Memoir of Llyris mordane

Ah, nostalgia. That wretched deceiver, polishing the past until it shines brighter than any truth. My childhood wasn't a fairy tale, but I once thought it could be—sun-drenched mornings on the estate, the heavy perfume of lavender gardens, and the hollow pride of a family name that loomed larger than the kingdom itself.

But nostalgia is a liar, and pretty words wrapped in silk, that itch worse than sackcloth when the truth comes out.

[ArcaneNest: Happy seventeenth Birthday, Llyris Mordane.]

The notification flickered before I dismissed it with a thought.

"Stand straight, Master Llyris."

Ah, the tailor. A man whose dedication to his craft bordered on obsession. Normally, he approached his work with a sort of serene confidence, treating every garment as though it were destined to be worn by kings and gods. Today, however, that confidence was nowhere to be found.

His hands trembled as they adjusted my collar, his movements cautious, like he was defusing some delicate magical contraption that could detonate at the slightest provocation. His eyes darted toward me every few seconds, full of a nervous energy I didn't entirely understand.

In the mirror, I caught my own reflection: copper-skinned, sharp-eyed, wrapped in silk so expensive it could bankrupt a small town. I looked every inch the noble. Well, aside from the fact that my tailor seemed ready to faint at any moment.

"This suit…" he began, his voice quivering, "demands dignity, Master Llyris."

"Of course it does," I said, adjusting my posture as best I could. The suit practically forced it on me anyway, enchanted threads humming softly as they worked to align my spine and smooth out imperfections. Wouldn't it be nice if life worked like that? A few clever spells, and suddenly your flaws were someone else's problem.

Behind me, the tailor muttered an incantation under his breath, his needle glowing faintly as it stitched runes into the cuffs. His voice was steady, but his hands… not so much.

"Are you all right?" I asked, watching him in the mirror.

"Of course, Master Llyris. Perfectly fine," he said a little too quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Why wouldn't I be?"

I shrugged. "No reason. You're just… shaking."

"It's—uh—it's the cold. Yes. Quite drafty in here, don't you think?" He forced a smile that looked about as comfortable as a man caught cheating at cards.

I frowned. "Drafty? The room's practically glowing with fire runes."

The tailor's needle slipped, jabbing his thumb. A sharp hiss, a muffled curse, and then—"Ah! My apologies!" He sucked in a breath, dabbing the wound with frantic urgency, as though I might demand a blood tithe for every drop spilled.

I raised a brow. "You're sure you're fine?"

"Yes, absolutely!" he chirped, voice a little too high, a little too eager. The hands, though? Still shaking.

I sighed. "Because you look nervous." A casual observation. Nothing threatening. Just a simple, friendly statement of fact. "Like something's bothering you." I tilted my head. "Is it me? Did I say something?"

"No, no! Not at all!" he said, too quickly. "You're an absolute delight, Master Llyris. A credit to the family name!"

Ah. That again. The name. Not me. Never me.

I caught his gaze in the mirror, studying the sweat beading at his temple. "You're sweating."

"It's the fire runes!" he blurted, voice cracking like a novice liar caught mid-fib. "Very… efficient. Excellent craftsmanship."

I tapped my chin, feigning deep contemplation. "A man of your prestige, Grandmaster Tailor, need not hold his tongue. Speak freely."

His needle hovered midair. The silence stretched. Thrum. Thrum. His pulse, visible at his throat, drumming to the tune of his growing panic.

"I-it's nothing. Really, Master Llyris."

"And yet," I mused, my voice quiet, patient, knowing, "I don't believe you."

I closed my eyes, losing interest in the reason. If he wanted to lie, that was his burden to bear. 

The tailor gulped, his voice more nervous than before. "I'm sorry, my lord!"

"Sorry for what?" 

"Please don't harm my family!"

I opened my eyes. "Harm your family?" Genuine confusion in my voice. Somewhere, a wire had gotten crossed, because all color drained from his face.

"I-I meant no disrespect, Calamity Prince!" He kowtowed five times, each impact of his forehead against the floor louder than the last, until blood smeared across the polished wood.

I stared. Blinked. Sighed.

I've come to accept—no, embrace—my unfortunate reputation as the Calamity Prince.

A title? No, too dignified.

A curse? Closer.

A delightful plague that spreads through the minds of the weak? Now we're getting somewhere.

Symptoms include—but are not limited to—irrational fear, staggeringly poor decision-making, and a suicidal tendency toward self-fulfilling prophecies. People hear my name, and suddenly, all sense and reason flee their heads like rats from a sinking ship. They run when they shouldn't, fight when they ought to grovel, and in their desperation to avoid calamity, they trip straight into it.

Take my tailor, for instance.

"Please stop," I said, reaching out to help the man up.

He yanked himself back so hard he might as well have had a string attached, recoiling like a marionette on the wrong end of an impatient god's hand. A dangerous choice, given the expensive (and volatile) mystictek tools scattered across the table behind him.

I sighed. "Calm down, you're going to hurt yourself."

To prevent further disaster, I willed my mana outward, locking the space around him—just enough to stop his flailing before he knocked over something explosive.

Unfortunately, my act of mercy appeared to be the final straw.

His eyes bulged. His breath hitched. And then, with an awful wheeze and a final, dramatic shudder—his poor heart gave out.

I stared at the tailor still locked in space.

Well. That wasn't my fault.

…Probably.