Memoir of Llyris mordane

For you to understand my motives, you first need to understand my family. The Mordanes—aristocrats, pioneers of the chaos path, and the undisputed heads of the Company. They've held power for so long that when people speak of the Company, they might as well be speaking of us.

With a family so powerful, you'd think I was raised with a silver spoon. You'd be wrong.

My father is a notorious womanizer, marrying left, right, and center, siring a litter of thirty children. And I? I was among the youngest. He was a man who despised laziness, and in our house, affection was merit-based—earned, not given.

What are merit, you ask? An arbitrary system my father uses to decide how much attention he deigns to give you. He tallies everything—your mystic level, talent and potential, intuitive mind ,business acumen (if you have any), achievements, reputation, and, sometimes, whether he had an argument with your mother that morning.

It's less a system and more of a constantly shifting scoreboard, where the rules change depending on his mood. But that never stopped fierce competition from brewing between us siblings—a contest where survival meant constant innovation, where sharpening your mind was just as important as honing your magic. We battled to improve, to outmaneuver, to claim just a fraction more favor. It made us cunning. It made us ruthless. It made us hungry.

And where do I land on the spectrum? Well, let's just say the nickname Calamity Prince hasn't exactly worked in my favor. Regardless of my talent and current mystic level, a reputation for being a bloodthirsty deviant isn't exactly the kind of thing that makes people eager to do business with you—let alone get to know you. It stunted my social growth before I even had the chance to shape it myself.

I tried to change that. Tried to be less impulsive. Made fewer mistakes my siblings could twist into daggers. But you can't change the minds of idiots who've already settled on their version of the truth. They see what they want to see, believe what they want to believe, and act accordingly.

Like the tailor did.

But that's why my birthday celebration matters. It's a chance to be seen, to be heard—to make alliances. More importantly, it's my chance to show them there's nothing to fear from the Calamity Prince.

You see, with most of my guests, I'm a blank slate—a ghost of the Mordane name, someone they've heard of but never met. A consequence of being homeschooled, of missing the endless rounds of social gatherings where alliances are whispered over wine and grudges are sealed with polite smiles.

We have no history, no relationship beyond the weight of my family name. But that name alone was enough to bring them running.

For most of them, this will be the first time laying eyes on me.

I, on the other hand, have read extensively on them. Their ambitions, their weaknesses, their carefully curated public personas. And right now, they're all thinking the same thing—

Does he live up to the rumors?

 I sighed, adjusting my cuffs.

Time for my performance.

"Honored guests, let your voices rise in tribute! On this most auspicious eve, we celebrate the natal day of one set apart by fate and forged by Chaos! Presenting—Llyris of House Mordane, and the Star of this Night's Revels! May fortune favor his years, and power shape his path!"

The herald's voice rang out across the hall, each syllable wrapped in arcane resonance, amplified by mana. The mana-infused announcement sent a subtle ripple through the grand chamber, quieting conversation as if a great hand had pressed down upon the room.

A thousand gazes snapped toward me, some assessing, some happy, a few even wary. I stepped forward, past the towering Mordane sentinels.My name had been called. Now comes the performance.

Mother always stressed the importance of an entrance.

"To enter a room is to enter a game already in motion. Some will watch, some will listen, and some will pretend not to care—but all of them will notice. And the one they notice the most? That is the one who controls the room."

I inhaled, slow and measured, and the room seemed to shift in response. Not magic, not quite—but something deeper. A bending of perception, a warping of awareness. A whisper in the back of their minds, an unspoken certainty that I mattered more than anything else in the room.

"Attention is the first currency of power, Llyris. Control where people look, and you control where their thoughts go. Control their thoughts, and you control the flow of the room itself. That flow will decide whether your allies stand firm, whether your enemies hesitate, and whether those still undecided choose to stand with you—or against you."

I let her words settle, taking root in my mind.

"A room full of mystics is a storm waiting to break. You must be the one to shape its course. Your allies must see strength and feel assured. Your enemies must see the same strength and doubt themselves. And those who hover on the edge? They must be forced to choose—by admiration, by fear, by the sheer inevitability of your presence."

I exhaled, steadying myself. Then, I let go.

My aura unfurled, and Aspiration took form.

As a 9th Circle Mystic Apprentice, my Aspiration was still in its infancy, raw and unshaped, but no less potent. It surged outward like a flood breaking through a dam, an invisible pressure that pressed against the room, sending dust spiraling into the air.

The air crackled. My shadow stretched unnaturally long, writhing like it had a will of its own. The temperature dipped, and a sensation like the edge of a blade pressed against the skin of those nearby—intangible but impossible to ignore.

Aspiration was more than just a display of power; it was an assertion of existence, a declaration of self. And mine? Like the union of Chaos Mana and World Mana, it was calm, calculating, inevitable.

The reactions came swiftly. The strongest mystics present---like me, 9th circle apprentice---barely flinched. Sensing no malice, they saw no need to defend themselves.They watched, measured, assessed.

 The weaker ones weren't as composed. A few faltered, their bodies betraying the instinct to flee. One boy, barely past his first circle, activated several one time uses defensive items in a hurry, a loss he would feel if his pocket weren't deep enough.

Good.

I let the silence linger. Let them stew in it.

Mother says "in theater, timing is everything. Too soon, and you'll ruin the moment. Too late and the tension sours into awkwardness. But that sweet spot you'll have them hooked "

So, I stood there, letting my Aspiration coil through the room like an unseen predator, slipping into every crevice, every breath. I could feel it settle on their skin, crawling up their spines, whispering to their instincts.

They glanced at each other, uncertain, their expressions a careful balance between curiosity and caution. A few whispered, their voices hushed, weighing what they had just seen.

Joran fingertip were white as he steady himself

The boy who had instinctively activated his defensive artifact was still panting, his face pale with lingering shock. His shoulders tensed, fingers curled tightly around the charm at his chest—whether out of embarrassment or lingering unease, it was hard to tell.

I made a mental note of him. Useful information, knowing who spooked easily. But for now, I kept my expression warm, my posture open—unbothered, unconcerned, as if I hadn't noticed at all.

Silence stretched, taut and waiting. A soft breath, a shift of silk against marble. Then I smiled. Not a smirk, not a challenge—just the easy, knowing kind that says, Ah, there you are. I've been expecting you.

"Well now," I said, my tone light, conversational, as if we were all old friends gathered for drinks instead of a display of power. "That got your attention, didn't it?"

A few uneasy laughs. Good. Let them settle, let them breathe. This was a dance, and I intended to lead.

"My father once told me that first impressions are everything," I continued, stepping forward with the causal grace of someone who belonged exactly where they were. "And, given the number of eyes on me tonight, I thought it best to make mine memorable."

The pressure in the room eased—not withdrawn, just adjusted, like a musician lowering the volume but keeping the melody. My Aspiration still whispered at the edges of perception, present but no longer oppressive, more an invitation than a warning.

"Most of you know my family," I went on, letting my gaze sweep across the room, meeting eyes, making connections. "Some of you, I imagine, know of me. And for most, this is our first introduction." I spread my hands, as if welcoming them in. "So let me say—truly—it's a pleasure to meet you all."

That was the trick, wasn't it? They had come expecting something else. The infamous Calamity Prince, perhaps? But I would give them someone far more interesting.

Or, at the very least, someone to make note of.

"But a birthday is no time for heavy introductions," I said, my grin widening. "Tonight is about celebration. About beginnings. About friendship,old and new" I gestured toward the table, where fine wine and rich food waited, then back to them. "So let's eat, drink and enjoy the night!"

I pulled my Aspiration back, slow and deliberate, like a puppeteer loosening unseen strings. The weight in the air lifted, the tension uncoiling from the guests' shoulders. And as if on cue, the music resumed—seamless, effortless, as though the room itself had exhaled in relief.

Like a spell being lifted, the revelry began anew. Laughter, murmured conversations, the rustle of silk and velvet as dance partners formed once more. It was subtle, but I noticed the way some eyes lingered on me just a second too long. The way a few adjusted their stance, suddenly aware of their own posture, their own presence. The moment had passed, but the impression remained.

And then—her.

Caera of House Brightsplitter.

Our eyes met across the ballroom, and in hers, I saw it—a flicker of hope, tempered by hesitation. A moment's indecision. A moment I could not let slip.

With a measured motion, I extended the invitation—subtle, deliberate, a gesture of understanding rather than demand. She held my gaze, assessing, weighing. Then, the barest tilt of her head, the ghost of a smirk playing at her lips. A silent agreement.

She stepped forward, every movement precise, effortless—the poise of one born to power.

I bowed. She curtsied.

And just like that, we danced.