Memoir of Llyris mordane

"A death on your birthday, that has to be an omen"

The tailor's corpse hung midair, his last moments frozen in the space-locked field like some avant-garde theater piece—limbs twisted mid-collapse, mouth still open in the final syllable of a scream. If I had a monocle, I might've adjusted it and murmured something profound about the fragility of life. Instead, I sighed and rubbed my temple.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

A polite rhythm. Measured. Expected.

"Elina. Perfect timing." I didn't turn. I didn't need to. The moment she stepped into my space , I felt her—a ripple in the ambient mana, threading through my awareness like a needle through silk.

The door creaked open.

Elina stood framed by the dim hallway, my ever-diligent governess. Which was odd, really, considering we were practically the same age—her barely three years my senior. Then again, in this house, age meant nothing. Rank did. And she, despite the title, was a friend.

She took one look at the tailor, still levitating like some grotesque marionette, and sighed. "Another one?"

I flicked a pouch of coins toward her. "Take him to the Second Breath Consortium. That should cover his revival."

She caught it without looking, expression unimpressed. "You do realize I'd rather celebrate my friend's birthday than drag a corpse through bureaucratic purgatory, yes?"

"And you do realize I can't send a servant," I countered. "They'll just spread more stories about the 'Calamity Prince.'" I exhaled, rubbing at the ache behind my eyes. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

Elina rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Loyalty, it seemed, had its limits—but I hadn't reached them yet.

"Dinner's on you for a month," she said, gathering the body into her ring.

"Isn't it always?"

"Yes, but I'm choosing the restaurants this time." She grinned, and I could already see my monthly allowance bleeding out like a gutted pig.

My family was rich. I, however, was not. Not because my parents were stingy—no, that would've been easier to stomach. No, I was single-handedly funding the entire Second Breath Consortium's operations in Amara. You'd be shocked at the number of "unfortunate incidents" that seemed to happen in my wake. Like the tailor. 

"Deal," I muttered, willing the mana to return the room to its previous state. The bloodstains vanished. The wood polished itself. The air stilled, as though nothing had happened at all.

Elina smirked. "Happy birthday, by the way."

"Oh, just fantastic so far."

She laughed, stepping out the door. I watched her go, already bracing myself for the next disaster.

Alone again.

Once more, I stared at the boy in the mirror.

"Seventeen years of age, yet I still haven't grown facial hair"

I was tall. Lean. I inherited my mother's looks—an inheritance that often went unspoken but never unnoticed. Her sharp cheekbones, the warmth of her skin, the dark depth of my eyes. It was a truth that seemed to irk my father, as though his blood had lost some unseen battle. He would never say it, of course. But I could see it in the way his gaze lingered too long on my face sometimes, or in the rare, clipped silences that passed when we stood together.

As I adjusted my cuffs, something in the mirror moved wrong.

Just a fraction of a second too late. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for a prickling chill to creep down my spine. My reflection's fingers lingered on the fabric an instant longer than mine did. The expression on its face—a perfect mimicry of mine—felt too... aware.

I blinked. It was gone.

I exhaled, shaking off the moment 

With a final glance at my reflection, I exhaled and stepped out of my room, making my way toward the festivities. You might be wondering—why not just use a spatial rift? The Mordanes are famous for them, after all.

Well.

Rule One: Never open a spatial rift anywhere with a high density of chaos mana.

Simple rule. Sensible. And yet, you'd be amazed how many Mordanes have ignored it—only to find themselves stuck in a chrono-shift, ripped from the present like a misplaced thread in a tapestry. Best-case scenario? You teleport to an unknown location, hopefully still intact. Worst-case? You step out of time entirely, watching the world move on without you. Forever.

And the Mordane estate? Saturated in chaos mana. Practically drenched in it.

It took five minutes before the world began to stir.

The hum of conversation drifted through the corridors, low and measured, punctuated by the occasional crackle of mana-fueled devices flaring to life. The sound grew as I approached the doors at the end of the hallway, swelling into a cacophony of power and pretense—voices sharpened by status, laughter gilded with hidden daggers.

The doors loomed at the end of the hallway—tall, ancient, carved with runes that pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm, as if the wood itself still breathed. Flanking them stood two Mordane sentinel, each clutching greatswords pointed dangerously upward, the razor-sharp edges catching the faint glow of the enchanted sconces.

As I approached, the air shifted.

Not a gust. Not a draft. A ripple, as though space itself tensed. The sentinel bowed—not with the stiffness of automata, nor the hollow obedience of lesser constructs, but with something uncannily close to reverence.

The doors swung open, spilling golden light into the corridor.

"Time to get this party started, " I said to myself, hyping myself up.

The grand hall was a masterpiece of excess and ingenuity, where mystic energy dripped from every polished surface and deception hung in the air like perfumed smoke. Crystal chandeliers, their cores pulsing with refined mana, cast fractured rainbows over a sea of silk and shimmering enchantments. The scent of spiced wine and alchemized perfumes—each an artisan's declaration of supremacy—clashed in an invisible war for dominance.

Music filled the air, played not by mortals but by seraphim—grotesque fusions of mystictek and flesh. These winged abominations plucked strings of woven light and exhaled melodies that stirred the very currents of ambient mana, making the air itself hum with an unnatural rhythm.

The crowd moved as if compelled by the music, dresses swirling in cascades of enchanted fabric, their gestures laced with subtle sorcery. But beneath the jolly exterior—behind the polite bows and clipped laughter—lay a battlefield of maneuvering, testing, striking. Every conversation was a duel of concealed blades, every glance a careful calculation. They were masters in the art of acting civilly, and I, of course, was expected to play along.

And my guests? A conniving bunch—the kind who attend just to watch something burn. Young scions of powerful houses are like that. They smile, they dance, they sip their wine—meanwhile, they're sharpening their knives beneath the table.

Take Caera of House Brightsplitter, for example. She played the part well—carefree laughter, an easy smile, the air of a girl who had never known hardship. But her eyes betrayed her: sharp, searching, tallying debts and weighing favors. Her family had fallen from grace after a disastrous expedition to the northern frontier, their coffers bled dry by ambition that outpaced their reach. Now she was here, not just to survive, but to recover. She needed a benefactor, a mark, someone arrogant enough to believe they were the one making the deal.

Then there was Joran of the Blackclad Consortium, lounging at the edge of the dance floor with a goblet in hand, exuding the effortless arrogance of a man who had never needed to ask twice for anything. His kind were dangerous—not because they were the best at the game, but because they thought they were. A self proclaimed rival, Joran had spent the last five wearing a title that didn't quite fit. A fifth-circle mystic apprentice, stagnant since we were fourteen. He clinging to his family's name like a drowning man to driftwood, hoping no one noticed that, beneath the wealth, his talent was mediocre at best.

The rest? Each one carried a name worth knowing and a dagger they were hoping to place in the right back.

Because tonight wasn't just a celebration. It was a stage. A chance to be seen, to be known, to start whispering into ears that didn't yet realize they were listening. By the time the music faded and the last of the wine was poured, they would all leave with only two thoughts:

They were with me.

Or against me.