they were all there, clear and ordered in his mind.
Yet the problem remained. He understood ice magic. He could trace its logic, recite its principles, anticipate its failures.
He just couldn’t perform it perfectly.
Passing the exam did not truly matter for him. Not in the simple way it did for the other students. He was the crown prince, the next in line for the throne. That was a fact that could not be changed by a test. He lived with many privileges. If he failed, the royal elders would simply create a special role for him. They would make sure he still had a place and a title that sounded important.
But that was not what he wanted. He wanted to fight fair and square. He wanted to face the same questions and the same ice demonstration as everyone else. He wanted to pass under the same rules.
Why? Because he did not want to be a king who was respected only for his title. He wanted to be a king who was respected for his skill and his effort. He wanted the people and the court to trust him because he had proven himself, not because he was born to a certain family.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
He wanted people to love him, not just obey him. He knew that if he became someone who always took shortcuts, someone who rose to power only because of his family name, he might be feared. Fear can control people for a while. But fear does not create loyalty. It does not create the kind of love that makes a kingdom strong and united.
He did not want a legacy built on nepotism and empty privilege. He wanted a legacy built on earned respect and real trust. That was why this quiet struggle in his room, trying to learn what did not come easily, was so important. It was his first real step toward becoming the kind of king he dreamed of being.
He glanced at the second sentence. Attend the memorial service in the afternoon. It was almost noon and he didn't think he was going to make it on time. He hadn't bathed nor eaten. Since he was done studying, the next logical thing was to get ready for the ceremony. But…there was something else on his mind.
He tore another parchment and drew a straight vertical line separating it into two equal parts. He labeled both parts: Option A, Option B.
His hand trembled as he wrote.
Below Option A, he wrote: Tell everyone the truth.
The truth. The words felt heavy even on paper. That his father wasn't bringing Eirvaleans to Glacial city out of desperation or goodwill. That the "integration" was a lie. That the Inner Circle had been meeting in secret for months, planning how to control the Eirvaleans once enough arrived. Observe their weaknesses. Study their magic. Then subjugate them under Glacial rule.
"They can't survive the cold," his father had said during one of those meetings Cai had spied on. "They'll be dependent on us. Grateful. And when they are, we'll have complete control."
Cai had felt sick listening to it.
Pros: They'd finally know the truth. No more lies. The Eirvaleans could choose to turn back before it's too late.
Cons: Father would never forgive him. Mass panic. War breaks out between both tribes. Bloodshed. And Glacial city still dies from the population crisis.
Below Option B, he wrote: Keep the secret.
Let his father's plan unfold. Let the Eirvaleans come, week after week, thinking they were finding refuge. Let them discover too late that Glacial never intended to treat them as equals.
Pros: No immediate war. Father's plan continues. Maybe it works—maybe controlled integration saves Glacial’s population without bloodshed.
Cons: When the Eirvaleans realize the truth, the war will be worse. And if his father's plan works... then the Eirvaleans would be subjugated. Glacial and Eirvale would live together, but there would be no equality. We would rule over them. Just like our ancestors did before the separation.
He stared at the parchment, the ink beginning to blur.
There was no winning.
If he stayed silent, his father would enslave the Eirvaleans.
If he spoke up, war would erupt immediately and thousands would die.
Either way, a war was inevitable.
A more serious question crossed his mind: why was his father truly doing this? There had to be another reason.
He struggled with coming up with an answer. Frustration, hot and sharp, tightened in his chest. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball and hurled it toward the woven trash basket.
It missed. The ball bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop beside the basket, a small, mocking failure.
Way to go, Cai. He slumped in his chair, the silent room feeling louder than a shouting crowd.
?? ? ??
A soft knock, then the door opened without waiting for an answer. An old, frail man stood there, a healer’s bag hanging heavy from his shoulder. Royal Physician Lorne. His appearance, Cai had decided long ago, was a carefully curated performance: the shock of white-grey hair, the perpetually weary eyes, the slight frame that made his bag seem too large. Only the smile appeared genuine, a crack in the otherwise crafted facade.
“Your mother told me I could come in. Is that fine?”
Cai wondered how the man managed to carry out his duties all these years. His father had said Lorne was loyal; he didn't want to replace him with a younger doctor, especially knowing how untrustworthy physicians could be. Their tongues loosen for the right price. Imagine the medical secrets that could be leaked. I don't want the public finding out my son is…struggling.
“Next time, Lorne. I have somewhere else to be.” Cai’s tone was flat, a dismissal.
But the decision was not his to make. Another figure materialized beside Lorne, her head tilting to peer into the room. The Queen. Her features shared the same elegant bones as his own, but where his were sharp with youth and defiance, hers were softened by a regal, immovable certainty.
"Young man," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You missed last month’s checkup. You will do as the doctor says."
Cai knew he had lost. He gave a single, curt nod.
Lorne’s genuine smile turned apologetic, but he stepped forward, his bag already unclasped. “Let’s not make a fuss of it. Routine only.”
The Queen lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping the room—the scattered books, the crumpled paper, the prince still in yesterday’s clothes. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes tightened, a silent calculation of disorder. Without another word, she withdrew, closing the door softly behind her. The click of the latch was deafening.
Lorne settled on the edge of the bed, the old frame creaking. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Cai hesitated, then obeyed, pushing the fabric past his elbow. He stared ahead, jaw tight.
Lorne took his wrist, his fingers pressing into the pulse point, then moving higher. They stopped over a cluster of faint, parallel lines on the inner forearm, some old and white, others pink and fresh. Further up, a yellowing bruise mottled his bicep.
“These are new,” Lorne said, his voice low. “They weren't here three months ago.” He let go of Cai's arm. “You're still going to that place. The Shack. The underground ring.”
Cai said nothing. His heart hammered against his ribs.
The first time it happened, he was six.
He’d pressed his palm to a hot stove coil. He didn’t cry out. He just watched, fascinated, as the skin turned pink, then red, then bloomed into a perfect, painful white.
He found other ways. A deliberate ‘fall’ down the stairs. Pinching his skin until it bruised purple. His parents noticed. First with worry, then with a tight, suspicious fear. Their solution was more eyes. Caregivers, tutors, guards who were less protectors and more jailers.
It stopped at fourteen.
The urge faded. He didn't know how or why. But it stopped. For two years, he felt normal. He thought he was cured.
He was sixteen now.
And it was back. Not a slow creep, but a flood. The pressure of his father’s lies, the future of the city, his own failure at ice magic, it crashed down all at once. The old numbness returned, and with it, the only solution he knew: pain.
Now, it was the fights. The Shack. Letting himself get hit, craving the impact, the bruise, the split lip. It was louder, more violent, but it served the same purpose: to feel real. To feel in control. To translate the screaming inside into a pain he could point to and understand.
He remembered when he almost entered the water. Nirvana had warned him it was filled with acid. But he didn't care. He only wanted to escape.
“You're lucky I don't tell your parents anything.”
“That's because I warned you.”
“No, my boy. I believe you can fight this.”
Lorne didn’t soften. He pulled two things from his bag. A small bottle of dark amber liquid and a plain tin of salve.
“The bottle is for the urge. Two drops under the tongue. It will take the edge off the panic, blunt the need to… make a mark. It is not a solution. It is a barrier between the thought and the action.” He set it down with a soft click. “The salve is for after. For when the barrier fails. Clean the wound. Apply this. It prevents infection and speeds healing. It minimizes scarring.”
He set the tin beside the bottle. The message was devastatingly clear: I know you will not stop. So here is how you do it more safely.
“I am not here to lecture a prince on his duties,” Lorne said, finally meeting Cai’s shattered gaze. “I am here to treat a patient who is causing himself progressive harm. My medical advice is to stop. My practical advice, knowing you will not, is contained in these.” He gestured to the bottle and tin.
“And my final advice,” he said, standing to leave, his old bones protesting, “is to find a reason to want fewer scars. A person. A purpose. Something outside this room and that fighting pit that feels like a reason to stay intact. Before you do damage even I cannot fix.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
You're not done yet. Cai wanted to say. The routine checkup wasn't over. You didn't ask about my diet, lifestyle, or sleep patterns. Seeing the old wounds must have startled the old man. Tears slipped before he could stop it. There was no hope for him now.
