I slowly opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.
The same dream again.
It had followed me since childhood: night, a campfire, and a girl with dark crimson eyes.
Always the same place, as if time itself had stopped there long ago.
We would simply sit by the fire, surrounded by a dense silence where there was neither past nor future.
And strangely enough, that was where I felt most at peace—in a way reality never allowed me to.
No fear.
No anxiety.
No sense of danger.
Only silence… and her gaze.
At first, I thought it was nothing more than a child’s imagination.
But years passed, and the dream never faded.
It remained too consistent and too persistent to be called random.
I still did not know who she was or why she always waited for me there.
But one feeling never changed.
This was not just a dream.
I exhaled heavily and sat up in bed.
Today was the day I had dreaded even in thought.
The day everything would be decided.
I was still a prince of the Kray Empire.
At least for now.
And that title sounded almost like a mockery, because unlike my brothers and sisters, I had yet to manifest even the slightest trace of magic.
In this world, that alone was enough to make someone nothing.
I already knew how they looked at me in the castle.
Not openly, no.
It could be felt in the pauses between words, in the lingering glances of servants, in the silence that stretched just a little too long whenever I passed by.
Today, we were to undergo the talent examination.
Me.
My brother.
My sister.
And after that, the empire would decide what we truly were.
I could not hold back a faint, bitter smile.
Prince of the Kray Empire.
The words sounded almost ridiculous when stripped of everything except expectation.
But there was one story in our family that kept returning to me.
The story of my father—the only heir in the history of the empire born without magical talent.
Servants and nobles loved to remind me of that fact, as if it were not an exception, but a warning.
Since childhood, he had trained with the sword until exhaustion, until pain became more familiar than sleep.
As if he were trying to carve out his right to exist in a world that had denied him that right.
When his lack of talent was confirmed, he was sent away and tasked with escorting his elder brother’s fiancée to another kingdom.
Almost an exile, only neatly wrapped in the word duty.
And yet, where most stories would have ended, his had only just begun.
During an internal uprising, when the royal family was placed in danger, he took command himself.
Not as a mage.
But as a man who had nothing left except will.
And in that moment, it became clear: power is not always born from a gift.
Sometimes, it is born from the absence of choice.
I exhaled slowly.
His story inspired everyone around me, but it only pressed heavier on me.
Because I was not sure I could follow his path.
And if I was honest, I was not sure I should.
My gaze drifted toward the window.
Outside, dawn was just beginning to pale.
The talent examination had been held every year for as long as anyone could remember.
It was performed at the age of eighteen, without exception.
At that age, mana fully manifested within the body, and only then could the world decide what you truly were.
The tool used for the examination was the Mana Stone—an ancient artifact that had survived more eras than most dynasties.
The light elves called it S’gu.
They said it did not measure power.
It simply revealed the truth.
Whether there was a spark within you.
Or nothing at all.
A knock shattered the silence.
“Enter.” The servants stepped inside without a word.
White shirts, black trousers, movements precise, almost military.
They did not look directly at me, but I could still feel that silent assessment.
The judgment no one spoke aloud.
One of them stepped forward, holding a folded set of clothes.
Ceremonial attire for the examination.
“I assume this is what I am to wear?” I asked, my voice still weighed down by sleep.
“Yes, Your Highness,” the servant replied.
“For the ceremony.” Respect sounded in his voice, but beneath it, there was distance.
I said nothing and let them help me dress.
When it was done, they left, and I remained alone.
For the first time that morning, I looked into the mirror.
A white shirt.
Black trousers.
The crest of the Kray Empire upon my chest: two crossed swords and a dragon coiling around them, frozen in eternal motion.
Strength.
Authority.
Legacy.
And a question no one ever dared to ask aloud.
How much longer would I be allowed to wear this?
I ran a hand through my hair, pushing it back, then exhaled and left the room.
The guards were already waiting.
They bowed, and we began to walk.
The castle had already awakened, but it was a strange kind of life—too restrained, too tense.
Servants moved faster than usual, guards were quieter, and the air itself felt heavier, as if the entire palace was holding its breath.
Today was not merely a day of testing.
It was the day the empire decided who would be allowed to become its future.
Beyond the windows, the capital was already gathering.
Commoners, nobles, vassals, and envoys from allied lands were flowing toward the palace walls.
They had come not only for celebration, but for judgment.
Magic stones across the capital were already active.
Every moment of this day would be seen by all.
The Kray Empire had not been built on peace.
It had been built on conquest, memory, and war.
Then came the Exodus of the Five Races—the Great War that changed everything.
Since then, only one rule had remained: no one was allowed to break the balance.
Not a kingdom.
Not an empire.
Not a ruler drunk on his own ambition.
Because if anyone dared to reach for the lands of the five races again, the rest of the world would turn against them.
That was why this examination carried such weight.
The strength of the imperial family was not merely a family matter—it was a message to allies, vassals, and even enemies who pretended not to be watching.
I stopped by the window and looked down at the crowd gathered beneath the palace walls.
From here, the people looked like a restless sea of faces, all fixed on the same place.
Some had come to witness the future of the empire.
Others hoped to witness a miracle.
And some, I was certain, had come only to watch someone fall.
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